Remember (9 page)

Everything about the farm fascinated Nicky, and she was beginning to realize how much she enjoyed being in the country, close to the land.

It was easy to see why Clee loved the farm, although he was unable to come here as often as he would have liked. During the two years she had known him he had talked about this place occasionally, and she understood why his voice changed slightly whenever he discussed his home in Provence. It was a very special corner of peace and beauty in the turbulent world.

She stayed outside until almost six o’clock, enjoying the changing light as the sun slowly began to sink behind the rim of the distant dark hills. And then she took her book and glasses and walked slowly up the flagged garden path to the house.

Climbing the two staircases to her rooms under the eaves, she thought of Yoyo, as she did at some moment every day. His whereabouts were unknown, and this worried her. She and Clee had looked hard for him in Beijing before they left for Hong Kong, but he had disappeared. But then so had most of the other student leaders. “Gone underground,” Clee had said to her, and she had hoped this was really the case, and that he had not been arrested.

She and the crew and Clee had hung around Hong Kong for several days, hoping Yoyo would show up, but he had not, and in the end they had had no alternative but to leave.

Nicky’s only consolation was that Yoyo knew where to find them.

She had given him her business card in the first week she had met him, and so had Arch and Clee. She could only hope that he still had them and would be able to get himself out of China using the money they had given him.

At one moment she had thought about writing to him at the Central Academy of Arts, but had decided against it, knowing that a letter from a Western journalist could easily create untold

problems for him. The mail was most probably censored these days, and a letter from her might cost him his freedom. Or his life.

Sighing under her breath, Nicky pushed open the door to her rooms and went in, endeavoring to set aside her worries about Yoyo.

There was nothing she could do except pray he was still safe and that he would find a way to escape to the West.

lhe scream shattered her nightmare.

It echoed around the bedroom and seemed to pierce her brain, almost as if she herself were screaming.

Nicky sat up with a jerk, instantly wideawake, her face and arms bathed in sweat. She tilted her head and listened, blinking as she adjusted her eyes to the dimness of the room.

There was no sound except for the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside the window as they brushed against the panes of glass.

Had she herself screamed out loud during her frightening dream?

Or had it been someone else? Someone outside? She was not sure, and just to make certain she climbed out of bed and went to the window.

She looked out.

The sky was dark, cloudless. A full moon was slung high above

the old stables, and it cast a silvery sheen over everything in the yard, throwing into focus the cypress tree, the old wheelbarrow planted with flowers, the garden seat, the flight of steps leading down into the orchard. But there was no one out there, so it was not possible that anyone had screamed. Except if she herself had, of course.

A small shiver passed through Nicky even though it was an exceptionally warm night. Turning away from the window, she went back to bed, troubled by the nightmare that had so frightened her that it must have made her scream and woken her up. Slithering down, she pulled the sheet around her bare shoulders and tried to go back to sleep.

But she had little success, and when she was still wideawake after half an hour she slid out of bed, slipped into her cotton robe and went down to the library. After turning on a lamp and the television set, she curled up on one of the sofas, deciding that since she could not sleep she might as well watch CNN.

Once the roundup of international news was finished and the programming changed to a local American story about farmers in the Midwest, her mind began to wander. And not unnaturally, she focused on the nightmare she had just had. It had been awful, and it remained so vivid it was still dominant in her mind. The nightmare had been about Clee, and she could remember every detail of it clearly.

She was in a vast, empty desert. It was warm, pleasant, and even though she was alone she was not afraid. She felt content. She was walking up a sand dune, and when she was on top of itand looked down she saw an oasis below. Feelin thirsty, she ran down the slope of the dune and began to drink the water, scooping it up in her hands, until she saw that it was streaked with blood.

She pulled back, filled with horror, and as she crouched on her heels she noticed a crumpled magazine I splattered with mud and blood. It was a copy of Life magazine.

She picked it up, leafed through itand came to a picture of Clee.

The caption saud he was dead—killed in action while on assignment for the magazine. But it did not say where he had died or when, and there was no date on the magazine. She was fnghtened and she turned icy even though it was searing hot under the desert sun. Shegot up and began to run, looking for Clee. She felt sure he was somewhere nearby. And alive.

She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert.

She was wearin thick winter clothes and it was dawn on a frosty day.

All around her were dead men and the bloody signs of war and destruction. Clee walked toward her through the mist and took hold of her hand. He helped her to climb over the dead bodies. Suddenly they saw a jeep in the distance. Clee said, “Look, Nick! We can get a lift back with the retreat!“He leapedforward, running. She ran, too, but she stumbled, and when she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him among the dead soldiers. She could not find him.

There were milesand miles of dead bodies, and everythin,g was so silent she wondered if it was the end of the world. She saw two bodies lying close to each other side by side. She hurried to them, turned their cold dead faces to see if either one was Clee, then she drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux.

She turned and ran, stumbling andfallingagainst thedead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnae. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothesj they were covered in warm, sticky blood. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair of ever finding Clee, of evergetting away, she reached the end of the battlefield.

Now she was walking along a white sandy beach, and parked under a palm tree was the jeep she had seen earlier. It was abandoned.

She looked toward the dark blue sea. Not far out she saw a bodyfloating.

Was it Clee ? He beckoned to her. res, it was he! He was alive!

She rushed into the water. It was icy butcuriously thick, like oil, so thatswimming was laborious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.

Clee held out his hand to herj she reached for itj their f ngers were inchesapart. Asshe struggled tograsp his hand, his body began to sink, and it disappeared into the sea.

The dream had ended at this moment, and she had awakened to the scream.

It had been her screaming, she knew that now.

She shuddered, feeling gooseflesh on her arms, and she pulled the robe around her, suddenly very cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, then reached for the marc de Bourgogne.

Some memory registered vaguely, then she recognized the label. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France.

She put the bottle down on the silver tray. Then immediately she picked it up again, poured herself a small glass, and taking a sip of it, she walked slowly back to the sofa.

Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her nightmare was simply a manifestation of impressions stored in her subconscious. Once, several years ago, her mother had told her that one dreamed one’s terrors, and that whatever truly frightened a person came to the fore in sleep, when the subconscious rises. And so it did not take her long to analyze her dream. She knew very well what it meant, she was afraid that Yoyo was dead, and she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might be killed.

It’s all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of the marc. Both men had been very much on her mind lately, and of course were therefore at the forefront of her thoughts. But why had Charles Devereaux been part of the nightmare? Perhaps because she was in France, where they had traveled, and where he had come often to buy wine for his importing company. And where they had spent those two weeks together …

The more she thought about it, there was no denying the fact that she had dreamed about those three men because each of them, in his own way, troubled her enormously.

lee stood staring in deep concentration at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office.

After a couple of minutes he turned to JeanClaude Roche, who ran his photo agency, Image, and nodded. “I think you’re onto a winner, and the pictures are good, JeanClaude. Damned good, as a matter of fact.

So let’s get the guy to come in and see me, and the sooner the better.

We can certainly use another good photographer around here, there’s more work than we can handle right now.”

JeanClaude looked pleased. “Marc Villier is really terrific, Clee.

Very bright, aggressive, yet sensitive. And he possesses the unflinching eye, as you do. You are going to like him, he is …

how shall I say—very personable.”

“Good. And if these photographs are anything to go by, his work is more than excellent. Let’s move on. Do you have anything else to go over with me?”

JeanClaude shook his head. “No. Everything is under control. The assignment sheet is on your desk. Everyone is booked out for the next few weeks. Except for you. I’ve kept you free.”

“That’s great. I could use a few days’ respite after Beijing and Moscow,” Clee exclaimed, his face brightening at the prospect of some time off. Turning around, he collected the transparencies that lay on the light box and handed them to JeanClaude.

“Thanks,” JeanClaude said as he slipped them into a large envelope.

“I shall go and call Marc, ask him to come in tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?”

“Sure. By the way, where do we stand with my assignment for Life ?”

“They need you for about three weeks, late July and early August.

They want you to go to Washington first to photograph the president and Mrs. Bush, this is their priority.”

“Yeah, that figures. Congress is still in session through July, and Bush is probably going to be gone in August, either to Camp David or Kennebunkport. And who am I doing after the president?”

“They have not said. But they want you for a few specials. I told them I would give them the date of your arrival as soon as possible.

They need to confirm with the White House. So, when will you go?”

“About the fourteenth, I guess.” Clee walked over to his cluttered desk and sat down. “Ask Marc Villier if he can come in early tomorrow, around seven-thirty, eight.”

“I will.” JeanClaude went to the door but paused before leaving and looked back at Clee. “There will not be any problem, he will come whenever you wish. He wants nothing more than to work with you, Clee.

You’re his idol.”

Clee merely smiled, made no comment. He knew all about idols and what having one could mean.

Clee’s eyes automatically went to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures. He felt a stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at Capa. His one and only regret in his life was that he had never met Capa. He had been born too late and Capa’s tragic death had been so untimely.

After a moment he dropped his eyes to the papers littering his desk, shuffled through them without paying much attention, which was quite normal for him. Paperwork was not his strong suit, in fact, it bored him. He clipped the letters together, scrawled across the one on top, Louise, please deal with all this any wayyou see f t, and dropped the pile into the tray in readiness for his secretary the following day.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was almost six. If he was going to cancel the dinner with his friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry, a writer, worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialed his direct line. It rang and rang, and then it was finally picked up and Henry’s gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, “Allo, oui?”

“Hank, it’s Clee.”

“Clee, don’t tell me you’re canceling!”

“I have to, Hank. Look, I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

“Flo has invited this Lacroix model, whatever-her-name-is.

Stunning girl. You wouldn’t want to miss meeting her, would you?”

“I wish you two would stop trying to fix me up!” Clee exclaimed a bit impatiently, and then he laughed and said, “There’s really no way I can make it tonight. This meeting just came up and it’s important.”

“I’ll bet it is. Knowing you, I suspect you’ve suddenly got a hot and heavy date.”

Ignoring this, Clee said soberly, “Flo usually hedges her bet and invites a couple of other single guys, so I’m sure the Lacroix lady won’t be short of flattering male attention this evening.”

“That’s quite true. On the other hand, Flo really wanted you to meet her, Clee.”

“I will. Another time. Tonight I’m stuck. How about lunch tomorrow?”

“No can do. I’m flying to Nice. I’m working on a piece about the Grimaldis of Monaco, and I have to do some interviews in Monte Carlo.”

“Then call me when you’re back and we’ll catch up.”

“It’s a deal. And, Clee?”

“Yes, Hank?”

“We’ll miss you tonight.”

“I’ll miss being there. Give my apologies to Flo, and kiss her for me.” As he hung up Clee made a mental note to send flowers to Florence the next morning. Picking up the phone, he dialed again.