Remember (13 page)

It was almost eight-thirty on Sunday evening, earlier, Clee had suggested that they have a picnic in the library and watch a video of an old movie later, and she had agreed.

It seemed to Nicky that the weekend had passed in the blink of an eye.

She and Clee had puttered around the farm on Friday after his unexpected arrival, chatting, laughing, reminiscing and catching up with each other’s news. As Clee had pointed out to her on Friday evening, in the two years they had known each other this was the first time they had ever had a chance to relax together, to talk in the way they had that day—and about so many diverse things.

On Saturday, because it was so much cooler, Clee had driven her to Arles.

“But don’t expect to see many of van Gogh’s old haunts,” he had warned her on the way there. “There’s not much left that’s associated with the time he spent in Provence. Even the house he shared with Gauguin has been torn down. But there is the Allee des Sarcophages, which he painted so wonderfully and with such vibrancy. We can go and see that.

And of course there are the fields and fields of sunflowers where he used to go and pick bunches for his still lifes. They should be in full bloom now.”

Arles, as Nicky had discovered, was a captivating place, very ancient, almost otherworldly in a certain sense. Clee had taken her sightseeing through the old city and she had been fascinated.

Her father had always said she made a good tourist, with her curious mind and investigative nature, her desire to know about everything.

The old city was filled with crumbling Roman ruins juxtaposed against strong medieval stonework, and there were numerous monuments and museums, and a lot of quaint things to see. She had been in her element, and Clee had seemed pleased she was enjoying herself so much.

After strolling for several hours through the old city, with its ramparts and air of antiquity, they had gone for a late lunch at a charming bistro Clee obviously knew well. He was greeted with affection and enthusiasm by Madame Yvonne and Monsieur Louis, the owners, who had given them the best table in the house, according to Clee. He had ordered for them both, selecting various local dishes, telling her she would love them and explaining each one to her. He had also insisted she join him in

a pastis, the popular local drink, an apeetif that tasted of aniseed and turned milky in color when mixed with the mandatory splash of water.

After lunch they had wandered around the newer part of Arles, window-shopping mostly, but Nicky had bought a handful of postcards to send off to Arch, her crew and friends in New York.

As she pored over the cards in the bookstore Clee had selected a dozen or so magazines and a stack of newspapers, and then they had meandered back to the car.

It was late afternoon when they had set offfor the farm, driving along at a leisurely pace. Arriving at the house, they had had icy champagne on the terrace and, a little later, a light supper.

This had been lovingly prepared by Amelie and served in the garden.

Amelie and Guillaume had departed early this morning to go to the wedding of a niece in Marseilles. As much as Nicky appreciated Amelie, she was glad to have a respite from all the meals, delicious and tempting though they were. Clee had not made any comment when she had refused the cold chicken, fish, vegetables and various other dishes Amelie had prepared in advance for their lunch. Instead, she had made herself a small tomato salad, which she had eaten with a chunk torn from a fresh baguette.

Taking another sip of her drink, Nicky reflected on the day. She and Clee had done absolutely nothing, mostly because of the intense heat.

In the morning they had taken it easy under the trees near the pool, reading magazines and newspapers, in the afternoon they had come up here to the library to listen to Kiri Te Kanawa’s rendition of arias from Tosca, performed with the National Philharmonic Orchestra and conducted by Sir Georg Solu.

Nicky had curled up on one of the big, squashy sofas, closed her eyes and drifted off into another world, transported by Puccini’s music and Dame Kiri’s silvery voice. Yes, she reflected, it has been a special day, and in so many ways.

The door opened and Clee entered carrying two large portfolios.

He strode over to the long library table, and said, “I haven’t told you—but I’m planning a photographic book on Beijing, on Tiananmen.

I’d like to show you some of the pictures.”

“Oh, Clee, I’d love to see them,” she exclaimed, jumping up and joining him at the table.

He pushed aside a pile of magazines, took the photographs out of the first portfolio and spread them out on the table. The collection was a mixture of color and black-and-white.

The pictures were so powerful, had such a sense of immediacy, that Nicky caught her breath, instantly she was carried back to Tiananmen Square. Those tense and turbulent days leading up to the bloody massacre at the beginning of the month were suddenly vividly alive again.

She recognized how accurate Clee’s eye was. He had taken very direct and candid photographs of people and events. Each shot had a feeling of intimacy and the people looked so vital.

“These are extraordinary, Clee,” Nicky said with sincere admiration.

“They’re so powerful, and extremely moving.”

Her words brought a quick, pleased smile to his face, and he took another batch out of the second portfolio. “These are more personal,” he explained, lining them up, watching her, waiting for her reaction.

Nicky found herself looking down at pictures Clee had taken of her alone in Tiananmen Square and in other parts of Beijing. Some were with Arch and her crew, and others were with Yoyo or with Yoyo and Mai.

There were additional shots of Yoyo with the other student leaders, and with Mai, and all of the backgrounds were so familiar to her they brought a lump to her throat,

the Martyrs’ Monument, the tent encampment, the Goddess of Democracy, Changan Avenue.

“Oh, Clee, they’re stunning! That old cliche about one photograph saying more than a thousand words is true, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders, and he brought out the last set of photographs. As she stood staring at them she was overcome by a sudden flood of memories. Across the vast rectangle of stone that was Tiananmen Square came the inexorable flow of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Down Changan Avenue marched the implacable, cold-faced soldiers, carrying machine guns that meant death for their own people.

Standing at the barricades, defiant and angry, were the ordinary citizens of Beijing, shaking their fists at the People’s Liberation Army, and desperately trying to save the lives of the students—the children of China. And blowing in the wind were the giant white banners bearing the students’ slogans of democracy and freedom written boldly in bright red paint the color of blood.

Finally Nicky’s eyes settled on the pictures of the fallen students, those who had been shot or crushed by the tanks, who lay dead or dying in pools of their own blood in the streets. All at once she could smell the cordite again, hear the sharp crack of rifles and the ominous rumble of tanks rolling across cold stone, the screams of terror, a tremor ran through her.

Nicky was so moved by the breathtaking images Clee had captured on film that tears sprang to her eyes and she brought her hand up to her mouth.

She turned to him but discovered she was unable to speak.

Seeing the tears, he reached out for her and pulled her to him.

“Don’t be upset,” he began in a faltering voice.

He had been so conscious of her the entire weekend, and never more than today. He knew it was a mistake to take her in his arms in this way.

Her perfume was fragrant in his nostrils, her body warm and vibrantly alive against his.

Reluctantly he let go of her. Nicky had never looked so lovely to him.

Her skin was a golden brown, her blond hair sun-streaked after the week in Provence, and her eyes seemed bluer than ever in her bronzed face.

It took all his self-control not to reach out for her again.

She said, “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“What?” he asked, startled, and wondered if she had just read his mind.

“For me to be upset—for everyone who looks at these pictures to be upset. And to be touched and moved and appalled and horrified and angered.”

“I suppose so, yes,” he admitted.

“They will be. The photographs are so stunning, I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. The book is going to be sensational.”

“I hope so, darling.” He held his breath. The word “darling” had popped out by accident, but if she had noticed this slip of the tongue she did not show it. In fact, she was displaying no reaction whatsoever.

Clee began to put the pictures away and Nicky helped him. At one moment he stopped and said, “You know, Nick, I can write the captions, I’m used to doing that, but what this book needs is some really great text up front. An introduction. I’ve been thinking … well, you’re one of the best writers I know. Would you be interested in doing it, in collaborating with me?”

She was taken aback by his suggestion, and her surprise was apparent.

“Why, I don’t know,” she said hesitantly.

“Who better than you, Nick? You were there, you witnessed it all, and you felt it as acutely as I did. You’d bring the right

emotions to the writing. The text must back up the pictures.

Please say yes.”

“Well, all right. Yes.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful!” He wanted to hug her but restrained himself.

Instead he said, “We’ll make a terrific team!”

Nicky walked over to the coffee table, picked up her glass and raised it to him. “I think we ought to drink to that.”

Clee found his glass and clinked it against hers. “So—here’s to our collaboration!”

“To our collaboration!” she repeated, and they both took a sip.

“These need freshening up,” Clee announced, walking over to the chest where he had put the champagne and bucket of ice.

Then he said, “Shall we have a swim before dinner?”

“Why not?” Nicky was now smiling.

Lying on her back, she floated toward him in the water.

“Oh, Clee, it’s so lovely here!” she called out. “I thought it would be warm like water in a bathtub, but it isn’t, it’s perfect.”

“The breeze is cooling everything off,” he said.

Nicky made no response and floated closer to the end of the pool where Clee was catching his breath after several fast laps.

Suddenly she flipped over and swam toward him.

Clinging to the side of the pool with one hand, she pushed her wet hair back with the other and laughed softly, as if to herself, shaking her head at the same time.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking how odd it is that we sometimes forget that the simplest things in life can be so wonderful—the best things of all.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he said and glanced around the garden.

Just before they left the house to come outside for a swim, he had turned on the small spotlights hidden in the foliage, and the shrubs and trees and flowers were now highlighted by circles of pale silver light. Thanks to his sister’s remarkable talent, the lights had been strategically placed and there was nothing artificial about the effect she had created. The garden looked as natural as it did during the day, and, to Clee, infinitely more beautiful after sunset.

Overhead the sky had turned color yet again, the mauve and amethyst had deepened to marine blue and a heavy twilight was descending. A peaceful hush had settled over the garden, and the only sounds were the rustling of the trees in the copse, the faint slap of the water as it lapped against the sides of the pool. The air was clear, and much cooler, and sweet with the fragrance of honeysuckle and frangipani, which grew close to the old stone wall running down one side of the garden.

Clee breathed deeply and looked at Nicky. “What could be better than being in this glorious spot—the two of us here together, enjoying each other’s company.”

“Nothing could, it’s pure heaven,” Nicky said, “and it’s been such a wonderful weekend, Clee. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

And this is a perfect end to an especially lovely day.”

“It’s not the end yet,” he said, looking at her carefully, “we still have the evening ahead of us—” He glanced at his watch.

“It’s only nine-thirty. We can stay up as late as we wish, since we don’t have to be awake early in the morning. Neither of us has a deadline to meet, you know.”

“Thank God,” she replied with a light laugh. “I must admit, it has been nice to have a vacation. My first in two and a half years, I might add. Thanks for inviting me, and thank you for coming down for the weekend. It’s been—well, simply wonderful, Clee. You’re so good to me, such a wonderful friend.”

She touched his arm resting along the edge of the pool, and he caught hold of her hand, held it tightly. Then before he could stop himself he pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

At first he met resistance, then she hesitantly responded, her body slackening and her mouth becoming soft under his. But abruptly she pulled away and stared long and hard at him.

He could not read her expression, it baffled him. He said rapidly, taking her hand again, “Don’t pull away, Nicky. Since Beijing you’ve become very special to me. Look, it’s different now. I don’t know exactly what to say.”

She made no comment to this, freeing her hand, she swam away toward the far end of the pool.

He followed her, and, getting out of the pool, went to where she stood near the chaises under the trees.

Her head was turned away from him and she was shivering in the light breeze.

He reached for one of the large beach towels on a chaise and wrapped her in it. “You’re cold,” he said. “Nicky.”

She swung her head finally and looked directly at him, but still she did not speak.

They stood motionless, staring at each other, their eyes locked in an intense gaze that neither of them was able to break.

It seemed to Clee that her bright blue eyes were impaling his, and inwardly he flinched, yet he could not look away. And oh God, how he wanted her. He wanted to take her in his arms, to make love to her.