Remember

She nodded. ‘I can imagine. Where is he?’

‘At Xiehe Hospital, making arrangements to take Mai’s body home to her parents. They live on the outskirts of Beijing.’

Suddenly all words failed her and she was unable to speak.

Clee put his arm around her and walked her over to the sofa. They both sat down, and he said, very quietly, ‘We journalists deal with war and death and tragedy on a daily basis, and because we’re tough we think we’re invincible. But none of us are, not really, Nicky. Not even you.’

PART TWO

Lovers

Come live with me, and be my love;

And we will all the pleasures prove …

Christopher Marlowe

SIX

It was Cézanne country, Van Gogh country, so Clee had told her, and he had been correct.

Colours from the artists’ palettes were the colours of the day, the colours of the Provencal earth and sky: rich russet browns and burnt sienna, terracotta bleeding into orange and apricot, pink and peach tints balanced by acid yellow and vibrant marigold, and a gamut of brilliant blues and greens so sharp and shiny they resembled glazed enamel. And all were enhanced by a soft golden glow as if they had been liberally soaked in the hot Provencal sunshine.

From the moment she had arrived in Provence, Nicky had been entranced by the beauty of the countryside which surrounded the old mas, or farmhouse, which Clee owned. A day did not pass without her catching her breath in surprise and delight at one thing or another. In an infinite number of small and grand ways, nature in all its glory was constantly revealing itself to her in this fabled southeastern corner of France.

On this sun-filled afternoon, as she sat near the white stone-flagged swimming pool under the shade of a plane tree, sipping a citron pressé and daydreaming, she almost laughed out loud at herself. She had been so reluctant to come here, but now she realized she would not have missed this brief respite from the business of reporting catastrophes for anything in the world.

And she was grateful to Clee for so generously giving her the use of his home, his very private retreat into which few were ever admitted. But then that was Clee. He was always thinking of her well-being, and this latest gesture was only one of his many kindnesses. He was such a good friend, and very dear to her.

The idea of her coming to Provence had begun in Hong Kong almost three weeks ago, when she and Clee were finishing dinner at the Mandarin Hotel. Out of the blue, Clee had suddenly said to her, ‘Go to my farm, Nick. It’ll do you good to be there. It’ll take your mind off things, be restorative for you.’

She had shaken her head vehemently, balking at the mere idea of it. At this moment in time, France did not particularly appeal to her, even though she had always loved it and felt at home there in the past. Unfortunately, it was now associated with pain and hurt in her mind.

Almost three years ago she had gone there with her fiancé, Charles Devereaux, a man with whom she had been very much in love, and whom she had been about to marry. Unexpectedly, without any kind of forewarning, or hint of trouble between them, he had terminated their relationship in the most brutal of ways. No explanations or reasons were given, and it had happened only a couple of months after the idyllic trip to the Côte d’Azur.

She had not set eyes on Charles Devereaux ever again.

Naturally she did not want to upset herself further by visiting a place where they had spent their last few days together. There were moments when she still felt savaged by him, was filled with a fulminating anger, and this was enough for her to cope with, without having additional, unwelcome memories thrust upon her.

Of course Clee had no way of knowing any of this, and so he had been extremely persistent, using every argument he could. She had remained adamant.

Just before leaving Hong Kong for Paris, he had offered her the farm once again. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be there, Nicky, but my housekeeper will be, and she’ll look after you very well.’ A smile had flashed on his boyish face, and he had added, ‘She’ll spoil you to death, and I guarantee you’ll fall in love with her. Amelia’s a doll. Listen, babe, the farm’s in beautiful country, artists’ country - Cézanne and Van Gogh both painted in the area, and I know you’ll enjoy it. Please go. You need to do something special for yourself, to have a few weeks of peace after the horror of Beijing. Be good to yourself, Nick.’

Touched by his thoughtfulness, she had thanked him profusely, and, relenting slightly, she had told him she would think about it. And back in New York she had done exactly that. Much to her continuing astonishment, thoughts of Clee’s farmhouse in France and a summer vacation had flitted in and out of her head, with surprising frequency.

In the few spare moments she had between filming and editing a special on Tiananmen Square and its aftermath, she had pondered whether to take the trip or not. She had continued to be oddly ambivalent, could not make up her mind to buy an airline ticket, pack her bags and go.

Unknowingly, it was Arch who had finally helped her come to a decision. Once the special was in the can he had told her she looked more exhausted than he had ever seen her. ‘Done in,’ was the way he had put it. ‘We have no other specials coming up until later in the year, and a bit of R and R wouldn’t do you any harm,’ he had pointed out. ‘Take a break while you can - you really need it, Nick.’

When she had muttered that she did not want to have a vacation at this time, in case something world shaking occurred, Arch had laughed, had said he would fly her back from wherever she was if a war broke out somewhere.

She had laughed with him, had then protested, ‘But I know I don’t look quite as bad as you say I do, Arch. You’re exaggerating, as usual!’

His answer had been pithy and to the point. ‘Lousy, that’s the way you look, kiddo, take my word for it.’

Later, she had looked at herself in a mirror, and had had to admit that Arch had spoken the truth. She had examined her face minutely, with objectivity, and had decided that he had actually understated the facts. She looked positively ill; her face was unusually pale, even haggard, she had dark rings, and her hair was lifeless. Much to her alarm, her eyes, always so clear and vividly blue, had seemed dull, faded almost, as if they were losing their colour, if such a thing were possible.

Nicky was well aware that cosmetics could camouflage a number of flaws for the benefit of the camera, and that she could continue to hide the tell-tale signs of fatigue with a few clever makeup tricks. But she had also recognized that afternoon that it would be foolish not to take a rest, especially since the network owed her so much time off. She had been feeling debilitated and emotionally drained, and apparently the signs were now all too evident to others.

And so she had put her mirror away and made a snap decision. The same day she had phoned Clee at his Paris office, and told him she would like to accept his offer of the farmhouse, if it was still open. He had been thrilled that she wanted to go to Provence.

‘Hey, babe, that’s great,’ he had said, his excitement echoing down the wire. ‘I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow, to photograph Gorbachev for Paris Match, but Jean-Claude will make arrangements for you to be met in Marseille, and then driven up to the farm. All you have to do is get yourself to Marseille, either via Paris or Nice. Just let Jean-Claude know the day you’ll be arriving, and the time. I’ll call you from Moscow, to find out how you’re doing, how you’ve settled in.’

Within forty-eight hours she was zooming across the Atlantic faster than the speed of sound, a passenger on board the French Concorde, landing in Paris a short three hours and forty-five minutes later. After spending the night at the Plaza Athénée, her favourite hotel, she had taken a plane from Orly Airport to Marseille the following morning.

Jean-Claude, Clee’s office manager, had explained to her that a chauffeur from the car company they used would be waiting for her at the airport. ‘You won’t be able to miss him. He’ll be holding up a card with your name written on it in bold letters,’ Jean-Claude had said on the telephone.

True to Jean-Claude’s promise, the chauffeur had been there when she had alighted from the plane and gone to the baggage area. He had introduced himself as Etienne, and he was a pleasant, chatty and informative Provençal, who throughout the drive inland had kept her highly entertained with rather fantastic folkloric tales of the region. He had also recited more facts about Aix and Arles than she could possibly absorb at one time.

Although she spoke French well, having spent part of her youth in Paris with her globe-trotting parents, Nicky had nonetheless found the Provençal accent a bit difficult to understand at first. But relatively quickly she had realized that Etienne was adding the letter g to many words, so that bien became bieng, and so forth. Once she had got the hang of this adjustment of the French language, had attuned her ear to the rich and throaty cadence of his speech, and his rapid delivery, she had discovered she had no problems grasping everything he said.

On the way to Aix-en-Provence from Marseille, Nicky had begun to notice that the landscape was completely different from the Côte d’Azur, which was the part of southern France she knew so intimately. Her parents were Francophiles, and as a child she had been taken to many of the renowned coastal resorts by them, for annual holidays and shorter stays. In particular, her mother and father had favoured Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Cannes and Monte Carlo. And then in October of 1986 she had spent those two extraordinary weeks in Cap d’Antibes with Charles Devereaux, before he had disappeared from her life altogether. And forever.

But this area of Provence was entirely new to her and, as such, it did not hold any kind of memories, neither good nor bad.

This sudden knowledge had made her feel more at ease, and finally she had begun to relax in the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes, continuing to glance out of the window from time to time.

They had passed through a land of flat plains interspersed with hills and mountains. There were quaint little towns set in bucolic surroundings, and picturesque hilltop villages that looked as if they were propping up the vast unblemished blue sky. Many fields and hillsides were luxuriant with purple lavender, and dark vineyards and an abundance of cherry and fruit orchards stretched for miles. And dotting this fertile landscape intermittently were lines of crooked olive trees and stately black cypresses which stood like sentinels against the far horizon.

Clee’s farmhouse was in the department of Provence called the Bouches-du-Rhône, situated between the ancient university town of Aix-en-Provence and St Rémy. It was on the outskirts of a tiny village close to the lush green foothills of Lubéron, one of the great mountain ranges of Provence.

The farmhouse was larger than Nicky had expected it to be. It was sprawling yet had a certain gracefulness and was obviously quite old. It had looked beautiful in the late afternoon sunshine which glanced across its red-tiled roof and cast a warm honey-coloured glaze over the pale stone walls. Standing at the end of a long straight driveway lined with cypress trees, it was visible for the entire approach to the white front door.

When the car had finally been brought to a halt by Etienne, he had exclaimed, ‘Eh, voilà!’ and had waved one hand at the farm with a grand flourish. Then he had swung his head and smiled at her triumphantly, looking as though getting her here had been a major achievement on his part.

Clee’s housekeeper Amelia and her husband Guillaume had been waiting for her on the doorstep, and they had welcomed her enthusiastically, their smiles warm, their manner friendly.

Guillaume had then promptly whisked away her luggage - along with Etienne. The latter had apparently not needed a second invitation from Guillaume to ‘come inside the kitchen for a pastis.’

With billowing laughter and perpetual smiles, Amelia had ushered Nicky inside the farmhouse, and had insisted on showing her around before taking her upstairs to her quarters.

They had started out in the kitchen, obviously Amelia’s favourite spot in the entire house, and she was apparently proud of it.

The room was large, painted white, and had dark wood beams on the ceiling, terracotta tiles on the floor. A massive stone fireplace took up an end wall; to the side of this stood a big oven, and several marble-topped counters for baking and food preparation were set under the three windows. Placed on these were flat woven baskets brimming with local produce. One held a selection of fruit - apples, oranges, pears, plums, peaches, apricots, cherries and grapes; the other overflowed with vegetables - carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beans, artichokes and peas. Ropes of onions and garlic, and bunches of the herbs of Provence swung from a ceiling beam, and the lovely aroma of marjoram, rosemary and thyme wafted to her on the air.

A round table stood in the centre of the kitchen, covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth to match the neat little tied-back curtains at the windows, and taking pride of place on the far wall was an antique baker’s rack made of black wrought-iron trimmed with brass. It had been stacked with a variety of copper pots and pans that glittered and winked in the sunlight, while on the wall opposite a series of built-in shelves displayed colourful pottery platters, plates, soup bowls and double-sized café-au-lait cups and saucers.

The dining room opened off the kitchen, and these two rooms flowed into each other, were visually linked through the use of the same terracotta floor tiles, white-painted walls and ceiling beams.