Secrets from the Past

‘I’m outta Pakistan for good, Zac. I’m not going back,’ Geoff explained in a determined voice as he beckoned to the waiter. After ordering three glasses of pink champagne, and asking for the menu, he continued, ‘I told Harry I’m retiring from the front line, Zac. He agreed I should, if I felt strongly about it. And naturally he understands that an unenthusiastic war photographer is a liability to Global, not to mention to himself. He puts himself at risk.’

‘Why now, suddenly?’ Zac asked, frowning.

‘Because I realized when I brought you out of Afghanistan that I was gonna end up like you in the not too distant future. I’m quitting before I become a basket case. Or get myself killed.’

Zac was silent, just nodded.

I said, ‘Once you feel that way you’ve got to leave. As I did.’

I had the feeling Zac was a little startled by Geoff’s words, and mine, but he did not show it. After a moment he turned to Geoff. ‘But what will you cover, if you’re not a war photographer? That’s what you’ve done all your life.’

‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ Geoff answered. ‘Right now, I’m planning to go to California to see my daughter, get a bit of R and R. I’m not making any special plans, it’s too soon. I wanna take it easy for a while.’

Zac’s expression was thoughtful.

I said, ‘You might want to create some sort of photographic series, Geoff. Harry suggested I should do that, since I do want to continue being a photographer. World famine was a subject I was considering.’

Zac glanced at me swiftly, and said very pointedly, ‘I thought you were writing a book about Tommy’s life.’

‘I am. Harry was just thinking ahead, looking for something I could do when I’ve finished the book.’

‘Don’t you want to run Global Images with Harry? After all, you own half of it now,’ Zac remarked.

‘I’ve no interest in doing that. Florence has been in charge since the beginning, and personally I think she should remain in charge. I’d only be a spare wheel. Besides, I don’t want that kind of job. Can you see me stuck in an office?’

‘No, I can’t,’ Zac exclaimed, and then laughed for the first time since I’d arrived in Venice.

Geoff and I began to laugh with him, and we toasted each other with the pink champagne, which the waiter had just brought to the table. And then a moment later, Zac startled us when he announced he was hungry.

‘It’s the fresh air,’ Geoff said. ‘Getting out, going to the barber’s shop, and the walk over here. It’s done you good, Zac – we’ll have to do this more often.’

‘How long are you staying?’ I asked curiously.

‘Another few days.’ Geoff gave me a knowing look, and picked up the menu. ‘I’m gonna have a bowl of spaghetti bolognese, but hey, Zac, the fish is good. Mind you, so is everything on the menu. What tempts you?’

‘Not sure. Maybe gnocchi, or lasagne. Mom makes the best lasagne … I grew up with Italian food, you know.’

‘Yeah, you told me before. So, look at the menu, and let’s order.’

Zac and I both followed Geoff’s lead and chose spaghetti bolognese as our main course, with tomatoes and mozzarella to start.

Much to my annoyance, Geoff ordered three more glasses of pink champagne when he asked for a bottle of sparkling water. But I kept my mouth shut, just sat back in my chair, picked up my half-empty flute and sipped it.

Geoff and Zac began a conversation about Italian food and their favourite dishes. Whilst this took me by surprise, I was pleased Zac was opening up in this way, talking again. His dissertation about Italian food was not new; he had had many with Frankie, when we had been at Rao’s for dinner.

Zac was half Italian. His mother, Lucia, had been born in Italy and brought to America as a baby, when her parents had emigrated. His father, Patrick, was of Irish descent. But to me it was his Italian side that appeared more dominant in him: he spoke the language fluently, and his dark good looks were Latin. His eyes were Irish, though; at least that’s what I thought. They were a luminous light green when he wasn’t exhausted.

For once Zac ate his lunch, and obviously enjoyed the food. Geoff and I did too. We skipped dessert, but had two coffees each, and Zac insisted on paying the bill when it was time to leave.

Before we left the restaurant, I phoned Harry in New York, checking in with him around three o’clock European time, as I usually did. It was nine in the morning in Manhattan. Harry was delighted to speak to Zac and Geoff, to hear both of them sounding well, and he was a happy man when he

hung up.

Geoff wandered off to the Bauer Hotel next door to the old palazzo, and Zac and I walked through the streets, heading for the Piazza San Marco. We didn’t say much as we strolled along, but at one moment Zac took hold of my hand, and squeezed it. I squeezed his, and looked at him. He stared back at me, and a soft smile played around his mouth, then he leaned in, kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks, Serena, thanks for coming to Venice, thanks for everything.’

‘I was glad to come, if a little concerned. I didn’t know what I was going to find.’

‘I haven’t been so bad, have I?’

‘No, you haven’t. Not too many nightmares. I was worried about you when you had that strange attack, when you were so icy cold last week.’

‘I’ll never know what that was,’ he answered, shaking his head, looking baffled. ‘Exhaustion, being very stressed out after leaving the front line, as you suggested.’

‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. ‘Today you’re the best you’ve been since I got here. And I know now it was rest and food you needed, among other things.’

‘I enjoyed my lunch,’ he told me, and squeezed my hand again.

We had reached the piazza, and Zac said, ‘Let’s stop off at Florian’s and have a drink.’

‘All right. But not a drink, Zac,’ I replied. I instantly knew I sounded uptight, and I was annoyed with myself.

‘That was just a turn of phrase,’ he responded, his voice even. ‘So an ice cream, a Coke, a lemonade, a coffee, a glass of water. Anything. It’s just too nice to go back to the bolthole yet, and this square is full of memories for me. Isn’t it for you too, Serena?’

I did not speak for a moment, and then I said softly, in a low voice, ‘Very many memories, Zac,’ and I felt my heart lurch. I was suddenly a little afraid. Not of him but of myself and my reaction to him, and what might happen between us.

FOURTEEN

In the past, when we had been in love and together, Caffè Florian had been a favourite place. We had come here every day and now here we were again. Florian’s was still the same but we were not. We had changed.

Despite the sun it was a cool afternoon, and a wind had blown up, and so we sat inside at a cosy table near the bar. Zac ordered coffee, but I fancied a vanilla ice cream. As I ate it slowly, Zac couldn’t keep his spoon out of the dish, kept dipping it in and spooning dollops of ice cream into his mouth.

At one moment, he glanced at me, and asked, ‘Have you ever let another man eat food from your plate? Or, as in this instance, a dish?’

I shook my head, endeavouring not to smile, detecting a hint of normality surfacing – his jealousy about unknown men. Actually, nonexistent other men. ‘No,’ I said at last.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and murmured, ‘Good. It’s very intimate.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you mind? That I’ve always done it?’

‘No, I don’t … and listen, it’s a privilege only you enjoy.’

He gave me a funny little smile, sat back comfortably in the chair. ‘I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve always loved this place. Perhaps because it smacks of another era, from a time gone by.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. I feel the same way,’ I said, thrilled that we were actually having a proper conversation, one that wasn’t stilted or awkward. ‘My mother told me that the original eighteenth-century décor had been carefully preserved; that Florian’s was one of the first places in Europe to serve coffee, when it was considered an exotic drink.’ I looked around. ‘It does have a special warmth. It’s very welcoming, sort of quaint.’

‘I loved your mother’s bits and pieces, as she called all that information she had tucked away at the back of her beautiful head,’ Zac remarked. ‘She was such a lot of fun.’

I nodded, smiled at the memory of her. ‘She used to say she was a fountain of information nobody needed or cared about.’ I picked up my glass of water, took a swallow, gazed at him for a moment.

I saw him clearly, as he was now, and there was something of the old Zac about him this afternoon. His colour was better, his eyes unexpectedly brighter, and the sharp angles of his face had softened. He was obviously relaxed, and it was visible in the way he held his body, as well as in his face.

Suddenly, he said, ‘You’re staring at me, Pidge. Is something wrong?’

‘No, something is good,’ I responded quickly. ‘I think you’re much less uptight, and it shows. Ever since I arrived in Venice you’ve had strict control of yourself, as if you were afraid to be you, to be who you really are.’

‘I know, and I’m still in control.’

‘But you’re not so rigid this afternoon.’ I eyed him carefully, and a smile broke through when I added, ‘It’s as if you have loosened the tight rein you’ve had on yourself, and decided to trust me.’

‘If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have asked Harry to persuade you to come!’ he exclaimed, giving me an odd look.

‘He didn’t have to do much persuading.’

‘I would’ve been in a mess if you hadn’t agreed,’ he said after a moment, now gazing at me intently. ‘I’d have been lost. Your presence is very soothing to me, Pidge, even healing. I really believe I need you to help me get through this difficult period.’

‘I think so too,’ I agreed, and went on carefully. ‘How did you know you had to get out? Did something happen? Go wrong? Or did Harry decide to pull you out? He’s not discussed it with me, nor has Geoff. They sort of left me in the dark, actually. Are you able to talk about it? Or would you prefer not to? Is it too hard?’ I asked, the questions tumbling out of me. Questions I’d wanted to ask for days.

‘I can talk. I want to talk about it, and about other troubling things. That’s what I told Harry – that you’re the only person who would have a clue, would be able to properly discuss the front line and war reporting. Because you’d been there, seen it all, been as heartsick and as numb as me at different times.’

He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and continued speaking in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. I leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word.

‘I feel so rotten at times, Serena, so devastated I can hardly stand myself. There’s a remorselessness about war that is chilling. And it kills the soul. Yet I’ve gone back time after time, and I don’t know why.’

‘Because you had to, Zac,’ I answered. ‘Because of your honesty and humanity, and the need you have to tell the world the truth about brutal regimes oppressing people, and to expose the terrible suffering in war zones. You’re a photojournalist, as I am, and that’s what we do.’

I reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘Except that there comes a time when we can’t do it any more, because we’re too battered, exhausted and disillusioned. Those are the reasons I stopped, and they’re yours.’

He nodded, squeezed my hand tightly. ‘Something happened one day, and I just couldn’t stand it any more …’ Unexpectedly, tears filled his eyes, and he blinked, cleared his throat. ‘I can’t discuss it, go into details, not at this moment, mostly because we’re here at Florian’s. I know I’ll cry …’

I continued to hold his hand. ‘I understand. You don’t want to weep in public. So we’ll save it for later. Whenever you want. Anyway, from what I gather, you told Harry you wanted out. Am I correct?’

‘Yes. I had to leave the front; I knew it was the time I had to go. I didn’t feel well, physically or mentally, and I realized I needed help. Harry said he’d come in and get me, and I told him not to. He suggested Geoff, and I agreed at once. And fortunately for me, so did Geoff. He came in within twenty-four hours, and he never flinched.’

‘He’s a good guy. You seemed startled earlier, when he said he wasn’t going back to Pakistan.’

‘I was for a split second, and then I knew he felt like I did, burnt out. And also mentally bludgeoned by what he’d witnessed.’

‘You asked him what he was going to do, once he’d left war photography, and he didn’t really have an answer for you. But it troubles you, doesn’t it? You’re facing the same dilemma,’ I suggested.

A small sigh escaped. Zac nodded. ‘Yep. I am. We’re in the same boat, he and I. Totally at a loss, I guess.’

‘I think you can only deal with that when you are feeling better, Zac, when you’re back on your feet. I know you have a lot of troubling stuff to deal with, to get out of the way first. When the time comes, you’ll understand what you want to photograph, what kind of life you want to lead.’

‘I guess so. But sometimes I wish I had a hobby, something I could throw myself into …’ He let his voice trail off, his eyes sad.

‘You need a release from war coverage, something that takes your mind off the conflict, the blood and bullets, dead troops, maimed civilians caught in the crossfire. We all do, actually. All that destruction is mind boggling.’

‘Do you have a hobby these days, Serena?’ he asked, sounding interested.

‘There’s the biography I’m writing about Dad; that’s not exactly a hobby, but I am enjoying it.’ I laughed a little hollowly, ‘Well, most of the time. The thing is, I really do want to continue writing. But to be honest, I wish I could find another occupation, or a hobby, something to throw myself into. Jessica loves sailing, mucking around on boats, and she always has.’

‘That’s what Marie Colvin does; that’s her passion when she’s not covering wars,’ Zac told me, referring to the famous war correspondent we both knew. ‘I love being on boats myself – maybe that’s something I could try eventually … as a pastime.’

‘You once told me that you used to go sailing with your father, in Upstate New York, and—’

‘That’s right!’ he exclaimed, cutting across me. ‘We had a log cabin near the Finger Lakes. In fact, Dad still has it. Anyway, we all used to go up there for weekends, but I was the only one who went fishing with Dad.’

I smiled, pleased to see that fleeting glimpse of pleasure crossing his face as he said this. It was obvious he had good memories about those days of his youth.

We lingered at Florian’s, enjoying the friendly and familiar surroundings; escaping, in a sense, into the past, when we had been happy together. We both ordered tea, and went on talking about all kinds of things. This was the first time in the five days that I had been here that he had been as normal as this, and it pleased me. It was a good sign.

All I wanted was for Zac to get better. In my own way, I loved him. We had once been so close it was hard not to have feelings for him. But at the same time I realized I could never become romantically involved with him again. I had grown wary, cautious and self-protective over this past year.

There was no viable future for us together, despite our attraction for each other. That was still there, I was very well aware of this, and it wasn’t just me. Zac felt it too, I was sure, and he had swiftly moved out of my parents’ bedroom in the bolthole, which we had shared for the first couple of nights. He had not said a word, and neither had I. And I understood why he had gone back to one of the other bedrooms. Close proximity was unnerving.

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