Remember (7 page)

“Forgot bag,” Yoyo explained, holding it up. “Passport.”

“Come on,” Nicky said. “Troops are here, everyone’s leaving.” She swung away from them, ready to return through the encampment.

“This way! Quicker!” Yoyo exclaimed, and he took the lead as 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 and called, “Follow me ! ” then 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 back over her shoulder, she saw that Yoyo and Mai were keeping up, 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 armored vehicles and the blazing guns was ominous.

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

“Nicky! Nicky!”

She looked back and to her shock saw that Mai was lying on the pavement. Yoyo was bending over her. Nicky spun around and ran back.

“What happened?”

Yoyo looked dazed. “Mai shot.”

Nicky dropped to her knees and examined the girl’s bleeding shoulder, then touched her face gently. Mai opened her eyes, blinked and then closed them. Nicky slipped her arms under Mai, trying to lift her, but when the girl moaned, Nicky swiftly laid her on the ground again. Her hands felt wet and she looked down at them, and 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 looked up.

The tanks had increased their speed and were almost upon them.

There was no time to lose. She said to Yoyo, “Quickly! Take Mai’s legs, I’ll lift her under her arms, and we’ll carry her behind the monument.”

These words were barely spoken when she was pulled away from Mai and pushed, almost flung, to one side. She heard Clee shouting, “Hurry, Nick! Move it, Yoyo! The tanks—they’re closing in!”

People were scattering in panic and screaming. Struggling to her feet, she spotted Clee running out of the line of fire, carrying Mai in his arms, with Yoyo right behind them. They made it to safety just before the tanks and APCs, their guns blazing, rolled over the spot where, a split second before, Mai had been lying.

Others were not so lucky.

They took cover behind the Martyrs’ Monument, an area that seemed to be relatively safe, at least for the moment, there were no troops in sight. Clee placed Mai on the ground, and Nicky sank onto the steps beside her. When Clee came and sat next to her, she said, “Thanks for saving my life.”

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, staring at her without speaking. He had a peculiar expression on his face, one she had never seen there before.

Finally, he said, “We have to get Mai to a hospital.” He took his camera off, hung it around Nicky’s neck and said, “Look after this for me, I think I have some good shots.” Then he bent down, and lifted Mai up in his arms.

When they reached Tiananmen Gate, they paused 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 found herself praying 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 blood, and the anguished residents of the city were trying to do what they could to help.

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

They had almost reached the Beijing Hotel when Yoyo cried, “Look!

Red Cross flag on Number Thirty-eight bus. Ambu7ce. Take Mai to Xiehe Hospital.”

Clee nodded, and plowed forward with the injured girl, hoping to God that the doctors could save her.

Nicky stood in the middle of the ATN suite at the Beijing Hotel, concentrating on what she had to say. It was fifteen minutes past eight on Sunday morning in China. In New York it was 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 hard-hitting newscast about the events she had 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 aging leaders desperate to hang on to their political power. Mao Zedong seems to have spoken the truth. At least, as far as China is concerned.” There was a small beat, before she finished, “This is Nicky Wells saying good night from Beijing.”

At the other end of the line she heard Mike Fowler, the ATN anchorman, saying, “Thank you, Nicky, for that extraordinary report from Beijing.

And now to the news from Eastern Europe . .

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

He smiled, nodded several times and 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 and walked over to her. “Nick, they loved it. You were just great!”

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

“I second that,” Luke said.

“Thanks, guys,” she said, smiling. Their praise mattered so much to her because she knew they always spoke the truth, and would not hesitate to tell her when she had not been up to her standards.

There was a knock on the door, and when Luke opened it, Clee walked in.

He looked awful, drained and haggard, Nicky knew what he was going to say before he said it, she could tell from the empty expression in his dark eyes.

“Mai is dead,” he said, his tone flat. “They just couldn’t save her.

They tried, but she’d lost too much blood.”

“Poor kid,” Jimmy said.

Luke sat down heavily and Arch looked bereft.

Nicky walked over to Clee, feeling a little unsteady on her legs.

“You look terrible, Clee. Come and sit down, let’s get you some coffee .” Clee took a step closer to her, wiped away the tears on her cheeks, which she had not even known were there. “It’s all right for you to cry, you know,” he said.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “And Yoyo?”

“He’s devastated but unharmed.”

She nodded. “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 there, and then he said, very quietly, “We journalists deal with war and death and tragedy on a daily basis. We get tough, we think we’re invincible. But none of us are, not really, Nicky. Not even you.”

PART TWO.

‘ers |t was Cezanne country, van Gogh country. Clee had told her so, and he had been correct.

Colors from the artists’ palettes were the colors of the day, the colors of the Provencal earth and sky, rich russet browns and burnt sienna, terra-cotta 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 arrived in Provence, Nicky had been entranced by the beauty of the countryside that surrounded the old mas or farmhouse, that 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-flagstoneedged swimming pool under the shade of a plane tree, sipping a citron presse’ and daydreaming, she almost laughed out loud at herself. She had been reluctant to come here, but now she realized she would not have missed for anything in the world this brief respite from the business of reporting catastrophes.

And she was grateful to Clee for so generously giving her the use of his home. It was his very private retreat, and she knew that very few people were ever invited here. But then, she realized, that was Clee, always thinking of her well-being, this latest gesture was only one of his many kindnesses.

The idea of her coming to Provence had begun in Hong Kong three weeks ago, when she and Clee were finishing dinner at the Mandarin Hotel.

Out of the blue, somehow sensing that her fatigue was especially deep, Clee had said to her, “Go to my farm in the South of France, Nick. It does me good just to be there, I know it’ll take your mind off things to be in that restorative place .

” She had balked at first. France had not particularly appealed to her just then, even though in much of the past she had loved it and felt at home there. But for several years now, she had associated it with pain.

Almost three years ago she had gone to Cap d’Antibes with her fiance, Charles Devereaux, a man with whom she had been very much in love and had been about to marry. 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 Cote d’Azur.

She had not set eyes on Charles Devereaux ever again.

And so she had not wanted to upset herself further by visiting a place where they had spent their last days together. There were moments when she still felt savaged by him, and shaken by a fulminating anger. She had lost herself in her work, thrusting aside unwelcome memories.

Of course Clee had no way of knowing any of this, and so he had persisted with the invitation. Just before leaving Hong Kong for Paris, he had said, “I’m afraid I can’t be there, Nicky, but my housekeeper will look after you very well. Please go.” A confident 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. Amelie’s a doll. Listen, the farm’s in beautiful country, artists’ country—Cezanne and van Gogh both painted in the area. I know you’ll relax there. Please go. You need to do something special for yourself, to have a few weeks of peace after the horror of Beijing.

You need to be better to yourself, Nick.”

Touched, she had relented somewhat and told him she would think about it. And back in New York she had done exactly that.

Thoughts of Clee’s farmhouse in France and a peaceful interlude there had flitted in and out of her head, and with surprising frequency.

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

Finally, it was Arch who had helped her come to a decision. Once the TV special was in the can, he had told her she looked awful, 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 good rest would do you good,” he had

pointed out. “Take a break while you can, Nick. You really need it.”

When she had muttered that perhaps something world-shaking might occur, Arch had laughed and said he would fly her back from wherever she was if a war broke out somewhere.

She had laughed too, and had then protested, “But I know I don’t look quite as bad as you say I do, Arch. Surely you’re exaggerating.” His answer had been pithy and to the point. “Losy, that’s the way you look, Nick. Take my word for it.”

She had looked at herself in a mirror, and had had to admit that Arch was right. When she had examined her face, she had decided that he had actually understated the facts. She looked positively ill. Her face was unusually pale, even haggard, she had dark rings under her eyes 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 color, if such a thing were possible.

Nicky was aware that cosmetics could camouflage a number of flaws for the benefit of the camera, and that she could continue to hide the telltale signs of fatigue with 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 felt debilitated and emotionally drained, and apparently now the signs were all too evident to others. And so she had put her mirror away, phoned Clee at his Paris office, and told him she would like to accept his offer of the farmhouse in Provence if it was still open. He had been thrilled.

“That’s great, Nick,” he had said, his energy and excitement echoing down the wire. “I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow, to photograph Gorbachev for Paris Match, but JeanClaude will make arrangements for you to be met in Marseilles, and then driven up to the farm. All you have to do is get yourself to Marseilles, via either Paris or Nice.