by Mark Lee
Before Digran could object, Connie linked her arm in his and led him across the room to Jax Riverton. I glanced at Daniel as he pulled a petal from a flowering cherry tree.
“How did you know he didn’t want to get out of prison?”
“It’s obvious, Nicky.”
“It wasn’t obvious to me.”
“Digran isn’t comfortable here. He used to be a poet and now he’s a foreign-policy success.”
Richard and Julia had split up and were standing in different areas of the conservatory. Holding a glass of white wine, Julia left Malcolm Barthorp and approached the cherry tree. She smiled at both of us, but her eyes lingered a bit longer on Daniel.
“Is everything all right?” Julia asked. “If you don’t like your own room, Wallace will move you to another one.”
“Who gets the round tower?” I asked.
“No one. Richard has his office there.”
“How’s the water pump at Kosana?” Daniel asked.
Julia touched her gold necklace. The relief camp was thousands of miles away. “It could be broken again, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m a doctor with no patients. My only responsibility these days is to be charming to our friends and donors.”
“You’re doing a very good job.”
“You think so? It’s strange to see you and Nicky here. I feel like you two should be covering a story.”
“Billy gave us our instructions,” I said. “Everything that happens this weekend is off the record.”
“So I can say anything I want to you?”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Anything at all.”
Julia glanced up at the branch of white cherry blossoms hanging over our heads. “I don’t know what I think about having these plants here. It’s cold and dark outside, and yet here’s a cherry tree waiting vainly for bumblebees that died two months ago.” She glanced at me. “Is it beautiful or pathetic, Nicky?”
“I don’t know.”
“The flowers are beautiful no matter what season it is,” Daniel said. “It doesn’t change anything because it’s October.”
“But they shouldn’t be here,” Julia said. “It’s silly and artificial.”
I heard a beeping sound and Billy took a cell phone out of his pocket. He talked to someone, then announced that dinner was being served and led us down a corridor to the Great Hall. The dining room was massive; it had a vaulted ceiling, a fireplace that was big enough to roast a Volkswagen, and a long stained-glass window. There were place cards written in a graceful cursive. Richard and Julia sat at opposite ends of the table, like the king and his consort. Daniel and I were placed beside Julia. Jax Riverton was to my left.
Sitting among this grandeur, it was comforting to be served such a mediocre dinner. Richard was a man who concentrated on the details, but I guess he wasn’t interested in food. The tomato bisque tasted like spaghetti sauce. The lamp chops were stringy and tough, and the broccoli had been boiled until it was limp. The wine, however, was excellent, and Wallace kept bringing out new bottles.
I hate being in a social situation without my camera. I never know what to say or what to do with my hands. Perhaps Julia sensed my uneasiness because she ignored her dinner and made an effort to talk to me.
“Is it strange to be back in England?” she asked.
“Not particularly. I don’t have a home to come back to, just this hotel near the British Museum.”
“It’s getting harder for me to make the transition from a relief camp. The moment I get off the plane at Heathrow, it feels too noisy and frantic and there are too many advertisements. People are always complaining about the most ridiculous things.” Julia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “George Riverton talked for fifteen minutes about how he got the wrong seats at Wimbledon.”
“Sounds like a tragedy.”
“I can’t see you getting annoyed about anything, Nicky. You seem like a calm person.”
“I just watch and take pictures. I don’t risk as much as you.”
Julia shook her head. “I should risk a lot more. There’s always something extra you can do, another step in the right direction.”
The broccoli was taken away and I hoped it would have a dignified funeral. We were served a rubbery custard, and then Wallace brought out a bottle of twenty-year-old brandy, crackers, and a large chunk of Stilton cheese that looked like a piece of rotting firewood. I dug out some cheese with a silver spoon and smeared it onto a wheat cracker. It was rich and well aged, easily the best part of the meal.
Jax Riverton sipped some brandy and decided to acknowledge my existence. “So tell me, Mr. Bettencourt—did you see Richard save the child’s life?”
“What child?”
“In the Times article it said that he found a sick little girl at the relief camp and gave her some kind of transfusion that saved her life.”
“That must have happened when I wasn’t there.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“No. I’m sure Richard did save her life. That’s easy to do at a place like Kosana.”
“It doesn’t seem easy to me. Even the Times reporter was impressed. The photograph was marvelous.”
“If you’re hanging out with starving people, there are lots of opportunities.”
“Have you ever saved someone’s life, Mr. Bettencourt?”
“That’s not my job.”
“I see. Rather than doing something about the suffering, you just stand there and record it.”
When Jax turned away, I grabbed the Stilton and dug out another chunk with the spoon. Richard was telling everyone what he thought about the euro and I pretended to listen, nodding or shaking my head at random points in the monologue. I eavesdropped on the conversation between Daniel and Julia. From what I could gather he had asked Julia what she would do if she quit relief work and she was trying to answer him. Julia had read quite a few books when she was traveling around Africa. Most of these favorites were kept at her aunt’s house in Windsor and Julia wanted to buy a house in the country with a lot of bookshelves.
“That’s what I dream about. Bookshelves and a good view at sunset.”
“Sounds like an achievable goal.”
“Mind you, it has to be my own view and my own shelves.”
“Would you stay in England?”
“I can’t tell you that. The fantasy only goes so far.”
Richard was talking about the euro rising or falling or flying out the window. Pouring some more brandy, I lost part of the conversation.
“So what do you want, Daniel? To be famous? Win the Pulitzer Prize?”
“That wouldn’t change anything.”
“Do you want a bigger salary? Most of the journalists I know are always talking about their salaries.”
“I’ve never really thought about money. I’ve always had enough to get by.”
“You must want something. Most people do.”
Daniel was quiet for a moment, but I didn’t dare glance at him and let him know I was listening. “I want …” He paused again, then spoke with complete certainty. “I want to live a good life.”
“What do you mean by that?” Julia asked. “Buying a home like the people in Richard’s television ads? Playing golf? Eating chocolate?”
“I do like to eat chocolate and I own the farm in Italy. I’m afraid I don’t know much about golf.”
“Golf or something like it? Is that what you mean?”
“I want to understand the consequences of my actions. That’s all I can really tell you. During the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to find a new way to live. I don’t have any answers, only the desire.”
At the end of the table, the talk had turned into a consideration of international relief aid. Richard spoke a little louder, trying to draw everyone into the discussion. “In Britain, if there’s a flood or a train wreck, we don’t send out a twenty-three-year-old Oxfam volunteer wearing a T-shirt and sandals. It should be the same procedure in foreign countries. The work needs
to be done by professionals.”
“But that twenty-three-year-old girl and others like her encourage popular support for foreign aid,” George said. “Professionals are politically isolated.”
“That’s why Hand-to-Hand is going to create a different paradigm. Using the Internet, our contributors will be able to interact with the staff and help pick the country we’ll be working in.”
Daniel drank some brandy, then lowered his glass. “So the professionals will do the work, but the amateurs will tell them what to do?”
“Not totally. But we want them to be emotionally connected to our activities. There are constant moments of suspense and drama in any relief camp. Will this person live? Will that person die? Using the digital cameras we’ve set up in the camp, we can create our own story.”
“That could lead to panda-bear relief work,” Daniel said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Panda bears are cute so people want to save them. If you’re dependent on an audience reaction, won’t your contributors prefer situations where the starving people are appreciative and photogenic?”
Malcolm reached for the brandy. “Which is why no one gives a damn about the Somalis. Nasty group of people.”
“I care,” Julia said. She was trying to be polite so her voice wasn’t loud or confident. When no one reacted, she said it again. “I care if they live or die.”
“Well, of course you do. That’s your job,” Jax said. “But George is talking about the rest of us. Public opinion.”
When Wallace removed the cheese, the dinner was over. Malcolm and Richard went into the library for another drink, but everyone else drifted off to their rooms. I could see Julia watching Daniel as he headed up the staircase. I wondered what she had thought when Daniel said he wanted to live a good life. I’m sure Jax Riverton and the others would have smiled if they heard that phrase. It sounded like something a sensitive friend would say walking home from a college party. A few years later, the friend would become an arms dealer or a public relations consultant defending the oil companies in Nigeria. Or perhaps something not so dramatic at all—just an assistant executive something or other who had a favorite TV show and washed his car on the weekends. That was what happened to most people. Not a good life or a bad life, just an ordinary one.
I realized that everything was different if you took Daniel’s statement seriously. Idealists are dangerous to themselves and the people around them. If you truly wanted to live a good life, it was a revolutionary act. I could admire someone like that, but I knew that I’d never make such a choice. It bothered me to think that people would be staring at me and criticizing my decisions. If you want to be a saint, you have to risk looking like a fool.
I went upstairs to my room and took off my suit coat. When I hung it up in the armoire, I heard the Rivertons passing in the hallway.
“Panda-bear relief work,” George said. “That was somewhat witty.”
“I don’t know why Richard invited those two.”
“They’re witnesses. Proof that he actually went out and touched sick babies.”
The Rivertons continued down the hallway and I couldn’t hear them. I pulled off my shoes and was brushing my teeth when Daniel knocked on my door. He looked like he wanted to walk back to London.
“Having a good time, Nicky?”
“It’s better than the Ruskin Hotel.”
Daniel sat in one of chairs. “What were you and Julia talking about?”
“Culture shock. Coming home after you’ve been in Africa.”
“What do you think of Julia?”
“I like her.”
“And Richard?”
“Either he’s done too many TV commercials for that bank of his or I’ve seen too many of them. I can’t tell what’s underneath the surface. Maybe more surface.”
“Richard is a successful businessman. Everything looks good until you notice Billy Monroe standing behind him.”
I laughed. “I’m still thinking about that actor and the rental sheep out in the pasture.”
“So why is she with a man like Richard? How can she stand to hear him talk about digital cameras and the little moments of drama in a relief camp? People are starving to death and he makes it sound like a goddamn media event.”
“The food and the medicine at Kosana were real. He’s helping Julia save the world. Not everyone can do that.”
“So she stays with him because he sponsors Hand-to-Hand?”
“How would I know? You saw the pressures on her at Kosana. Those refugees were hungry and sick, and she’s the one in charge. It must be a relief to come back to England and have Richard take care of everything.”
“She’s a good person.” Daniel spoke slowly, as if he was considering the idea.
“Definitely.”
“I couldn’t stop looking at her.”
“This isn’t our world, Daniel.”
“I know that.” He got up from the chair and walked over to the door. “When the party’s over, we’re gone.”
10 THE HUNT
I don’t know if the ghost of the dead builder, Mr. Robinson, haunted the manor house, but all that night I kept hearing odd creaks and gasping sounds. Around three in the morning, I switched on a lamp and looked around the room. Nothing. “I don’t believe in you,” I said firmly, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
Someone tapped on my door around eight o’clock. When I looked out into the hallway I found a laundry basket filled with my kit for the shoot: gum boots, waterproof overalls, a Gore-Tex jacket, and a wool cap. The cap was essential. When I put it on and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, I felt vaguely British and ready to blast anything out of the sky.
I went downstairs looking for breakfast and Wallace guided me to the morning room. It was a smaller and more comfortable place than the dining room; there was a long mahogany table and sporting prints on the walls. The butler pointed out a serve-yourself meal of fried eggs and sausage on the sideboard, then disappeared through a swinging door. The castle was so large and there were so many rooms that it was difficult to figure out where people were coming from or going to.
I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when George Riverton walked in wearing an identical hunting costume. He didn’t look pleased to see me. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t think you were going.”
“I guess I am.”
“This is a rather English activity,” he said. “It’s not like hunting in the States.”
“You shoot the birds. They hit the ground. I think I can handle it.”
George poured himself a cup of tea, took a muffin, and left the room. Any hesitation I might have felt concerning the shoot disappeared at that moment.
At quarter after nine I walked outside to the stone courtyard in front of the castle. The air was cold and a dark mass of rain clouds was forming on the western horizon. About a dozen men from the village were standing around, smoking and talking to each other. Four women wearing quilted vests and Wellington boots were loading their Labrador retrievers into the back of a Land Rover. They were in charge of picking up the fallen birds.
George and Malcolm were leaning against another Land Rover. They kept glancing at me and muttering to each other, but I ignored them. As I wandered across the courtyard, I saw Richard standing next to a tall man with a reddish beard. “Nicky! Over here! I want you to meet someone!”
I worked my way through the crowd and he introduced me to Mr. Quinn, the estate’s gamekeeper. Quinn quickly appraised me, as if I was a new hunting dog.
“Have you shot many times in England, sir?”
“No, I haven’t, but I hunted quite a bit in California.”
“Mr. Muldoon!” Quinn shouted and an old man emerged from behind a pickup truck. Muldoon had a bumpy face and stained teeth. His rubber boots were caked with mud and it looked as if he had spent the morning trudging through a bog.
Quinn made the introductions. “Mr. Muldoon will assist you today.”
“Just do w
hat he tells you,” Richard said. “Muldoon has forgotten more than we’ll ever know.”
“Haven’t forgotten a thing,” snapped the old man. He jerked his head and I followed him over to the truck.
“Ever shot in England?”
“I grew up in the country. We used to hunt pheasant and quail at my uncle’s ranch. Sometimes we drove up to Sacramento and shot ducks.”
“This is double-gun shooting from a stand, not like in the States. We don’t creep around like a bunch of Injuns.” A flat leather gun case was lying in the back of the pickup. Muldoon snapped it open and displayed a pair of double-barreled shotguns. “You just aim and pull the trigger. I’ll load for you and keep you from killin’ anyone.”
About ten minutes later Quinn sent off the young men in two vehicles. Muldoon explained that they were going to work as beaters, driving the birds toward us. Richard, George, and Malcolm got into one of the Land Rovers, and Billy motioned for me to join them. When I slipped into the backseat, everyone stopped talking. Quinn climbed onto an all-terrain vehicle with fat tires. The convoy of trucks and Land Rovers followed him across the drawbridge and turned north onto a muddy road that curved around the hill.
“Well?” asked George. “Aren’t you going to ask him?”
“I already told you,” Richard said.
Billy glanced over his shoulder. “Nicky, the gentlemen want to know if you’re carrying a camera.”
“Of course not.”
Malcolm gave me a nervous smile. “I don’t want any pictures of me with a shotgun.”
“What’s the problem?”
“An American wouldn’t understand, but hunting is definitely not popular in our party. Most of our backbenchers want to get rid of every kind of hunting.”
“You could fall down drunk in front of the queen and still survive politically,” George explained. “But you’d be in trouble if you were photographed wearing a red jacket and holding a gun.”
Our little convoy passed strips of woodland surrounded by hawthorn and hedge maple. The dense patches of ground cover were designed to hide the pheasants from their natural predators, then produce them at the right moment during the shoot. A few miles from the castle, we stopped on a weedy pasture below a hill. Carrying the shotguns, Muldoon spoke briefly to Quinn, then led me over to a peg hammered into the ground. Richard, Malcolm, and George were taken to three other pegs. Quinn stood behind us with the women hired to pick up the birds.
