Where You Belong

  “Capa was killed in 1954, on May twenty-fifth, actually. And of course within hours, news of his death spread around the world. Steinbeck, who was a good friend of Capa’s, was in Paris when he heard. He was so shaken up, he went out and walked the streets for fourteen hours straight. I guess he just couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t sit still. He had to be on the move. And you’re doing something very similar, but you’re doing it every day, Val.”

  “No, I’m not, I don’t walk the streets for fourteen hours!”

  Jake sighed and said nothing, just gave me one of those penetrating looks of his that always made me reexamine everything I said to him. I shrugged, and finally admitted, “Okay, you’re right, I guess I am doing the same thing. And you did tell me the story. It was on one of those days when you were ticked off with Tony because you thought he was too reckless. You were comparing him to Capa.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Jake sat up straighter and gave me a hard stare. “Capa wasn’t reckless in the way that Tony was. Those who knew Capa always said he was very cautious. Don’t forget, he was an expert when it came to taking calculated risks. When he went to Indochina, it was his fifth war, and only a photojournalist of his great experience would know how to properly calculate when something was truly dangerous or not. From what I know about him, he measured the risks, especially when he had to walk across exposed areas, and he was always cautious, did not take risks unnecessarily. But if he saw the possibility of a great photograph and there was a calculated risk, then he took the risk. Tony just rushed in without—” He cut himself off and took a swallow of his wine, obviously feeling disloyal.

  “Without thinking,” I finished for him, stood up, and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get the bottle of wine,” I answered. When I came back, I filled his goblet, and then mine, and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table. “What about the memorial service?” I said, getting right to the heart of the matter. “Do you know when it is?”

  “Next week. On Tuesday.”

  “I see. Where’s it being held?”

  “At the Brompton Oratory at eleven o’clock.”

  I was silent, looked down at the drink in my hands.

  Jake said, “I’ve booked us in at the Milestone in Kensington. I know you like that hotel.”

  I nodded. He had surprised me with the information about the memorial. Events seemed to be moving more quickly than I’d anticipated, and I wasn’t prepared at all. Only four days away. And then I’d be sitting there among all of his friends and colleagues, many of them my colleagues, in fact, and listening to the world talk about the man I was still grieving. I was suddenly appalled at the idea, and I sat back jerkily.

  Jake was telling me something else, and I blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. He was saying, “I’ve spoken to Clee Donovan, and he’s definitely going to be there, and I’ve left messages for the Turnley brothers. I know they’ll come too if they’re able.”

  I gazed at him blankly. I was feeling overwhelmed, and the prospect of going to London frightened me, filled me with tension and anxiety.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

  I swallowed. “I’m . . . dreading it. There’ll be so many people there,” I said.

  Jake made no response for a split second, and then he said, “I know what you mean, but let’s be glad and proud that so many people want to celebrate Tony’s life. Because that’s what a memorial is, Val, a celebration that the person was ever alive. We are showing our gratitude that Tony was born and was among us for as long as he was.”

  “Yes.”

  He got up and came and sat next to me on the sofa, took hold of my hand in the most loving way. “I know it’s tough . . . but he’s dead, Val, and you’ve got to accept that because—”

  “I do,” I cut in, my voice rising slightly.

  “You’ve got to get yourself busy, start working. You can’t just . . . drift like this.”

  I stared at him. There he was, being bossy again in that particular very macho way of his, and before I could stop myself, I exclaimed, “You’ve not done very much yourself since we came back from Belgrade.” And I could have bitten my tongue off as soon as these dreadful words left my mouth; I felt the flush of embarrassment rising from my neck to flood my face.

  “I wish I had been able to work, but my leg’s been pretty bad, and it’s taken longer to heal than I expected.”

  I was furious with myself. “I’m sorry, Jake, I shouldn’t have said that. I know your injuries were more severe than mine. I’m so thoughtless.”

  “No, you’re not, and, listen, let’s make a pact right now. To help each other go forward from where we are tonight, to get ourselves moving. Let’s get started again, Val, let’s pick up our cameras and get on with the job.”

  “I don’t think I could go back to Kosovo.”

  “God, I wasn’t meaning that! I don’t want to go there either, but there are other things we can cover as well as wars.”

  “But we’re best known for doing that,” I reminded him.

  “We can pick and choose our assignments, Val darling.”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  Jake’s eyes changed, turned darker blue, became reflective, and after a moment he adroitly changed the subject, remarked, “I’ve booked us on a plane to London on Monday night, okay?”

  I simply nodded. Reaching for my glass, I took a sip of wine, then put the glass down and exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, “Tell me about your trip to the South of France.”

  “It was really great, Val, I wish you’d been with me—” Jake stopped and glanced at the phone as it started to ring.

  I extracted my hand from his, got up, and went to the small desk on which it stood. “Hullo?”

  VI

  To my utter amazement, it was my brother, Donald, calling from New York, and I sat down heavily. I was flummoxed at hearing his voice, although after we’d exchanged greetings, I quickly pulled myself together and listened to what he had to say. Donald had always been tricky; deviousness was second nature to him.

  Once he had finished his long speech, I said, “I just can’t get away right now. I have to go to London next week, to a memorial service for a colleague, and I’ve also got loads of assignments stacking up.”

  I listened again as patiently as possible, and once more I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t make the trip at this time. And listen, I really can’t stay on the phone, I have guests and I’ve got to go. Thanks for calling.” In his typical selfish fashion, determined to get all his points across, Donald went on blabbering at me, and short of banging the receiver down rudely, I had no option but to hear him out. When he finally paused for breath, I saw my opportunity and jumped in, repeated that I could not leave Europe under any circumstances for the time being. After saying a quick good-bye, I hung up.

  Returning to the sofa, I sat down and said, “What a nerve! I can’t believe he called me!”

  “Who? And what did he call you about to get you so heated up?”

  I turned toward Jake and explained. “It was my brother, Donald, calling from New York. To tell me my mother’s not well. I should say his mother, because she’s never been a mother to me. He wanted me to fly to New York. What cheek!”

  “What’s wrong with her? Is she very sick?”

  I saw the frown, the baffled, almost confused look in his eyes, and I instantly realized that he’d never truly understood the relationship I’d had with my mother. But then, how could he understand when I couldn’t either. From what Jake had told me about himself during the years we’d known each other, he came from a marvelously warm, loving, close-knit Jewish family, and he had been raised with a lot of love, understanding, and tremendous support from his parents, grandparents, and sisters. Whereas I’d been an orphan within the bosom of the Denning family. If it hadn’t been for my father’s parents, and Grandfather in particular, I would have withered away and died a young death from emoti
onal deprivation. I asked myself then why I even thought in terms of having a relationship with Mother, because there had never been a relationship between us.

  Iceberg Aggie, my grandfather had called her, and he had often wondered out loud to me what his son, my father, had ever seen in her. She had been very beautiful, of course. Still was, in all probability, although I hadn’t seen her for years, not since my Beirut days.

  Cutting into my thoughts, Jake asked me again, “Is your mother very ill, Val?”

  “Donald didn’t really explain. All he said was that she wasn’t well and that she had told him she wanted to see me. He was relaying the message for her. But it can’t be anything serious, or he would have told me. Donald’s her pet, Jake, and very much under her thumb. Still, he never fools around with the truth when it comes to her well-being, or anything to do with her. He’d definitely have told me if there were real problems, I’ve no doubts about that.”

  “Maybe she wants to make amends,” Jake suggested, and raised a brow as he added, “A rapprochement perhaps?”

  I shook my head vehemently. “No way. She hasn’t given a damn about me for thirty-one years. And I’m not going to New York.”

  “You could phone her.”

  “There’s nothing to say, Jake. I told you about her years ago.” I bit my lip and shook my head slowly. “I can’t feel anything for a woman who has never felt anything for me.”

  Jake did not respond, and a long silence fell between us. But at last he said quietly and with some compassion, “Jesus, Val, I’ve never been able to understand her attitude toward you. It seems so unnatural for a mother not to love her child. I mean, what could she possibly have had against a newborn baby?”

  “Beats me,” I answered, and lifted my shoulders in a light shrug. “My Denning grandparents could never fathom it either, and as far as my mother’s mother was concerned, I really didn’t know her very well. My grandmother Violet Scott was an enigma to me, and she avoided me.” I laughed harshly. “I used to think I was illegitimate when I was younger, and that my mother had become pregnant by another man before she married my father. But the dates were all wrong, they didn’t jell, because she’d been married to my father for over a year when I was born.”

  “Maybe she slept with somebody else after she married your father,” Jake suggested.

  “I’ve thought of that as well, but I look too much like my grandmother Cecelia Denning when she was my age. Grandfather always commented on it.”

  I jumped up, opened the bottom desk drawer, and took out a cardboard box. Carrying it over to the sofa, I handed it to Jake. “Take a look at these,” I said as I sat down next to him again.

  He did so, staring for a few minutes at the old photographs of my grandmother that he had removed from the box. “Yes, you’re a Denning all right, and a dead ringer for Cecelia. If it weren’t for her old-fashioned clothes, she could be you as you are today.” He shuffled through the other photographs in the box and chuckled. “I took this one!” he cried, waving a picture of me at me.

  “Hey, let me see that!”

  Still laughing, he handed it to me. I couldn’t help smiling myself as I stared back at my own image. There I was in all my glory, standing outside the Commodore Hotel in Beirut, which is where I’d first set eyes on Jake. I was wearing my safari jacket and pants, and a collection of assorted cameras were slung haphazardly around my neck. It was obvious from my solemn expression that I took myself very seriously indeed. I was looking too self-important for words, and I gave a mock shudder. “I must have really fancied myself, but God, how awful I looked in those days.”

  “No, you were the most gorgeous thing on two legs I’d ever seen!” he exclaimed, and then stopped with suddenness; a startled expression crossed his face, as if he had surprised himself with his words. Clearing his throat, Jake returned to the conversation about my mother when he said, “It is very odd, Val, the way your mother has always treated you. With all of your accomplishments, she should be proud of you.”

  I sighed and made a small moue with my mouth. “It’s a mystery. And one I have no intention of solving. I just can’t be bothered. Now, how about taking me to dinner?”

  Chapter 4

  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 w
as 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.