The Greening (27 page)

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Er, yes – thank you.”

“And it was
The Marriage of Figaro
.”

“Is this important?” he asked gently. “This operatic performance that you didn’t attend?”

“No, of course not. Why should it be?”

“I don’t know,” said Paul.

“But just for the record, it was
The Marriage of Figaro
, OK? Mozart’s
The Marriage of Figaro
. Not
The Magic Flute
. Not
The Barber of Seville. The Marriage of
bloody
Figaro
.”

“
The
, um,
Barber of Seville
is by Rossini,” said Paul, scratching his head.

“I don’t care if it’s by Barry Manilow and his string quartet – ”

“Now I think you’re thinking of Mantovani – was that his name? Yes, Mantovani and his Music of the Mountains. My gran liked him.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking! God, I can’t even have a bloody argument with you without you interrupting!”

“Why are you angry with me?”

“Because you stood me up, you rat.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t,” said Paul.

“And now you’ve forgotten!”

“No I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“I haven’t.”

“Can you stop sounding like the audience at a bloody pantomime?”

“Jo, I’ve never stood you up. You must be thinking of someone else. This other chap again, the one you keep thinking is me – or that I am,” he said.

“You invited me to a performance of
The Marriage of Figaro
.”

“I remember inviting you to
The Magic
– OK, OK,
The Marriage of Figaro
it was.”

“As you well know, we arranged to meet in the foyer fifteen minutes before the performance.”

“And you sent a note cancelling. Yes, of course I remember.”

“I did not send a note. Why would I send a note?”

“I don’t know. I got a note from you saying you couldn’t come because you had to visit a friend in hospital. You said you’d catch up with me some time in the next few days.”

“I didn’t send any such note.”

“Well, I got one and it was signed by you.”

“How did you get it? Where did it come from?”

“I think, um, yes, it was shoved under my door.”

“I would never shove a note under a man’s door. How could you think I would do such a thing? Really. Well in that case, how come you went with Marcie?”

“Marcie? Oh, Marcie, yes. Did I go with Marcie? I don’t remember. Yes, you’re right, I believe I did. You know how she was always going on about how homesick and lonely she was? She turned up at my door, quite tearful, I seem to remember. Some chap had let her down on a date and she was at a loose end. She asked if I was free. I’d just got back and picked up your note, it was quite late and I had a spare ticket, so I asked if she’d like to tag along.”

“Oh, God, no. Is this true?”

“Er, yes. I did always wonder why you were so distant with me after that. I assumed you’d decided you didn’t want to take things further. Do you mean to say you turned up for our rendezvous?”

“Yes. In shoes that were killing me.”

“How did we miss each other? We must have had a drink in the bar and gone straight to our seats. I think we did, she was still quite tearful.”

“She must have known about our arrangement,” I said. “Oh, God, Paul. I wish I’d known.”

“So do I. But looking on the bright side, does this mean you’re not angry with me any more?”

I smiled. “Well, I’m not angry with you at the moment.”

“Then you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, of course you will. I’ll cook something here, with ingredients this time.”

Paul kissed me on the cheek as he saw me into my car. As I drove home, I began to imagine the following evening. My fantasy was brought up short by the thought that he seemed to have a date with Felicity the following week. I wondered what had happened between them, how close they had been and how he might feel about her now. I remembered, too, how badly he had let his wife down. That was something which he surely must regret, but it proved that he was capable of betrayal.

I arrived at Paul’s house on time at seven o’clock. As he opened the door I heard a loud crashing sound coming from the direction of the kitchen.

“Not to worry!” he said cheerfully. “Everything’s under control. Lovely to see you, Jo. You look gorgeous.” He kissed me on the cheek and I followed him to the kitchen. A couple of pots were bubbling furiously on the cooker and pan lids were scattered on the floor. Paul picked them up, saying, “I’m an explosive but effective cook.”

As I wondered what might come next, he offered me a drink and I accepted a glass of white wine. Paul turned his attention to his pots, saying, “This is chicken, one of my favourite recipes. You do eat chicken – God, I didn’t think to ask you, you’re not a vegetarian?” He looked so dismayed that I felt I must put him at ease without delay.

“Yes I do and no I’m not!”

Paul grinned. The pots behind him fizzed and popped away merrily. I observed that he had an interesting method in the kitchen of catching things just as they were about to boil over. Amazingly, when the food arrived it was cooked to perfection and mouth-wateringly delicious.

I said, “This is very good. You’ve got the job.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Next time I’ll cook you a curry – the best this side of Watford Gap.”

“That I’d love. I developed a passion for curry when I used to visit my parents in India.”

“When was that?”

“The late 1960s. My dad was there with the Welsh Guards.”

“What did you make of India?”

“Oh, vibrant, passionate, exotic, disturbing – but in a good way…”

“Sounds as though you liked it.”

“I loved it.”

“Me too,” said Paul.

“When were you there?”

“I was first there in 1979. That’s where I met Ismene, on a train in Hyderabad. I was a green young stringer with an American news agency, a few months into my first assignment. I helped Ismene with her bags and we got chatting. She was very knowledgeable about the political situation and, typically, generous with her time. When we arrived at Rawalpindi, we went for a meal. I was headed into Kashmir and she gave me some very useful contacts, including a leader of the separatist movement.”

“You lucky beggar. You got into interesting work straight away,” I said.

“What were you doing?”

“Covering council meetings for the
Yorkshire Post
.”

“I bet you winkled out some good stories of local corruption,” Paul said.

“Well, I had my sources. I used to get offered Brie and Camembert as a bribe by a councillor who owned a cheese shop. Everyone knew what he was up to because we journalists would leave the council chamber ponging of smelly feet.”

Paul laughed. I asked, “How did you get your start?”

“I was incredibly lucky. I got signed up with the agency straight out of Harvard and they liked to give people foreign experience as soon as possible. They assigned me to war photography early on. It seemed to be what I did best. They moved me around a lot, but always sent me back to Kashmir.”

The evening passed pleasantly. We talked about old times, work matters and human rights issues. I felt very relaxed and comfortable in Paul’s company.

“Did you always enjoy war photography?” I asked.

“I loved it. It gave me a buzz like nothing else. At the start I was scared. Untrue, I was always scared. But never bored. Boredom seemed to be the worst of all perils in those days.”

“Didn’t you mind the danger?”

“Didn’t think about it. You just get carried by the momentum from assignment to assignment. When you’re right in there, taking the pictures, the adrenalin seems to wipe out fear. The heightened feeling of aliveness you get when you don’t know if you’ll survive the day – it’s addictive. It becomes the only reality, so that the bits in between – normal life – feel unreal, dreamlike. Nothing in normal life matters. No one is dying in front of you, so how can it?”

“But – all the terrible things you must have seen – how did you cope?”

“Hmm, not terribly well – though it took me a long time to realize it. I thought I was doing great. People liked my pictures. I was on a roll. But then – it just goes to show how wrong you can be… This is boring. Am I boring you?”

“No, not at all. What happened?”

“Well, things were changing. A lot of things happened very quickly. I fell in love, desperately, madly, totally – well, not desperately because luckily for me my feelings were returned. Sushila was the daughter of Ranjit Kadir, the contact Ismene had put me in touch with. Ranjit’s a human rights lawyer, a very old friend of Ismene’s. He was incredibly kind to me, bit of a father figure really. Life seemed perfect. I was young, I was doing work I loved, I was getting recognition for something I was good at, this wonderful woman loved me and I loved her and we got married. How could my life possibly be better? But things did go wrong, and I was to blame…” Paul looked terribly sad. He looked at me and said, “What went wrong was my fault.”

“Oh Paul, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I wasn’t coping at all. I slept badly and would wake up screaming, in a pool of sweat. Awful. Sushila used to try to get me to talk about my work, but I thought it was a can of worms best left unopened.

“At home with Sushila, trying to have a normal life, I felt like an impostor. I’d be with friends and family, in a garden, drinking tea, making conversation, and all the while my mind was full of these unspeakable images; they invaded me night and day. I’d seen things you never forget. You can’t just take pictures and stay outside. You’re there, so you’re involved. The obscenity and stench of violent death – that was my normal environment. I was getting crazy. I was on a roller coaster and I couldn’t get off.”

“But – how did you survive?”

“I became someone else. I was getting more and more foreign postings and it got to a stage where I was glad to get away from my life with Sushila, because then I didn’t have to think about what I was doing and why. I didn’t have to pretend to be normal. I didn’t have to be. I just did my job and had a few beers in the bar at the end of the day. Then I started taking a bottle of whisky to my hotel room, to blot out the memories of the day. I used to think that if I drank enough I’d become unconscious and not dream – but you do dream. My life was starting to unravel, but I couldn’t see it. I started having affairs – pointless, passionless affairs that were something to do to convince myself that I was still alive.”

“Felicity mentioned – ”

“Oh, yes, Felicity. That was a crazy business. I was in London, helping to edit a documentary I’d worked on. Sushila would have come with me but her mother was very ill. I was on the loose and I took up with Felicity. I’m deeply ashamed. It was a despicable, selfish, stupid, cruel act and I regret it bitterly.”

“Felicity seems to still think well of you,” I said.

“I didn’t lie, at least. I’ve never lied. Not that that’s anything to be proud of, considering all the rotten things I did. At least I have a chance to make some of it up to Felicity. She wants me to have a
word with her son, Craig; he’s seventeen now. He’s a good lad. He and I got on well. Apparently he’s gone a bit haywire, getting into the wrong company. Can’t think why he’d listen to me! But I said I’d try.

“The affair started to fall apart very quickly. We weren’t at all suited and I was starting to get crazy. I was spending more time with my parents – they’re in Bristol – life was much saner there. Then I had a breakdown. Just like that, one day. I became this babbling, incoherent wreck. Other people had seen it coming on, but I was in a world of my own and wasn’t listening to anyone. It must have been hellish for the people who loved me.

“My father told Sushila I was ill and she came over. While she was over here, her mother died. I couldn’t forgive myself. But Sushila forgave me. She never spoke one word of reproach. We stayed with my parents while I got treatment – my father’s a doctor – then Sushila took me back home to Kashmir. I didn’t work for six months. Jo, I’m sorry. This is no fun for you, listening to a raddled old war correspondent bemoaning his lot.”

“No, I’m interested. I’ve seen what war journalism can do to people. I’ve never really understood it because it hasn’t happened to me. I suppose it’s the price people pay to record the appalling things that happen in the world. I couldn’t do that kind of work,” I said.

“I’m not sure anyone can,” said Paul. “It’s like soldiering, in a way; people do it and nobody admits it’s not an activity that human beings were designed for. Seeing terrible things, doing terrible things – it’s dehumanizing. But you know, at the same time, taking pictures is awe-inspiring and a huge privilege, when you know that what you’ve done has made a difference.

“That recognition saved me. I came to understand that the work I was doing was absolutely necessary – but there had to be a way of doing it and remaining sane. It was then that my life began to change. One day something happened, and life was never the same again.”

Paul was silent for a few moments. I realized that I must wait quietly because he was about to share something very special with me.