Barbara Taylor Bradford – Secrets from the Past (страница 13)
He continued to shiver for a while, but then very gradually the shivering became less and less. I remained on top of him, my arms holding him until he finally dozed off.
Not much time elapsed before he was breathing deeply and evenly. Finally I got out of his bed, went and turned off the lamp, praying that he would sleep through the night.
To my relief he did. When I woke up just before seven the next morning, Zac was still sleeping soundly. Slipping into my robe, I let myself out of the bedroom quietly, and went to the kitchen, where I made a pot of coffee, scrambled eggs and toast.
Carrying the tray back to the living room, I took it over to the table at the far end of the room, and began to eat.
My mind was focused on Zac and his life. I realized that he had met Harry and my father in 1999 … there was that year again. They had all been in Kosovo in September and naturally he knew who they were; was in awe of them, he told me later. Harry and Tommy took a shine to the young photographer, and he became, over time, Harry’s protégé. He was given a job at Global in 2000 and had become the star photographer over the years.
He was not a novice when it came to war, I thought now, sipping my coffee. He’d already done a lot, seen a lot of bloodshed and devastation on battle fronts all over the world by the time he’d met Dad and Harry. He was a young veteran meeting old veterans … two men who had had more than their fair share of luck when it came to survival.
Tommy and Harry had become war photographers in the early 1960s, and neither of them had ever taken a hit, nor been wounded. What luck, I thought, and I was unexpectedly rather pleased that my father had died in his own bed, and not covering a war.
If he’d had to die, at that moment in time, he had done so in the best place of all, with two of his daughters with him.
I was finishing my scrambled eggs when Zac suddenly appeared, bundled up in the terrycloth robe, looking rumpled. ‘Hi, Serena,’ he said in a slightly hoarse voice, and paused near the kitchen door. ‘I’ll get a mug of coffee.’
‘Hi,’ I answered. ‘Do you want me to make you some eggs?’
‘Not sure,’ he mumbled, and disappeared into the kitchen.
A moment later he sat down at the table opposite me with his coffee. ‘Thank you,’ he said, staring across at me, ‘for last night.’ He cleared his throat several times, then went on, ‘I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I was icy cold. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.’
‘You were freezing. I must admit I was worried. But I managed to get you warmed up.’ I studied him for a moment, noting that he did look more rested, and his face was less taut. ‘In my opinion, what you had was some kind of reaction to exhaustion and lack of nourishment. That’s why you should try and eat a little of something, Zac.’
He nodded. ‘Maybe scrambled eggs then?’ he asked hesitatingly. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Not at all,’ I answered, rising, taking my plate and heading for the kitchen. ‘Back in a minute,’ I murmured over my shoulder.
I couldn’t help smiling wryly to myself, as I set about beating four eggs in a bowl.
As I returned to the living room, with his eggs and toast on a plate, I noticed that he had not turned on the television set. Silence is golden, I thought, well pleased that the room was quiet and peaceful.
He ate half the eggs and a little bread, and drank the coffee, but he didn’t say much. He still appeared somewhat remote, cut off from me. At least his body was relaxed, and he was totally calm, if uncommunicative.
I made a little conversation. I told him about Jessica’s new client, her trip to New York to see me, and mentioned that I was making progress on the book. He listened, nodded, and even smiled several times, made a few noncommittal comments.
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.
‘Do 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.
‘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.’