Secrets From the Past (9 page)

He was not the Zac of old – the intense, passionate, talkative photojournalist with an opinion about everything and a great sense of humour. He was toned down, a little out of it, listless, I decided, preoccupied even. On the other hand, he was in control of himself, and that was the most important thing of all.

Give it time, I told myself. You’ve only been with him for a day and a night, for God’s sake. Every day he’ll improve, and he’ll soon be his old self.

How wrong I was. I had no way of knowing that morning that trouble was on its way.

‘D
o you mean you’re not going back to Pakistan this week, or never ever going back?’ I asked Geoff, frowning as I stared at him, puzzled by his statement of a moment ago.

‘Never going back, honey. Yep, I’m outta there, and I told Harry I wanna stay out. No two ways about it, Serena, I’ve had it.’

‘I understand,’ I said, genuinely meaning this. ‘There comes a moment when enough’s enough. I felt like that last year, I knew I had to quit the front lines. I lost my nerve. I’m sure of that. And when that happens you’ve no alternative.’

Geoff nodded, was silent for a moment, sipping his iced tea, his eyes reflective as he glanced around.

We were sitting on the terrace of the Bauer Palazzo Hotel, overlooking the private dock and the Grand Canal. It was Tuesday morning and I had been in Venice for five days.

Earlier, I had taken Zac to the barber’s shop, the one that Tommy and Harry had used whenever they were in Venice, because he had decided he needed his hair cut this morning. A good sign, I thought, and I had called Geoff, suggesting we all have lunch once Zac was finished.

Geoff had been agreeable, and suggested we meet here at the old Bauer Palazzo, which was next door to the more modern Bauer Hotel, where he was staying.

As we sat here together, enjoying being outside on the sunny morning, I was feeling relaxed. Zac had been relatively normal – not his old self yet, but not manic, nor agitated in any way. Also, much to my relief, he was eating something every day. Not a lot, but he was putting some food inside himself. He slept constantly, often slipping out of the living room some afternoons and going to bed.

I remember that Dad sometimes slept like that when he came back from covering a war. Total exhaustion took over. He usually had to crash. And so did I, when I returned from a battleground.

I was thankful that Zac had not had any more disturbed nights so far. Several times he had woken up shouting, and calling my name, but these few incidents did not alarm me. I knew my presence was helping him, and I was gratified that I had come. It seemed to be paying off. I prayed it was.

Geoff turned to me, put his hand on his arm. ‘Listen, kid, I know Zac’s been relatively quiet since you got here last Thursday.’ He nodded to himself, then said slowly, ‘I wonder if that strange attack, when he was so icy cold, frightened him? Perhaps it made him focus on his health, kinda brought him up short.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I answered. ‘He’s never really talked about it with me. I explained that I thought it was a reaction to fatigue, lack of sleep and food, and he agreed. He’s doing okay, Geoff. I know that.’

‘I trust your judgement, Serena, and I’m glad he’s not drinking or glued to the TV set. Booze, and war reportage seen second-hand, tend to agitate him no end.’ Geoff gave me a penetrating look. ‘Do you think he’s got post-traumatic stress disorder?’

This comment took me aback. ‘I haven’t seen any real signs of it yet,’ I replied.

Geoff nodded, and took a sip of his iced tea. ‘I witnessed a few strange things when I brought him out of Afghanistan … the pacing around, the sleepless nights, the agitation, the awful fucking nightmares, and the boozing. There were times when he really did attempt to drown his sorrows. And by the way, Harry has wondered about his condition.’

‘I know, I’ve discussed it with Harry, and he said I should humour Zac, that I must allow him to rant and rave, to weep, and to get his rage out. As you and I well know, when we come out we all have pent-up emotions: anxiety, anger, frustration, despair. Being witness to too much killing, too much death, doesn’t help.’

There was a silence, and Geoff looked off into the distance again, and then he drew closer, leaned forward. ‘Listen, I am developing really bad feelings, and I’m very aware, after a few days living a normal life here, that I do have to jump ship.
Pronto.
My time is up on the battlefield.’

‘Then it’s the right moment to go,’ I said in a firm voice. ‘That’s when you lose your edge, when you start to dither, or question what you’re doing. That can be dangerous, Geoff: one mistake and you’re dead.’

‘I know. Zac mentioned that he’d been covering wars since he was twenty-one. That’s sixteen years, a helluva long time. I’ve only been at it for seven and lately I’ve felt pretty rotten most of the time. I don’t want to end up like Zac – burnt out, just a shell of what I was.’

‘I understand, and I must say I’ve certainly been one of the lucky ones,’ I responded. ‘Eight years on the front. But my father and Harry sent me out a lot. Dad made me go back to Nice for breaks; they both deemed it necessary. And anyway, my mother insisted on it.’

Geoff volunteered, ‘You’re not very damaged, Serena, in my opinion anyway. In fact, I’d say you’re pretty damned good. I’ve often wondered if your father or Harry ever suffered from PTSD. Do you know?’

‘They both did, at different times, so they’ve told me. But they coped, they got out, cooled off. My father went back to Nice very often because of Mom’s fragile health. And Dad once brought Harry out of the Balkans. So Harry told me the other day. From Bosnia. He was in a bad way. Dad and Harry took a very long break after that.’

‘They needed it, I bet.’

‘You know, Geoff, Dad and Harry had Global Images to fall back on, a business to run, when they weren’t covering wars. They both did other photography for a time. What are you going to do? I hope you’re not leaving Global, Geoff.’

‘No, I’m not. Harry said I should take a month off, longer if I needed it, to think about my future. And he definitely wants me to remain with the agency. I’m staying here in Venice for a few more days, I want to get myself really rested. Then I’m going back to California to see my daughter. As you know, Chloe lives with my ex-wife. It’s all very amicable. And I do need to touch base with them, have a big dose of normality. I want to put this monstrous world out of my mind.’ Geoff looked at his watch. ‘I wonder where Zac is?’ he murmured, turning to glance at me.

‘Oh, he’ll be here any minute,’ I answered, attempting a nonchalance I did not feel. I hoped I was right.

A
s Zac walked across the terrace towards our table, my throat constricted and a wave of emotion washed over me unexpectedly. He looked so young from a distance, appeared to be just like he was when we first met, long ago – eleven years now. And for a moment I was thrown back in time.

A decade dropped away, and I recalled how I had fallen in love with him during a very special summer in Nice. What an extraordinary summer it had been. Idyllic, romantic, filled with laughter and happiness.

He had been endearing, loving and thoughtful. Although he was handsome, it was his charm and intelligence that had captivated me. I enjoyed being with him, and we had a lot in common. In particular, we shared a love of photojournalism, especially war coverage.

Of course I had not been on the front line then, but he had, and he shared so much about his experiences with me; we very quickly bonded. He’s my soul mate, I had thought, and he had felt the same way about me. When we became serious about each other, four years later, we had both believed it was going to last forever. But that was not meant to be … we had finally parted bitterly last year.

As he drew closer, I noticed that Dad’s favourite barber, Benito, had given Zac the best haircut. It was short, stylish and youthful, and Benito, being an excellent barber, had obviously applied his skills to Zac’s face, had shaved him; Zac’s cheeks were smooth, free of stubble, and he appeared less tense.

I smiled inwardly. Zac was wearing my father’s ancient black-leather bomber jacket, which had definitely seen better days. It was years old, had become communal property, was borrowed by everyone who stayed at the bolthole. I’d even used it myself at times.

With the worn, cracked leather jacket, Zac had on an open-necked white shirt and dark trousers; the casual outfit added to his air of youthfulness.

When he finally reached our table, squeezed my shoulder, half smiled, I noticed the tightness around his eyes, the wrinkles; now that he was close up I was aware of his overall weariness. Yet he was calm, obviously wanting to behave as normally as possible. He had control of himself, that I knew.

Before I could say anything, Geoff was on his feet and hugging Zac, who returned his embrace. I noted the affection between them, the respect they had for each other. They had always been good buddies, and it was genuine loyalty and concern that had compelled Geoff to get him out of Helmand Province when he was in trouble, despite the danger and risk Geoff was exposed to in that terrible place.

Zac sat down between Geoff and me, glanced at the iced tea and said, ‘I’d like a glass of white wine, I think.’

I was silent; I felt a spurt of panic. Wine was dangerous. If he had one glass he could easily end up drinking a whole bottle. I glanced at Geoff, signalling my alarm with my eyes.

Geoff took charge at once, in that swift and efficient way he had of dealing with things. ‘Let’s have a glass of champagne instead of white wine. That’s gonna be great on this sunny morning in Venice, Italy, on a very peaceful day away from bloody bombs and bullets.’ He glanced at me. ‘Don’t you think so, Serena?’

I agreed at once. ‘What a grand idea! We can toast your liberation, and champagne’s great for a celebration. Let’s make it
pink
champagne.’

‘Fine by me,’ Zac said, then asked, ‘What liberation? What celebration?’ He looked at Geoff quizzically.

‘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.