Remember

Someone else spoke to the students over the loudspeakers. There was a short silence, and then a second voice was heard echoing out, filling the warm air with words.

Nicky did not have the slightest idea what was being said, and she walked on, circling the monument one last time. Much to her surprise, a number of the kids were beginning to stand up. Slowly they climbed down off the ledges and walked away. She stood watching them go.

Many had tears streaming down their faces, and her heart went out to them. They had lost their peaceful fight for freedom and democracy. Military power had prevailed and many innocent people had been brutally slaughtered. But at least some lives will be saved now, she thought, and glanced around anxiously. Where the hell were Yoyo and Mai?

Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky with light, filling it with an eerie, incandescent glow. She peered at her watch. It was after five already, and she could not stay in the square much longer. Sighing under her breath, she left the monument and started to walk to Changan. It was time to return to the hotel to prepare her newscast and the film segment, shower, put on her makeup and change her clothes. Earlier, she and Arch had decided that she would do the filmed piece on the balcony of the hotel first, to be sent out by courier later that morning. At eight fifteen she would do her live phone narration for the seven o’clock nightly news.

Nicky had not walked very far when she suddenly remembered the small canvas travel bag Yoyo kept in his tent. He had once told her his most important possessions were in it. Was his passport in the bag? Had he gone back for it?

Making a swift decision, she spun around, dodged through the students who were now leaving, and sped towards the tent encampment. As she ran she saw to her dismay that an increasing number of soldiers were entering the square. It seemed to her that they were everywhere, and in the distance she heard the clatter and rumble of tanks and armoured personnel carriers moving forward across that vast rectangle of stone.

She paid no heed, but plunged ahead through the deserted encampment, shouting, ‘Yoyo! Mai!’

One or two faces peered out of tents, and she cried, ‘Leave! Tanks are coming!’ Realizing that they did not understand English, she made wild and urgent gestures with her arms, and cried, ‘Go! Go!’, hoping they would somehow get the message. Then she ran on, making for the centre of the encampment, still calling at the top of her voice, ‘Yoyo! Mai!’

They saw each other at exactly the same moment.

Yoyo and Mai were rounding the side of one tent when Nicky came out from behind another, and was instantly in their direct line of vision.

They had both put on jackets, and Yoyo was carrying the small canvas bag.

‘I’ve been looking for you all over!’ Nicky cried.

‘Forgot bag,’ Yoyo explained, holding it up. ‘Bag important. Passport in it.’

I’ll say it’s important, Nicky thought, but said, ‘Come on. Troops are here. Everyone’s leaving.’ She swung away from them, ready to return through the encampment.

‘This way! It quicker!’ Yoyo exclaimed.

He took the lead. The three of them ran down a narrow opening between the rows of tents, and came out into an open area of the square, just to the north of the Martyrs’ Monument.

Lines of troops were rapidly advancing in their direction, and behind them came the APCs and tanks intent on destroying everything that stood in their path.

Nicky swung to her right, called, ‘Follow me!’ and ran the opposite way, aiming for the monument and the entrance to Changan just beyond it.

Her heart sank as she heard the sound of rifle fire behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Yoyo and Mai were keeping up, were close on her heels. And so she continued to race across the square, putting distance between herself and the encroaching army as fast as she could. The sound of the oncoming armoured vehicles and the blazing guns were ominous to her ears.

Drawing closer to the monument, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the last few students were retreating, trying to escape as they were.

‘Nicky! Nicky!’

Without slackening her pace she looked back. To her shock she saw that Mai was down. Yoyo was bending over her.

Nicky spun around and ran back to them. ‘What happened?’

Yoyo’s face was stricken. ‘Mai shot.’

Nicky dropped to her knees, examined the girl’s bleeding shoulder, touched her face gently. Mai opened her eyes, blinked, closed them. Nicky stood up, then, bending forward, she slipped her arms under Mai, trying to lift her. The girl moaned and, afraid to move her, Nicky swiftly laid her on the ground again.

Her hands felt wet and she looked down at them, saw they were covered with blood. Her heart tightened. Mai must have been shot in more than one place. She wiped her hands on her pants, straightened, and raised her eyes, looking straight ahead of her.

The tanks had increased their speed, were almost upon them. There was no time left. She said to Yoyo, ‘Quickly, take Mai’s legs, I’ll lift her under her arms. We’ll carry her behind the monument.’

These words were barely out of her mouth when she was bodily pulled away from Mai and pushed, almost flung, to one side. As she rolled over, she heard Clee shouting, ‘Move it, Nick! Move it, Yoyo! The tanks are closing in!’

People were scattering in panic around her, and screaming.

Struggling to her feet, she spotted Clee running out of the line of fire, carrying Mai in his arms. Yoyo was right behind him. Nicky half ran, half stumbled after them and they made it to safety just in time.

Tanks and APCs, their guns blazing, rolled over the spot where, a split second before, she and Yoyo had been crouching next to Mai. Several students had been less lucky. They lay dead or injured, crushed by the tanks. One boy had had his head smashed in, and there was a pool of his blood and brain on the stones.

With a convulsive shudder, Nicky averted her eyes, and went to take cover behind the Martyrs’ Monument, where Clee was placing Mai on the ground. This area seemed to be relatively safe, at least for the moment, and there were no troops in sight. She sank onto the steps and discovered she was shaking all over.

Clee came and sat on the steps with her, put his arms around her, held her.

She clung to him tightly. ‘That was a close call, Clee,’ she muttered. After a small pause, she said against his bloodstained jacket, ‘And you just saved my life. Thanks.’

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, stared at her without speaking.

Nicky stared back. He had the most peculiar expression on his face, one she had never seen there before. It puzzled her.

Finally, he said, ‘Let’s get Mai to a hospital.’ He took his camera off, hung it around Nicky’s neck. ‘Look after this for me,’ he said, bent down, and lifted Mai up into his arms.

Yoyo, who had been hovering over his girlfriend, let go of her hand, grabbed his canvas bag, and together he and Nicky followed Clee.

When they reached Tiananmen Gate, Nicky paused and turned to look back at the square.

The Goddess of Democracy was no more. It had been toppled by a tank and demolished - smashed to smithereens. The tent encampment had been flattened to the ground. She prayed that the few remaining students had managed to escape before this had happened.

And she felt an immense sadness flowing through her as she hurried after Yoyo and Clee.

Changan Avenue was congested with tanks and troops. The dead and the dying lay in pools of their own blood, and the anguished residents of the city were trying to do what they could to help those less fortunate than they.

Nicky and Yoyo walked ahead of Clee, pushing through the chaos and the crowds, clearing the way for him as he carried Mai.

They had almost reached the Beijing Hotel when Yoyo caught hold of Nicky’s arm. ‘Look!’ he cried excitedly, pointing. ‘Red Cross flag on Number 38 bus. Ambulance. Take Mai to Xiehe Hospital.’

Nicky turned around to Clee. ‘Let’s get her to that ambulance. The medics can take over.’

Clee merely nodded, ploughed forward with the injured girl. He hoped to God the doctors could save her.

Nicky stood in the middle of the ATN suite at the Beijing Hotel, concentrating hard, focusing on what she had to say. It was fifteen minutes past eight on Sunday morning in China. In New York it was thirteen hours earlier, exactly fifteen minutes past seven on Saturday night.

She held her cellular phone, talking into it clearly, steadily, and without pause, using what she termed her television speed. She was coming to the end of her hardhitting newscast about the events she had just witnessed in Tiananmen, and her final words were dramatic:

‘The late Mao Zedong once said political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. The People’s Liberation Army turned their guns on ordinary citizens and students today. Innocent people. Unarmed people. It was a massacre. And they did it at the command of ageing leaders desperate to hang onto their political power. Seemingly Mao Zedong spoke the truth. At least, as far as China is concerned.’ There was a small beat, before she finished, ‘This is Nicky Wells saying goodnight from Beijing.’

At the other end of the line she heard Mike Fowler, the ATN anchorman, saying, ‘Thank you, Nicky, for that extraordinary and tragic report from Beijing. And now to the news from Eastern Europe …’

Nicky clicked off the cellular, looked over at Arch who was sitting at the desk, the phone to his ear.

He smiled, nodded several times, held up a bunched fist, his thumb jerking to the ceiling, indicating that she had done a good job.

He was on the wire to the network, talking to the News Editor, Joe Speight, who was in the control room at ATN Headquarters in New York. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ Arch said, beaming. ‘We’ll ship the film out in an hour. You should have it tomorrow night. Okay. Ciao.’ He hung up, rose, walked across the floor to her. ‘Great, Nick! They loved it. You were just great!’

Jimmy said, ‘That’s one of the best pieces you’ve done from here … but the moving film we just shot is even better.’

‘I second that,’ Luke said, grinning at her.

‘Thanks, guys.’ She smiled at them. Their praise mattered, meant a lot to her. They always spoke the truth, did not hesitate to tell her when she had not been as good as she usually was.

There was a knock on the door and Luke went to open it. Clee walked in. He looked awful, drained, even haggard, and Nicky knew what he was going to say before he said it. She could tell from the empty expression in his dark eyes.

She stared at him.

‘Mai died,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘They just couldn’t save her. They tried. But she’d lost too much blood.’

‘That’s tragic,’ Jimmy said. ‘Poor kid.’

Luke sat down heavily on a chair without uttering a word; Arch looked bereft, and was also rendered silent by the sad news.

Nicky walked over to Clee, feeling a little unsteady on her legs. ‘I had a horrible feeling she wasn’t going to make it,’ she said, biting her lip. She paused, overcome by emotion, but swiftly regaining her equilibrium, she continued, ‘You look terrible, Clee. Come and sit down, let’s get you some coffee.’

Clee took a step closer to her. He lifted his hand and with his fingertips wiped away the tears on her cheeks, which she did not even know were there. ‘It’s all right to cry, you know,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How’s Yoyo?’

‘Devastated.’

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.’