Where You Belong (13 page)

I

Between mouthfuls of omelette, Jake said, “What made you ask me if I thought Françoise could have been pushed down the stairs? I mean, what exactly did I say to convey this to you?”

“It wasn't anything you said, but, rather, the expression on your face, Jake. It suddenly struck me that you might possibly be thinking along those lines. Spousal abuse is rampant these days.”

He nodded. “Don't say these days like that, Val, there's nothing new about wife beating. It's always been with us. We just hear more about it now . . . in the way that we know more about everything, from wars and other disasters, to the infidelities of politicians. Chalk it up to the age we live in, the media age. Instant wars . . . seen on television as they're happening. Instant news. Instant everything on television . . . and on the Internet. Yup, the age of information . . . and misinformation.”

“I guess you're right,” I answered. “Is Simone going to call us later today? Let us know how her daughter is doing?”

“She promised she would once they'd been to the hospital, seen Françoise, and talked to the doctors. I heard her say something to Armand about bringing her back here to recuperate. And I must admit, I did think that was odd.” He took a swallow of the wine, then added, “It's as if she wants Françoise to be out of Olivier's way, don't you think?”

“Perhaps . . .” I leaned back in my chair and thought for a moment before continuing. “Or it could be she just wants to look after her daughter herself. Unless Françoise has a lot of injuries. I mean, you don't fall down a flight of stairs and stand up unscathed, do you? Look, Jake, the doctors might keep her in the hospital for a while. Because of her pregnancy.”

“You're right, and if they do let her go home because her injuries are minor, she would still probably need looking after. And Olivier's at work all day.”

“What does he do?”

“He's a cop,” Jake replied, and looked at me knowingly.

“Oh,” I muttered. “Well, that doesn't mean anything.” I grimaced. “Cops have been known to be wife beaters, you know, and some even think they're above the law.”

“He could be that type,” Jake muttered.

“Oh, have you met him, then?”

“Briefly, with Françoise. When I was down here with Peter. They were staying with Simone and Armand for a few days, and Peter introduced us. He's very fond of Simone, and of course Françoise and Solange grew up here at Les Roches Fleuries, so he's known them for years.”

“How old is Françoise?”

“About twenty-six, and Solange is twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Not sure. But they're both nice girls.” Jake lifted his glass and took another long swallow of the vin rosé.

“You know, I never understand spousal abuse, Jake. How can a man be so brutal to the woman he loves and is married to? It just takes my breath away.”

Jake gaped at me and put his glass down. “I can't believe that you of all people are saying this to me.” He shook his head, and his blue eyes were tight on mine. “You know better than anybody how wicked and cruel human beings are. Just think about the atrocities and brutalities you've witnessed. You know as well as I do that man is evil, Val. In the Balkans alone you've seen men mowing each other down indiscriminately, men who were friends and neighbors once, and doing it without thinking twice. And what about the tortured and maimed we've both photographed?” Bafflement, bewilderment even, had settled on his face.

I felt a cold chill sweep through me as I stared back at him. And then I glanced away, suddenly not wanting to look into Jake's eyes any longer. Everything he said was true. The problem was I didn't want to remember or contemplate any of it. Not today, at any rate. I did not wish to focus on Kosovo and the other horrific wars I'd covered. I just couldn't bear to do so. I was sickened by it all, weary of war and all the killing. I suddenly wondered if I was burnt out; I frowned and sat up straighter in the chair. I had never thought anything like this before. The idea that I could be burnt out scared the hell out of me. And so I pushed the idea away.

I said slowly, “Nothing's changed in the world since medieval times, has it? Man hasn't learned anything, has he, Jake?”

“No. Nor will he ever, Val. Human beings will never be any different, not unless some scientist finds a way to give us all a different type of DNA, give us new genes. We are what we are because of our genes. James Watson discovered that when he discovered DNA. And so over the centuries man has gone on doing the same things over and over again, committing the same acts of cruelty, the same heinous crimes. It's in our genes, it's our nature. I don't think man has altered much since the beginning of time as we know it, since the day he got up on two legs and started to walk upright.”

“Are you saying there's no hope for human beings?”

“That's correct. And there isn't.”

“Let me understand this. You are telling me that as humans we are always going to fight wars, kill each other, commit murder and all manner of horrendous crimes, become child and wife beaters, adulterers, whatever? Is that what you believe, Jake?”

“Absolutely. History has proven to me time and again that it is cyclical . . . it just keeps repeating itself, and Homo sapiens, modern humans, keep repeating themselves over the centuries . . . endlessly . . . because they are humans.”

I studied him intently. Jake was a Rhodes scholar, had read history at Oxford University, and had graduated with very high honors. History was his bailiwick, and he took it very seriously. And so I knew he meant every word.

“That's awful . . .” I said eventually, and then my voice trailed away. I was at a loss, I didn't know what else to say.

Jake smiled at me. “It's just the way it is, Val, and the way it's always been. And will always be. You can't change it. I can't change it. No one can. We are what we are.”

“What a frightening world we live in, when you think about it.”

“That's true, but there's nowhere else to go. I'm afraid we're stuck with planet earth. And anyway, living here is better than the alternative.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Not to be alive at all, Val.”

II

He changed the subject then, and began to tell me about the wonderful dinner he was going to make; later he helped me to clear away the dishes.

We were both stacking the dishwasher in the kitchen, when the phone rang. Jake went to answer it, and I knew at once that it was Simone calling.

I stood next to the dishwasher, looking across at Jake as he picked up the phone.

“Hullo?” he said, and listened for a split second before exclaiming, “That's great, Simone!” He gave me the thumbs-up sign, and went on. “We've been concerned. It's a relief to know that Françoise isn't seriously injured.”

I relaxed against the countertop, and it struck me how worried I'd been for Françoise, a girl I'd never even met and didn't know. But I had grown to like her mother in the time I had been at the villa, and I empathized with Simone. And in any case, violence against women disturbed and alarmed me. Not that I knew there had been any violence in this particular case, but seemingly Simone had her suspicions.

Jake was still listening, but after a moment he said, “Yes, I will, Simone, and please, don't rush back. Do what you have to do. Just attend to Françoise and be sure she's all right before you leave. Au revoir.”

As soon as he hung up, Jake glanced at me and explained, “Simone asked me to thank you for being so nice this morning.”

I nodded. “From what I was hearing, Françoise is okay and she didn't lose the baby, thank God.”

“She is, and no, she didn't miscarry. Apparently Françoise is very bruised and has a sprained ankle, but it wasn't such a bad accident after all. Simone thought she had fallen down the staircase from the second floor, but she'd misunderstood Olivier. Françoise stumbled when she was going down three steps into the pantry. She hit her head against a wall, but there was no concussion, just a big bump on her forehead and some other bruising. But nothing broken, and mother and baby perfectly okay.”

“She was lucky,” I remarked. “How did Simone sound?”

“Strange, I must admit. Uptight. I felt she was still worried in some way.”

“But that's only natural under the circumstances, Jake. Anyway, it's hard to really know what she feels. I've noticed that her English is very . . . precise, I guess that's the best word. But it's also a bit quaint at times. She doesn't always express herself well.”

“She sounds stilted,” Jake said, and laughed. “She learned English from Adelia Roland all those years ago, and I think that's why she sometimes sounds . . . well, a bit old-fashioned, quaint, as you say. But getting back to Françoise, Simone might be overreacting. Perhaps she doesn't like her son-in-law.”

“Did she imply that?”

He shook his head. “No, she didn't. She just said she'd misunderstood, that the fall hadn't been serious. She said she and Armand would come back tonight, but as you heard, I told her not to rush. She'll be calling us tomorrow.”

III

We finished cleaning up the kitchen, and Jake sat down at the countertop to phone his agency in Paris to check for messages and discuss business. Jacques Foucher was Jake's partner, along with Harvey Robinson in New York and Matt Logan in the Far East. The four photographers had started Photoreal some nine years ago, and Jacques ran the Paris office, preferring to be out of the field these days. He and Jake had been close buddies for about twelve years, and Jake relied on Jacques to handle the business end of the the agency in Paris. They employed four other photographers at the bureau, but Jake was the big star.

While he talked on the phone, I sat at the kitchen table turning over the pages of the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune, which Jake had brought back with him from the Nice airport. But I did so halfheartedly, not really interested in the news. Most of it was bad anyway, if the headlines were anything to go by.

I was enjoying being at Les Roches Fleuries. It was like hiding away in a sense, but at this point I needed the break from the turbulent, dangerous, and disturbing world I lived in most of the time. I believe we both did. I was also worried about Jake going out on assignment. His wounds looked as if they had healed, but sometimes he limped badly, and this was cause for concern, I thought. I still had not dared to broach the subject, but I was going to when the opportunity presented itself in the next couple of days.

Eventually Jake hung up and said, “Nothing very important happening at the agency, Val. So I can relax a bit longer here. Well, I guess I'd better give Fiona a call in London.” As he spoke, he was already dialing the number. It rang and rang, and then Jake said, “Hello, Fiona. Jake here. I'm returning your call. I'm in Cap-Ferrat.” He left the number of the villa and signed off with a breezy good-bye.

Looking over at me, he asked, “A machine again. I'm beginning to hate them. Incidentally, have you spoken to Mike Carter?”

“Yes, the other day, when I decided to stay on here with you. I wanted to give him this number. He's still saying I should take my time about going back to work.”

“He's right. Kosovo remains troublesome, but there's not much else for us to cover at the moment, so we might as well take it easy while we can.”

I

“I didn't know it was as steep as this,” Jake said, peering down over the craggy rocks that fell into the sea far below. “It's stupendous here. And what a sheer drop!”

“Don't get so near the edge, it's dangerous!” I exclaimed. “There should be a railing there, somebody could easily fall over the edge.”

“Yup, you're right about that, Val,” Jake said, swinging around, walking over to join me on the wrought-iron bench in my favorite spot. We had been strolling around the garden following a long-drawn-out lunch, and had ended up here.

Now he said, “But I don't think Peter would come to this part of the gardens, or anyone else, for that matter. Only you, Kid, so nobody's in danger of falling off the edge. I'll say this, it's a fabulous view.”

“Yes, you can see for miles.” I moved slightly on the bench, leaned forward, and went on. “Tony loved danger, loved being near the vortex of it—” Abruptly, I stopped speaking, wondering why I had brought up his name. I was mad at myself for doing so.

Jake simply nodded but said nothing at all, as if he also wondered why I had mentioned Tony. I stared into his lean and expressive face, at a sudden loss for words, and forced a small smile.

Then, wanting to change the subject, I found myself blurting out, “Jake, I'm worried about you. I mean about the way you're limping. Don't you think you ought to see a doctor when we get back to Paris?”

“I saw the doctor before we came down here. He said I'm fine, that it's just a matter of time. It's sort of . . . well, I guess it's a slow healing process . . . inside the leg, I mean. Anyway, I don't always limp. Only occasionally.”

“You limp a lot,” I corrected him, giving him a stern and knowing glance.

“Not that much, only when it feels a bit tender.” He took hold of my hand and held it in his. “Stop being such a Jewish mother.” He was laughing as he said this, and then he added, “Please stop fussing, Val honey. Honestly, I'm really okay. Fit and well and on top of my form.”

I shook my head. “I can't help worrying, I care about you. You're my best friend, the only family I have.”

“I'm glad I'm important to you. After all, I care about you very much.”

There was a tender look in his eyes as he said this and a lot of love written across his face, and I was both startled and taken aback. All I could do was nod silently.

Finally, he added, “I hope you're on the mend, that you're not . . . dwelling on Tony and his shenanigans anymore. He's not worth it.”

“Of course I'm not dwelling on him, or the past year! I want to forget it, believe me. Anyway, being here has been wonderful, such a treat, and a great rest for me. I haven't enjoyed myself so much since we were in Beirut. We've always had a lot of fun together, and it's great being with you, Jake.”

“Likewise, Val, I feel the same way.” He stood up, stretched several times, and flexed his arms. Then he announced, “This kind of indolent life of luxury is very addictive. I could easily become accustomed to it.”

“Not you, my friend,” I immediately shot back, glancing up at him, shaking my head knowingly. “You're a war photographer born and bred. You'd miss the action too much, and if anything is addictive, action is.”

“Oh, I don't know . . .” He didn't finish his sentence, just shrugged and leaned against the cedar tree.

“Trust me, I know.” I studied him, my head on one side. “Why did you become a war photographer, Jake? I'm curious about that.”

“Because I wanted to record history . . . when it was actually happening, when history was being made. I didn't want to learn about it after the event, I guess I wanted to be part of it, in one sense. I also wanted to capture the truth on film. I wanted my pictures to do more than merely inform, I needed them to mean something as well. It's a funny thing to say, perhaps, but I thought it was important to make people feel something about war, to make them conscious of its cruelty and viciousness, and also fully aware of its inhumanity. I hoped people would feel compassion for the dead when they saw my photographs. What I mean is, I wanted them to feel strongly about dead strangers, about people they'd never known. I guess I wanted to make them care about those people. Do you understand that, Val?”

“Absolutely, and you wanted to prove that your pictures were meaningful, that they could touch and move people. I hope we both achieve that, Jake, otherwise what we do for a living wouldn't be worth doing, would it?”

“No, it wouldn't. And what about you? I know everything there is to know about you, I think, and yet I don't know why you decided to be a war photographer. You never said.”

“I wanted to be where the action was, in the middle of it, actually. I thought it would be exciting, and let's admit it, there is always that rush of adrenaline when we're in the thick of the fighting. But when I was a child I just enjoyed being behind a camera, I may have been hiding, you know, pretending to be someone else. It's funny, Jake, but I always thought of my camera as being my third eye. Christopher Isherwood wrote I Am a Camera, and I guess I still feel that about myself. I am a camera, and my third eye has always been an accurate eye. It records the truth. I suppose, like you, I'm a seeker of the truth at heart. My grandfather said I was very observant as a child, that I didn't miss a trick when I was growing up, and I'm sure that's true,” I finished, settling back on the bench.

“Being behind a camera, taking pictures of everyone, should have given you a great sense of power as a child,” Jake now said, eyeing me carefully, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Do you think so?” I stared back at him, frowning at this idea.

He nodded. “Sure I do. Haven't you ever thought of it that way? Thought of that aspect of it?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Never.” And this was true, I hadn't ever thought of photography in terms of power over a person, only as a powerful tool with the public.

“You've always told me your parents, especially your mother, didn't pay attention to you, that they weren't concerned about you or what you were doing when you were growing up. I think that must have been a pretty lousy feeling to have, Val.”

He was staring hard at me again, and there was such compassion on his face, I was touched by his empathy and concern. He really was a true friend and a good person. I wondered suddenly what I would have done without him in my life.

Jake continued. “Think of how powerful it must have been for you, as a child, to have a camera in your hands, recording everyone, having their images on your reel of film. It gave you an advantage, don't you think, Val?”

“I guess so, yes, I guess you're right, but I never thought of it in that way.” I laughed. “Still, it's true I was never without my camera, Jake. I shot everything from the dog throwing up to Donald the Great stealing cigarettes from my father's cigarette case—”

I stopped with sudden abruptness and looked up. A large spot of rain had just hit my arm. I saw at once that the sky had turned a cold, steely gray and yet there was a curious luminosity behind that grayness. It was an ominous sky that threatened bad weather. I was wondering if a mistral was about to blow up, when the rain started to pelt down.

“I have a feeling there's going to be a helluva storm,” I exclaimed, getting to my feet. “Come on, Jake, we'd better get going.”

Together we hurried up the path through the gardens, and within seconds we were running as fast as we could. The rain was falling in torrents, and it was a heavy, slashing rain that drenched us through to the skin. As we ran past the swimming pool and up the steps to the terrace, there was a loud crack of thunder. Flashes of lightning were illuminating the darkening afternoon sky, and I felt the cool touch of the mistral blowing over my body as we stumbled on toward the villa.

II

By the time Jake dragged me into the kitchen, we were both sodden to the skin. Water ran off us and pooled around our feet on the terra-cotta floor.

Grabbing hold of the kitchen towel, he dabbed my face with it.

“Hey, stop!” I cried. “It's a dirty towel, Jake.”

“Sorry.” He started to laugh as he grabbed the roll of paper towels, tore some off, and reached for me again.

I backed away, holding up my hands, laughing with him. “We need proper towels,” I told him, pushing my wet hair out of my face. “We're both soaked.”

Without a word Jake dashed through the kitchen door; I struggled out of my dripping voile shirt and threw it on the floor, then stepped out of my ruined sandals.

A second later Jake was back with an armful of towels. After cocooning me in a large bath sheet, he picked up a smaller towel and began to rub my hair. Snatching up a towel myself, I leaned forward to do the same to him. In the process of drying each other off, we were becoming a tangle of arms and towels; Jake couldn't stop laughing, and neither could I.

III

The laughter died in us both at precisely the same moment.

All of a sudden Jake and I were very sober, gazing at each other intently, motionless and silent in the middle of the kitchen. We might have been struck by the lightning bouncing off the windows outside. Maybe we had been.

After a prolonged moment of total silence, Jake took a jerky step backward, and he seemed about to say something. Apparently he changed his mind, since he remained mute, but his eyes were very intense and most revealing.

He did not need to say anything to me. What he was thinking was written not only in his eyes but all over his face. Desire and longing were etched there . . . for the first time in our friendship I finally understood how much he cared about me as a woman.

As for me, I had the oddest feeling I was sloughing off a dead skin, shedding forever my old self. Even the events of the past year tumbled away from me as if they had never happened. I experienced a sense of enormous liberation.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, mesmerized by his unblinking blue gaze, and unexpected desire flared in me. This startled me. I realized I was seeing Jake Newberg differently, in a way I had never seen him before, not as my comrade-in-arms or my best friend, but as a man I desired sexually and with whom I wanted to make the most passionate love.

I took a step toward him, every part of me wanting him now. I was certain he felt the same.

At exactly the same moment, as if he had read my mind, he was moving toward me, reaching out for me.

I stepped into his arms, and I knew as I did so that this was where I belonged, had always belonged. He clung to me, and I held on to him tightly, wondering if he could hear the thundering of my heart.

Eventually he tilted my face to his, looking deeply into my eyes, impaling me with his. Again his expression told me everything I needed to know, and it was confirmation of what I was feeling for him. He brought his mouth down to mine and kissed me gently, tenderly, at first. But almost instantly his passion spiraled upward, and he began to kiss me with greater urgency and an eagerness that inflamed me further.

I found myself responding to him with a rush of ardor, my hands pressing on the back of his neck, reaching up into his hair. My body cleaved to his; I felt the light touch of his tongue on mine, seeking, seeking. He ran his hands down my back and onto my buttocks, pulled me tighter to him, pressed me closer. Clinging together in this way, we shared a moment of total and complete intimacy I had never known before.

It was then I knew that I was his, would always be his. Perhaps I'd even been his from the first moment we'd met without my knowing it.

There was a sudden stillness about Jake now as he murmured softly against my neck, “Come on, Val, come with me. Let's be together.”

IV

Arms around each other, we moved out of the kitchen, climbed the stairs, and went into his bedroom. Outside the huge window the sky was dark, almost as black as night, and the rain slashed down against the glass, driven hard by the wind.

Jake closed the door behind us with one hand without letting go of me and led me over to the bed. “Take this off,” he muttered, touching my wet swimsuit. Stepping away from me, he swiftly shed his soaking trousers and shirt.

He wrapped the bath sheet he had brought upstairs around his waist, picked up the one I'd dropped on the floor, and tied it on me toga-style. Without a word we lay down next to each other. Neither of us spoke. My heart was racing.

Suddenly Jake raised himself on one elbow and gazed down at me.

My eyes stayed on his face expectantly.

“I never thought this would happen. I've waited so long for you, Val,” he said in a quiet voice thick with emotion, and his face was congested with desire.

“Oh, Jake, I—”

He cut me off. “Don't say anything. Not now.”

It was apparent he had an overwhelming physical need for me, as I did for him, and we reached out, clutched at each other, devoured each other with our mouths. Our tongues grazed, touched, caressed, and then lay still. Unexpectedly, Jake pulled away from me, tugged at the towel knotted around me. It fell open, and he brought his mouth to my neck and then my breast. He sucked on my nipple and at the same time he was stroking my inner thigh.

I could feel his mounting excitement. His heart was slamming against mine and I held him tighter, pressing my hands on his back and his shoulder blades. I moved my fingers up onto the nape of his neck, and they were strong and supple against his skin.

When we broke away at last, we were gasping, out of breath.

“My beautiful Val,” he murmured, and leaned over me, his fingers seeking to know me fully. I stiffened as he touched the core of me, and he whispered, “Relax, darling, let me love you like this.” And he slid down the bed, rested his head against my thigh, and eventually his mouth joined his fingers in his search for the center of my womanhood. I found myself relaxing as he had asked, and I opened myself up to him completely. It seemed to me that I floated away on waves of ecstasy of a kind I'd never known before. And then at that moment he pulled himself on top of me and took me to him. “Mine,” he said. “You're mine now.”

We made love for a long time, absorbed in each other and our bodies. I was reeling from amazement, startled by the passionate and erotic feelings he aroused in me, and reveling in them as well.

Finally spent and exhausted, our desire for each other sated at last, we lay still and unmoving on the bed. Half groaning, half sighing, Jake eventually slid off me and flopped against the pillows. “Oh God, Val,” he muttered, and then he reached for my hand and held it tightly before bringing it up to his lips and kissing it with tenderness.

Then suddenly he was half on me again, flinging one leg and part of his body over mine, pulling me closer to him. “I'm never going to let you go. Not ever, Val.”