Remember

With billowing laughter and perpetual smiles, Amelia had ushered Nicky inside the farmhouse, and had insisted on showing her around before taking her upstairs to her quarters.

They had started out in the kitchen, obviously Amelia’s favourite spot in the entire house, and she was apparently proud of it.

The room was large, painted white, and had dark wood beams on the ceiling, terracotta tiles on the floor. A massive stone fireplace took up an end wall; to the side of this stood a big oven, and several marble-topped counters for baking and food preparation were set under the three windows. Placed on these were flat woven baskets brimming with local produce. One held a selection of fruit - apples, oranges, pears, plums, peaches, apricots, cherries and grapes; the other overflowed with vegetables - carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beans, artichokes and peas. Ropes of onions and garlic, and bunches of the herbs of Provence swung from a ceiling beam, and the lovely aroma of marjoram, rosemary and thyme wafted to her on the air.

A round table stood in the centre of the kitchen, covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth to match the neat little tied-back curtains at the windows, and taking pride of place on the far wall was an antique baker’s rack made of black wrought-iron trimmed with brass. It had been stacked with a variety of copper pots and pans that glittered and winked in the sunlight, while on the wall opposite a series of built-in shelves displayed colourful pottery platters, plates, soup bowls and double-sized café-au-lait cups and saucers.

The dining room opened off the kitchen, and these two rooms flowed into each other, were visually linked through the use of the same terracotta floor tiles, white-painted walls and ceiling beams.

Here there was a big, old-fashioned fireplace and hearth made of the local cream-coloured stone and stacked with logs for the winter, and a window at each end of the room filled it with light. A country feeling had been created by the long oak dining table, high-backed chairs and carved sideboard. Floating over the table was a rustic black-iron chandelier, and running down the centre of the table was a collection of brass candlesticks holding thick white candles. Huge bowls of flowers in the centre of the table and on the sideboard brought touches of vivid colour to the rather simply furnished room.

Hurrying forward, Amelia had next shown her out into the main hall, and had opened a door into a small downstairs sitting room. Highly polished cream flagstones gleamed on the floor, the walls were painted a soft butter yellow, and two sofas covered in cream linen faced each other in front of a small fireplace. Wood occasional tables were scattered around, and two tall pottery lamps with cream shades stood on antique chests on either side of the chimney. A table under the window held all the latest magazines from around the world, copies of Life and Paris Match being much in evidence, as well as Time and Newsweek.

‘Now we shall go upstairs?’ Amelia had said to her, swinging around and guiding her back to the front hall. Nicky had dutifully followed her up a white stone staircase, broad and curved, which stopped on a square landing.

On either side of this were the library and the main living room. Both were painted white, had soaring fireplaces, pale wood floors and flat woven rugs from Morocco.

The living room was decorated with French country furniture in the Provençal style, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in cream, café-au-lait and caramel-coloured fabrics. Again, masses of flowers introduced vivid colour everywhere, and Nicky had an instant impression of air and light and spaciousness, and the most marvellous sense of tranquillity.

Across the landing, the library was lined with books and furnished with two overstuffed sofas covered in melon-coloured cotton. Clee had created an audio-visual centre in one corner, using the most up-to-date equipment: a large-screen television, video player, tape deck, compact disc player. Stereo speakers were positioned high on the bookshelves.

‘This is Monsieur Clee’s room, he likes it the best, I think,’ Amelia had informed her, nodding her head. She had then pointed her finger at the ceiling, and announced, ‘One more flight, Mademoiselle. Allons!’

The two of them had gone out onto the large landing and climbed up a narrower flight of white stone steps to the bedroom floor.

Nicky had discovered that she had her own suite under the eaves: a bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room. The latter were quaint, and charmingly decorated, again with lots of white, cream and caramel. Several good wooden pieces were set against the walls of the sitting room and an antique armoire and a chest graced the bedroom; with only a cursory glance, she had noticed that a great deal of care had been taken, and every comfort had been provided.

‘I will bring up your cases,’ Amelia had said, after showing her around, opening the armoire doors, sliding out drawers in the chest. ‘And please, Mademoiselle Nicky, you must tell me if there is anything else you need. Monsieur Clee will be angry if I do not look after you properly.’

‘Thank you very much, Amelia,’ Nicky had answered, smiling. ‘I’m sure I have everything. And thank you for the grand tour.’

‘Ah, it is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ Amelia had answered with a smile, before disappearing down the stairs.

This conversation had taken place only four days ago, but already Nicky was beginning to feel rested. The farmhouse and the surrounding grounds had had a soothing effect on her, and she was more tranquil than she had been for a long time. She had slept better than she usually did, and had relaxed completely in this peaceful environment.

Her days were slow, lazy, without pressure, and she had done nothing more complicated than walk around the grounds and the woods close by, and swum in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, and Amelia’s delicious cooking had done her good; in the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, although mostly she had found herself tuning into CNN, being such a news addict.

According to Guillaume, Clee had recently installed cable to pick up the American news network. ‘For his work, you know, Mademoiselle,’ Guillaume had found it necessary to add, and she had turned away to hide the small, amused smile that had touched her lips.

Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron pressé, took a long swallow, enjoying the tart taste of the lemonade.

It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearable. Amelia had told her only this morning that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blistering was the word she had used. Then Amelia had suddenly launched into a little histoire about the Mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing with it havoc. It came whistling down to the south from the Rhône Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelia, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the Mistral.

‘Animals can go mad. And people,’ she had confided somewhat dolorously as she had poured Nicky a second cup of café-au-lait. ‘It causes migraine. And la grippe. And toothache. And earache. And sometimes in winter it can blow for as long as three weeks. It destroys property! Uproots trees and flings tiles off the roofs! Quel vent!’ And then with a typical Gallic shrug she had hurried off to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot and warm up more milk for Nicky.

Just as Clee had suggested she would, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelia. The housekeeper was small, stocky, and obviously a very strong woman physically, undeniably Mediterranean with blue-black hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nutbrown complexion. Forever laughing and smiling, and always in a high good humour, she went through the farmhouse doing her vast number of chores like a whirlwind. Or the Mistral perhaps. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, baked bread and cakes and tarts, prepared the most wonderful meals, and arranged the beautiful vases of flowers and the decorative baskets of fruit that were all around the house.

Like Amelia, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry with a weatherbeaten face from being outdoors, jet-black hair spreckled with grey, and kindly, humorous brown eyes. Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigour and enthusiasm as his wife.

He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool, kept the garden and the orchard spruce, and attended to the little vineyard. This stretched out behind the farmhouse, and covered about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelia, with some local hired help, picked the grapes, kegged the wine and bottled it.

‘Some of it is sold. Some we keep for ourselves. And for Monsieur Clee, naturellement,’ he had explained to her when he had taken her around the property yesterday, pointing out many of its distinctive features.

Amelia and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris, of whom they were very proud; Nicky had already heard rave notices about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were frequently pressed into service at the farm whenever Clee had more than one guest.

When Clee had called from Moscow, on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelia and Guillaume as the salt of the earth. Now she knew exactly what he meant. They were devoted to him, took care of the farmhouse and the land as if they themselves were the owners. The house they lived in adjoined the main farmhouse and was entered through a door opening off the kitchen. It was built of the same local stone, pale beige in colour and weathered by the years, and had an identical red-tiled roof, heavy wooden shutters and doors painted gleaming white.

Both houses were visible to her from the pool area where she was sitting, and it seemed to her that they appeared to grow up out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. And in a sense, they were. The farm and its out-buildings were a hundred and fifty years old, so Guillaume had told her, and they did look as if they had been there forever.

Everything about the farm fascinated Nicky; 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 not able to come here as often as he would like. 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 troubled and turbulent world.

Nicky stayed outside until almost six o’clock, enjoying the changing light as the sun slowly began to sink down behind the rim of the distant dark hills. 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 during every day. His whereabouts were unknown, and this was the only thing marring her stay here. She and Clee had looked hard for him in Beijing before they had left for Hong Kong. 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, that he had not been arrested.

She and the crew and Clee had hung around Hong Kong for several days, hoping he 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, as had Arch and Clee. She could only hope that he 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 resisted, knowing that a letter from a Western journalist could easily create untold problems for him. Who knew whether the mail was censored or not? In her opinion, it most probably was 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, trying to set aside her worries about Yoyo. She was helpless. There was nothing she could do except pray he was still safe, and that he would find a way to escape to the West.

SEVEN

The 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 wide awake, 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 for her, 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 it had brought that scream to her lips. 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 wide awake 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 round-up of international news was finished, and the programming changed to a local American story about farmers in the midwest, her mind began to wander. Not unnaturally, she discovered she was focusing on the nightmare she had just had. It had been awful, and try as she did to shake it off, it remained so vivid it was still dominating 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 it and looked down she saw an oasis below. Feeling 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 splattered with mud and blood. It was Life. She picked it up, leafed through it, and came across a picture of Clee. The caption said he was dead, killed in action while he was 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 frightened, and turned icy even though it was so hot under the desert sun. She got up and began to run, looking for Clee. She had this feeling that he was somewhere nearby. And alive.

She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert. She was wearing 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 towards 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 leapt forward, running. She ran, too, but stumbled. When she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him amongst the dead soldiers. But she could not find him. There were miles and miles of dead bodies, and everything 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. She drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux. She turned and ran away, stumbling and falling against the dead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnage. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothes. They were covered in warm, sticky blood from the dead. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair at not finding Clee 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 with Clee. It was abandoned. She looked towards the dark-blue sea. Not far out she saw a body floating. It was Clee. He beckoned to her. He was alive! She rushed into the water. It was icy but curiously thick like oil, so that swimming was tedious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.

Clee smiled and held out his hand to her. She reached for it. Their fingers were inches apart. She struggled to grasp his hand. And then his body sank into the sea.

At this moment the dream had ended and she had awakened because someone had screamed. It had been her, she knew that. Nicky shuddered. Goose flesh sprang up on her face and arms, and she pulled the robe around her, feeling suddenly so cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, reached for the Marc de Bourgogne. The label rang a bell. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France. With a small grimace she put the bottle down on the silver tray, then immediately picked it up again, poured herself a small glass and, taking a sip of it, she slowly walked back to the sofa.

Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her recent nightmare was simply a manifestation of things jostling around 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 analyse her dream. She knew very well what it meant: firstly she was afraid that Yoyo was dead. Secondly, she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might one day be killed.

It’s all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of the marc. Both men had been on her mind lately, and were therefore at the forefront of her thoughts.

But why had Charles Devereaux been part of the nightmare? She had no answer for herself … but, yes, of course she did. Several times in the last few days he had insinuated himself into her thoughts, for the simple reason that she was in France, where he had travelled often, buying wine for his importing company. And where they had spent those two weeks together before he had chosen to vacate her life.

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

EIGHT

Clee stood staring at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office, an expression of deep concentration on his face.

After a couple of minutes studying the pictures, he turned to Jean-Claude Roche, who ran his photo agency, Image, and nodded. ‘I think you’re onto a winner, and the pictures are good, Jean-Claude. 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 world-class photographer around here, there’s more work than we can handle right now.’

Jean-Claude 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. It’s brilliant. Let’s move on. Do you have anything else to go over with me?’

Jean-Claude 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 which lay on the light box and handed them to Jean-Claude.

‘Thanks,’ Jean-Claude 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 and Mrs B?’

‘They have not said, Clee. 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.’ Jean-Claude crossed the floor to the door, 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 are his … idol.’

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

Jean-Claude nodded and left.

Clee’s eyes automatically strayed to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures, and he felt a little stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at it. His one and only regret in his life was that he had not known Capa. He had been born too late and Capa’s tragic death had been so untimely, far too soon.

After a moment, he swung his gaze and 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 top one: Louise, please deal with this stuff any way you see fit, 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 close friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry was a writer and worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialled his direct line. It rang and rang then was finally picked up and Henry’s gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, ‘Allo, oui?’

‘Hank, it’s Clee. How’re you, old buddy?’

‘Jaysus, Clee, don’t tell me you’re cancelling!’