Where You Belong

He shook his head. ‘Has Mike said anything about your going back to work?’

‘He said I was welcome back any time I felt like coming in, but to take my time, that it was my call.’

‘The sooner you get back to the agency the better, in my opinion. You need to be busy, occupied, Val, not walking around the streets of Paris every day, and sitting here alone in the apartment afterwards. I know you’re suffering. I am too. Tony was my best buddy, but life is for the living. We’ve got to go on, that’s what he would want.’

‘I’m trying hard, I really am, Jake. And the walking helps. I’m not sure why, but it does.’

‘You’re less alone when you’re out there in the streets. They make you feel more alive because they’re full of life, people, traffic, noise, activity. The streets are the world. Did I ever tell you about John Steinbeck and what he did when he heard that Robert Capa had been killed in Indochina?’

I frowned. I wasn’t certain whether he’d told me or not, and yet at the back of my mind I thought that perhaps he had. Or was it Tony who had told me? Certainly we all revered Capa, the greatest war photographer who had ever lived. I said, ‘I’m not sure, you might have. But tell me again.’

‘Capa was killed in 1954, on May 25th actually, as I’m sure you recall. And of course within hours news of his death spread around the world. Steinbeck, who was a good friend of Capa’s, was in Paris when he heard. He was so shaken up he went out and walked the streets for fourteen hours straight. I guess he just couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t sit still. He had to be on the move. And you’re doing something very similar, but you’re doing it every day, Val.’

‘No, I’m not, I don’t walk the streets for fourteen hours!’

Jake sighed and said nothing, just gave me one of those penetrating looks of his that always made me re-examine everything I said to him. I shrugged, and finally admitted, ‘Okay, you’re right, I guess I am doing the same thing. And you did tell me the story. It was on one of those days when you were cross with Tony because you thought he was too reckless. You were comparing him to Capa.’

‘No, I wasn’t.’ Jake sat up straighter and gave me a hard stare. ‘Capa wasn’t reckless in the way that Tony was. Those who knew Capa always said he was very cautious. Don’t forget, he was an expert when it came to taking calculated risks. When he went to Indochina, it was his fifth war, and only a photojournalist of his great experience would know how to properly calculate when something was truly dangerous or not. From what I know about him, he measured the risks, especially when he had to walk across exposed areas, and he was always cautious, did not take risks unnecessarily. But if he saw the possibility of a great photograph and there was a calculated risk, then he took the risk. Tony just rushed in without –’ He cut himself off, and took a swallow of his wine, obviously feeling disloyal.

‘Without thinking,’ I finished for him, stood up and headed towards the kitchen.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get the bottle of wine,’ I answered. When I came back, I filled his goblet, and then mine, and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table. ‘What about the memorial service?’ I said, getting right to the heart of the matter. ‘Do you know when it is?’

‘Next week. On Tuesday.’

‘I see. Where’s it being held?’

‘At the Brompton Oratory at eleven o’clock.’

I was silent, looked down at the drink in my hands.

Jake said, ‘I’ve booked us in at the Milestone in Kensington. I know you like that hotel.’

I nodded. He had surprised me with the information about the memorial. Events seemed to be moving more quickly than I’d anticipated, and I wasn’t prepared at all. Only four days away. And then I’d be sitting there amongst all of his friends and colleagues, many of them my colleagues, in fact, and listening to the world talk about the man I was still mourning. I was suddenly appalled at the idea and I sat back jerkily.

Jake was telling me something else, and I blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. He was saying, ‘I’ve spoken to Clee Donovan, and he’s definitely going to be there, and I’ve left messages for the Turnley brothers. I know they’ll come too, if they’re able.’

I gazed at him blankly. I was feeling overwhelmed and the prospect of going to London frightened me, filled me with tension and anxiety.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jake asked.

I swallowed. ‘I’m…dreading it. There’ll be such a lot of people there,’ I muttered almost to myself.

Jake made no response for a split second, and then he said, ‘I know what you mean, but let’s be glad and proud that so many people want to celebrate Tony’s life. Because that’s what a memorial is, Val, a celebration that the person was ever alive. We are showing our gratitude that Tony was born and was among us for as long as he was.’

‘Yes.’

He got up and came and sat next to me on the sofa, took hold of my hand in the most loving way. ‘I know it’s tough…but he’s dead, Val, and you’ve got to accept that because –’

‘I do,’ I cut in, my voice rising slightly.

‘You’ve got to get yourself busy, start working. You can’t just…drift like this.’

I stared at him. There he was, being bossy again in that particular very macho way of his, and before I could stop myself I exclaimed, ‘You’ve not done very much yourself since we came back from Belgrade.’ And I could have bitten my tongue off as soon as these dreadful words left my mouth; I felt the flush of embarrassment rising from my neck to flood my face.

‘I wish I had been able to work, but my leg’s been pretty bad, and it’s taken longer to heal than I expected.’

I was furious with myself. ‘I’m sorry, Jake, I shouldn’t have said that. I know your injuries were more severe than mine. I’m so stupid, thoughtless.’

‘No, you’re not, and listen: let’s make a pact right now. To help each other go forward from where we are tonight, to get ourselves moving. Let’s get started again, Val, let’s pick up our cameras and get on with the job.’

‘I don’t think I could go back to Kosovo.’

‘God, I wasn’t meaning that! I don’t want to go there either, but there are other things we can cover as well as wars.’

‘But we’re best known for doing that,’ I reminded him.

‘We can pick and choose our assignments, Val darling.’

‘I suppose so,’ I muttered, glancing at him.

Jake’s eyes changed, turned darker blue, became reflective, and after a moment he adroitly changed the subject, remarked, ‘I’ve booked us on a plane to London on Monday night, okay?’

The whole idea of the memorial was a nightmare to me, and not trusting myself to say anything, I simply nodded. Reaching for my glass, I took a sip of wine, then put the glass down and exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, ‘Tell me about your trip to the south of France.’

‘It was really great, Val, I wish you’d been with me –’ Jake stopped and glanced at the phone as it started to ring.

I extracted my hand from his, got up and went to the small desk on which it stood. ‘Hullo?’

VI

To my utter amazement it was my brother Donald calling from New York, and I sat down heavily on the small chair next to the little desk. I was flummoxed on hearing his voice, although after we’d exchanged greetings I quickly pulled myself together and listened alertly to what he had to say. Donald had always been tricky, extremely devious, and dissimulation was second nature to him.

Once he had finished his long speech, I said, ‘I just can’t get away right now. I have to go to London next week, to a memorial service for a fallen colleague, and I’ve also got loads of assignments stacking up.’

I listened again as patiently as possible, and once more I said, ‘I’m sorry, I cannot make the trip at this time. And listen, I really can’t stay on the phone, I have guests and I’ve got to go. Thanks for calling.’ In his typical selfish fashion, determined to get all of his points across, Donald went on blabbering at me, and short of banging the receiver down rudely, I had no option but to hear him out. When he finally paused for breath, I saw my opportunity and jumped in, repeated that I could not leave Europe under any circumstances for the time being. After saying a quick goodbye, I hung up.

Returning to the sofa, I sat down and said, ‘What a nerve! I can’t believe he called me!’

‘Who? And what did he call you about to get you so het up?’

I turned towards Jake and explained, ‘It was my brother Donald calling from New York. To tell me my mother’s not well, I should say his mother, because she’s never been a mother to me. He wanted me to fly to New York. What cheek!’

‘What’s wrong with her? Is she very sick?’

I saw the frown, the baffled almost confused look in his eyes, and I instantly realized that he’d never truly understood the relationship I’d had with my mother. But then how could he understand, when I couldn’t either. From what Jake had told me about himself during the years we’d known each other, he came from a marvellously warm, loving, close-knit Jewish family, and he had been raised with a lot of love, understanding and tremendous support from his parents, grandparents and sisters. Whereas I’d been an orphan within the bosom of the Denning family. If it hadn’t been for my father’s parents, Grandfather in particular, I would have withered away and died a young death from emotional deprivation. I asked myself then why I even thought in terms of having a relationship with Mother, because there had never been a relationship between us.