Where You Belong (5 page)

I

London, September
With a great deal of effort, I had managed to put the memorial service out of my mind for the past few days, but now that Jake and I were about to depart for it, I was experiencing sudden panic. The service loomed large in my mind, and, very simply, I just didn't want to go. In fact, my reluctance had become so acute, it startled me. Later I was to ask myself if I'd had some sixth sense about it, a foreboding of trouble, but I wasn't sure; I can never be certain about that.

In any event, there I stood, waiting for Jake in the handsome paneled lobby of the Milestone, wondering how to gracefully wriggle out of going. Naturally, I couldn't. It was far too late to pull such a trick as that, and besides, I would never let Jake down.

Turning away from the front door, I spotted Jake coming toward me looking tan and healthy and very smart in his dark suit, and wearing a shirt and tie for a change. But his expression was as somber as his dark clothes, and he was limping as badly as he had the day before when we'd arrived at Heathrow in a thunderstorm.

He drew to a standstill, but I didn't dare mention the limp or ask him how he felt, since he'd practically bitten my head off last night when I'd worried out loud about his wounds. Instead, I took hold of his arm, leaned into him, and kissed his cheek.

He gave me a faint smile and said, “Sorry I kept you waiting. Now we're running late, so we'd better get going.”

The heavens opened up the moment Jake and I started to walk down the front steps of the hotel. The uniformed doorman hurried after us, wielding a large umbrella, and the two of us huddled under it as he led us to the waiting chauffeur-driven car Jake had ordered.

Once we were seated in the car, Jake said quietly, “It'll be all right, Val, try not to worry so much. It'll soon be over.” Reaching out, he took hold of my hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Being a very private person, especially when it came to my feelings, I'd never worn my emotions on my sleeve. And so I preferred to grieve for Tony in my own way, in the quiet of my home, not in a public place like the Brompton Oratory, although it was apparently a very beautiful Roman Catholic church—the Vatican of London, was the way someone had once described it to me years ago.

After a few minutes of staring out at the rain-sodden streets, as the car plowed its way through the heavy London traffic, I turned away from the window. Taking a cue from Jake, who was huddled in the corner of the seat with his eyes closed, I did the same thing. And I did not open them until the car slid to a standstill outside the church.

I sat up, smoothed one hand over my hair, which I'd sleeked back into a neat chignon, and straightened the jacket of my black suit. Then I took a deep breath and made up my mind to get through the service with quiet dignity, and as much composure as I could muster.

II

There was such a crowd of people going into the Brompton Oratory, it was hard to pick out friends and colleagues, or recognize anyone at a quick glance, for that matter. Everyone was dressed in black or other somber colors, and faces were etched with solemnity or sorrow, or both.

I had wisely clamped on a pair of sunglasses before exiting the car, and these made me feel as if I were incognito, and also protected, if not actually invisible. Nonetheless, despite the concealing dark glasses, I clutched Jake's arm as we mingled with the others filing sedately into the church.

We had just entered, when I felt someone behind me tap me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced around to find myself staring into the lovely face of Nicky Wells, the Paris bureau chief of ATN, the most successful of all the American cable news networks.

She and I had been together in Tiananmen Square in Beijing when the students had demonstrated against the Chinese government. That had been in 1989, and Nicky had been very helpful to me, since I was a beginner at the time. Fifteen years older than I, she had frequently taken me under her wing when I was such a novice.

We had remained friends ever since those early days and would occasionally socialize in Paris. Standing next to Nicky was her husband Clee Donovan, another renowned war photographer, who had founded the agency Image some years ago. After the birth of their first child, Nicky had left the field as a war correspondent, deeming it wiser and safer to remain in Paris, covering local stories.

Jake and Clee had been good friends for many years, bonded as American expats, war photographers, and also as winners of the Robert Capa Award. This prize had been established in 1955, just after Capa's death, by Life magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America, and was awarded for “the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise.”

I knew that both men treasured this particular award as their proudest possession, Capa being a god to them, indeed to all of us in the business of being photo-journalists covering wars.

The four of us hung back and spoke for a few moments about Tony and the sadness of the occasion, and then we arranged to make a date for dinner once we were all in Paris at the same time and for more than a couple of days.

As we began to move again, it was Clee who said, “We can't go to the wake afterward, Jake. Nicky and I have to head back to Paris immediately after the service ends. Are you going?” He looked from Jake to me.

I was so taken aback, I couldn't speak.

Jake cleared his throat, rather nervously I thought, and muttered something I didn't quite catch. Then he added, “We're in the same situation as you, Clee, we've got to get back too. Commitments to meet. But we might drop in for a few minutes, just to pay our respects.”

Nothing else was said, since the four of us were suddenly being edged forward by the throngs pressing in behind us. I held on to Jake's hand, but in the crush we became separated from Nicky and Clee. And a second or two later we found ourselves being ushered down one of the aisles and into a pew by a church official.

Once we were seated, I grabbed Jake's arm ferociously, pulled him closer to me, and hissed, “You never told me anything about a wake.”

“I thought it better not to, at least not until we got here,” he admitted in a whisper.

“Who's giving the wake?” I demanded, but kept my voice low, endeavoring to curb my anger with him.

“Rory and Moira.” He glanced at me swiftly, and again nervously cleared his throat. “I have the distinct feeling we won't be going, will we, Val?”

“You bet we won't,” I snapped.

III

It was just as well other people came into our pew at this precise moment, because it prevented a continuation of our conversation, which could have easily spiraled out of hand.

I was furious with Jake for not telling me about the wake before then, not to mention irritated with myself for not anticipating that there would be one.

Tony, after all, had been Irish; on the other hand, a wake was usually held after a funeral and not a memorial, wasn't it? But the Irish were the Irish, with their own unique rules and rituals, and apparently a wake today was deemed in order, perhaps because the funeral had been held in Ireland. A wake was an opportunity for family and friends to get together, to comfort each other, to reminisce and remember, and to celebrate the one who had died. I was fully aware I wouldn't be able to face the gathering. Coming on top of the memorial, it would be too much for me to handle. What I couldn't understand was why Jake didn't realize this.

The sound of organ music echoed through the church, and I glanced around surreptitiously. Here and there among the crowd I caught glimpses of familiar faces—of those we had worked with over the past couple of years. There were also any number of famous photographers and journalists, as well as a few celebrities, none of whom I knew, but instantly recognized because of their fame.

It was an enormous turnout, and Tony would have been gratified and pleased to know that so many friends and members of his profession had come to remember him, to honor him today.

I went on peering about me, hoping to see Rory. I felt quite positive that I would recognize him, since Tony had shown me so many photographs of his son, and of his daughter, Moira. They were nowhere to be seen, yet they had to be there. It struck me then that they would be sitting in the front pew, facing the altar, and that was out of my line of vision.

I sat back, bowed my head, and tuned myself in to the organ music. It was mournful but oddly soothing. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I was filled with relief that I was keeping my feelings in check. Well, for the moment at least.

When the organ music stopped, I opened my eyes at once and saw a priest standing in front of the altar. Immediately, he began to pray for Tony's soul, and we all knelt to pray with him and then we rose automatically and sat in our seats again. The priest continued to speak, this time about Tony and his life and all that he had done with it, and what he had accomplished.

And I took refuge by sinking down into myself, only half listening, absently drifting along with the proceedings, and endeavoring to remain uninvolved. Instinctively, I was scared to be a participant for fear of making a fool of myself by displaying too much emotion or weeping. Yet, tears had risen to the surface, were rapidly gathering behind my eyes, and I struggled desperately to control myself.

Soon the priest drew to a close and glided over to one side of the altar, and as if from far, far away a lone choirboy's voice rang out. It was an extraordinary voice, a high-pitched soprano that seemed to emanate from the very rafters of the church. The voice was so pure, so thrilling, it sent chills down my spine, and I sat up straighter and listened, enraptured.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him.
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him . . .

Hearing the young choirboy singing so beautifully literally undid me. My mouth began to tremble uncontrollably, and as my face crumpled, I covered it with my hand. I shrank into the corner of the pew and discovered, a split second later, that I wasn't able to quell the tears. They rolled down my cheeks unchecked, slipping out from under my dark glasses and dropping down onto my hand, which was clutching the lapel of my jacket.

Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer, wanting to comfort me. Leaning against him gratefully, I swallowed hard, compressed my lips, and finally managed to get my swimming senses under control. The ballad came to an end at last, and that lilting soprano was finally silent. I hoped there would not be too much of this kind of thing, because I knew it would be unbearable for me.

But of course there was more. First Tony's brother Niall eulogized him; he was followed by Tony's oldest friend in the business, Eddie Marsden, the photo editor at Tony's agency, who spoke at length. And finally, it was Rory who was standing there in the pulpit, looking for all the world like a young Tony, strong and courageous in his grief. He had inherited his father's handsome Black Irish looks, his mannerisms, and his voice was so similar, it was like listening to Tony himself speaking.

Rory's words came truly from the heart, were eloquent and moving. He reminded us of Tony's great charm and his talent as a photographer, of his modesty and his lack of conceit, of his abhorrence of violence, his humanity, and his condemnation of the wars he covered. Rory talked of his father's Irish roots, his love of Ireland and of family. He spoke so lovingly about his father, I felt the tears rising in my throat once more.

Rory went on. “He was too young a man to die . . . and yet he died doing what he loved the most, recording history in the making. And perhaps there's no better way to die than doing that, doing what you love the most. . . .”

But he could have lived a long life, I thought as young Rory's voice continued to wash over me. If he hadn't taken such terrible risks, none of us would be here today grieving over him. The instant these thoughts formed, I hated myself for thinking them. But it was the truth.