by Di Morrissey
‘Has he indeed. Well, I have a few ideas myself,’ snapped Ali. ‘And I might remind you all that Reg is not running this magazine, I am. In fact, I’m introducing a new system for ideas and you can be the first to try it out.’
Tony glanced at his watch. ‘Will it take long? I have a lunch appointment. Business, of course.’
‘This will take ten minutes, which will leave you fifty for lunch. Ample,’ said Ali, striding onto the covered terrace outside her office.
Tony trailed behind her, then stopped in shock as he saw a large wooden box containing a sandpit the size of a child’s wading pool on the terrace. Chairs were grouped around it and in its centre was a Lego village. A sort of castle surrounded by small huts and tiny plastic people.
‘What’s this? A crèche for a kid’s playgroup?’ He was having trouble stifling his laughter.
‘No, it’s the ideas pit. When anyone on the staff has a brilliant new idea, like a big paid-for travel section, the relevant staff will sit in the jury seats. Now what you have to do is present your idea, not to me, but to the townspeople here. And then we’ll all vote. I have the deciding vote as I live there.’ She pointed to the castle. ‘So, off you go, explain the concept and rationale of the travel section to the people.’
‘What, now? Here?’ Tony’s amusement was turning to annoyance. Ali sat in a chair and crossed her legs.
Tony stared at her across the pit. ‘I told you all about it a minute ago.’
‘They didn’t hear it. Tell the chief.’
Tony decided to humour her. Slowly, he began running through his spiel. Each time he lifted his eyes to Ali’s face, she nodded at him to direct himself to the tiny toy in the centre of the village. He finished lamely, ‘And advertising has sold a six-month ad campaign for full-colour pages which will bring in enough revenue to pay for a colour lift-out on a major destination each month.’ He found himself staring at the tiny figure waiting for a response. He shook himself and looked at Ali. ‘What now?’
‘The chief will call a meeting. And everyone will vote. Regard this as a dry run – I’ll ask the appropriate staff to attend and vote.’
‘Can I go now?’ Tony felt stupid. Like a kid at school. This was madness.
Ali had talked about implementing some new idea that was being trialled by ‘out there’ Japanese and US companies. But no one, least of all Tony, paid much attention to her enthusiastic embracing of what she called ‘new-century methods’. As they were discovering, if Ali talked about something, it generally eventuated.
April was standing by her desk gathering up her handbag and sunglasses.
Tony marched in grim-faced, took her by the arm and propelled her towards the elevators. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
TAKE THIRTEEN . . .
Nina lay awake under the settling goose feathers, lightly touching her cheek, dreamily recalling the tingle of Lucien’s lips kissing her goodnight at the elevator.
It had been an overwhelming evening. From the shock of the reunion with Lucien, to the reaffirming warmth of familiarity and intimacy, to the creeping questions about where to go from here. She was now reeling from the emotional roller-coaster ride. Her defences were down in this dark, anonymous bedroom in a strange city. Suddenly the flashbacks started again, increasingly vivid, spooling through her mind like a movie on fast forward.
And linking them together were recurring images of Clara. ‘Quite natural,’ she’d been told by the psychiatrist friend she’d visited in Sydney. She was grieving for her mother. It was, in part, the reason for this journey and now, how glad she was that she’d followed her instincts. She smiled in the darkness and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I’ve found him again, Mama. Our darling Lucien.’ Perhaps it had been Clara in heaven pulling strings and nudging fate to bring them together again. Clara had always adored Lucien, as he had delighted in her.
Clara had been such a constant in Nina’s life. Not a day had gone by without Clara murmuring a word in Croatian, repeating a few of her mother’s aphorisms, singing one of the old songs. At other times, she related stories and happy anecdotes about the family. And so, by osmosis, Nina had absorbed threads of her culture. She had a rudimentary grasp of Croatian, enough to speak and understand the language.
Since Clara’s death, Nina realised that she still had a lot of unresolved questions about her childhood. But there had never been time to think of visiting a place, a country no one around her even knew how to find on a map.
Nina looked at her watch on the bedside table. It would be just after 9 a.m. in Sydney. She lifted the phone and rang Ali’s direct line. Belinda answered.
‘It’s Nina. I’m calling Ali. How are things, Belinda?’
‘Where are you, Nina? Are you having a wonderful time? Everything is fine here.’
The smile in Nina’s voice carried to Belinda. ‘Everything certainly is wonderful. I’m in France, in a tiny, wonderful town. I met an old friend. Miche and I had great fun in Paris, has she arrived there yet?’
‘She’s still in Bali. Larissa is expecting her in a couple of days.’
‘I have an idea I want to discuss with Ali. When will she be in?’
‘I can put you through, Nina.’
‘I thought this was her direct line.’
‘Ali doesn’t have one. She prefers I screen all her calls.’ Belinda sounded uncomfortable. Ali had gone out of her way not to make herself easily accessible. She was distancing herself from her staff, putting all communication on a more formal basis.
‘Take care, Nina, enjoy your break. You sound very relaxed. I’ll put you through now.’
Ali came on the line. ‘Hello, Nina. Checking up on us? Everything is in hand. No problems.’ Ali made a stand straight off, thinking, ‘Why can’t Nina let the reins go?’
‘Pleased to hear it. I didn’t anticipate any,’ countered Nina. ‘As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about a story idea.’
‘We don’t have any contributors or staff in France at present,’ said Ali quickly.
‘It’s something I want to write. And not about France. I’ve been thinking I’d like to write about my own journey. Back to my childhood in Croatia.’
Ali dropped her head in her hand as she listened. Oh God, she hadn’t seen this coming. Nina hadn’t written a feature for years. Who knew where Croatia was? Who cared? It was an area torn by sectarian, racial, political strife that Australian readers didn’t buy Blaze to learn about. And they would care even less about an older dame’s family saga or whatever she was doing. ‘Write? You mean your memoirs?’ said Ali brightly.
‘Heavens no! A piece for Blaze. Croatia is regaining its tourism appeal and a personal perspective might be intriguing. Depending on what I find. I wouldn’t inflict an unusable article on you.’
Ali was thinking quickly. Unusable was exactly the word that came to mind. But then another thought crossed her mind. Researching and writing an article would keep Nina occupied and out of her hair for an extended time. ‘Nina, it could be interesting. Listen, take as long as you want, do the research, travel around, don’t rush back. You might end up with a book,’ suggested Ali.
‘It’s just an idea at this stage. I’ll let you know what I decide. I just thought I’d run it past you.’
‘Terrific. Whatever you want, Nina. Take as long as you want. If you do decide to write something, let me know so I can wave it at the editorial meeting.’ Ali wasn’t going to take responsibility for lumbering the magazine with a deadly article. Nor was she going to be accused of stroking Nina’s ego.
‘I’ll be in touch, Ali. Glad the magazine is going well.’ Nina hung up and turned out the light.
As Nina lay in the dark, it was as if the conversation turned on a movie projector in her mind. Clara’s family stories continued on in fast-forward mode. Mentally, Nina clicked the Play button when she wanted to savour certain incidents. Now she had a reason to let the memories flow. She’d start making notes in the morning.
She picked up
the thread of her thoughts. After Nina’s grandmother died, Clara had become agitated and fixated on her parents’ homes in Croatia ‘that must be worth a fortune today’.
Nina had spoken gently. ‘Mama, there were no records kept, and if they were, where are they? You can’t go back now and expect to find things as they were in 1948. Besides, your name could still be on a wanted list. We fled the country illegally.’
‘Some things never change,’ Clara had sighed. ‘The old hatreds never die. Even here, in this lovely country, they bring the same stupid ideas of hating each other. Serbs, Croats, Muslims, Christians . . . why can’t we just live together? We all want the same things in life really.’ Another sigh. ‘When I think back to how it was, the Dalmatian coast, so beautiful. You should go, Nina. See your country once more. Can’t you ask your friends in high places to help? To find out what happened to our family home?’ Tears had welled in Clara’s eyes.
‘Mama. Australia is our home, even though I have a good life in America too. When we left Yugoslavia, you told me how Opa and Grandmama said you had to start a new life. With me. For me. And look what we’ve achieved. They knew and were happy for us. They made the choice to stay.’ Nina had spoken gently.
‘There was too much to leave, they couldn’t just go. The house, the art, the furniture, so many beautiful belongings . . . where have they gone? When my papa died, your grandmama wrote and told me they were taking the house away from her. Because Papa was a doctor, they left him alone, but after the war the state took it over. My poor mother, she cried in her letters to me. What could I do?’
Clara had begun to weep. ‘There’s so much you don’t know. You were just a little girl, you barely remember the old home in the country. You don’t even remember your own father. You were three when he was killed. That was when I moved back home. It was safer in Zagreb with my parents. There was the country estate and a town house in Zagreb – now all gone.’
Nina had vague childhood memories of long hallways leading to huge rooms, a walled garden with a fountain and a maid who played with her. After her bath, she’d be taken to a room with a fire to kiss her grandparents goodnight. Grandfather, whom they called Opa, smelled of tobacco and Grandmama was soft with silken clothes and a sweet flowery smell.
Clara had continued her story. ‘When I left with you for Australia, my father took me into the garden of our town house and showed me something. He said I must come back there when it was safe. You and I were smuggled out. After Papa died, my mother was sent away. The state took the houses, everything, they told a foolish story – taxes owed or something. That my father had borrowed money and never paid it back. My mother lived with friends. And I never went back again. Australia was our home.’
‘But why didn’t she come out to Australia? We could have brought her,’ wondered Nina.
‘You were twenty, working your way up at the magazine, we didn’t have a lot of money. I tried to persuade my mother – we could have found the money somehow, I know – but she was ill. To come so far to a strange country where she knew no one, much as she loved us . . . she was too old. She stayed with her friends. They were good people she had known all her life. She did write to me about some family belongings she desperately wanted us to have. But now it’s too late.’ Clara wrung her hands and rocked to and fro.
It had always upset Clara that she’d never been able to return to Croatia for fear of being arrested. And Clara’s mother had been too fearful to visit them in Australia in case she was not allowed back in.
Nina had comforted Clara. ‘Yes, Mama dearest. We’ll talk again about all of this.’ The story seemed too fantastic. It was typical of Clara to fling something at her out of the blue and expect Nina to fix it. The trouble was that Nina had always risen to the occasion and, being a widow, she was used to sorting out problems and managing her own and Clara’s life.
Now Clara’s dying words of a few months before came back to Nina. ‘Seven paces from the old tree . . . to the left, looking at the house.’
Was that what Clara’s father had told her before she’d left with Nina for Australia? Nina knew there was only one way to settle the myriad questions bursting into flower in her field of dreams.
Nina had made discreet inquiries. She’d been granted a private visit with the Yugoslavian Ambassador to the United States. ‘Is it safe to visit?’ asked Nina.
The ambassador hesitated, then gave a small smile. ‘Mrs Jansous, I am aware of the position of influence you hold in this country, and your adopted country, Australia. I am also aware of the circumstances of your family. While I sympathise, there remains the fact your mother left at a time when emigration was not permitted.’ He’d spoken in the language of the diplomat, an oblique reference to Clara’s escape, engineered by her wealthy parents. ‘It could be difficult if you went back as a private citizen.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Unless . . . if you were to visit as Madame Jansous, famous magazine publisher, with a view to undertaking a philanthropic exercise, or perhaps promoting tourism . . .’ he left the suggestion dangling.
Nina had seized it quickly. ‘Such as writing about Croatia today, helping a school, or hospital, or orphanage perhaps.’
The ambassador beamed at Nina as if she had just come up with the idea out of the blue. ‘A promising notion indeed.’
And so Nina had begun to plan her trip to France and then on to Croatia. It was part sentimental journey, part a much-needed break and in part a desire to find her roots, to put to rest the questions raised in her subconscious by the flashbacks she’d been experiencing. And armed with Clara’s dying words and shreds of memories, Nina had a second secret, if hazy, plan.
The next day, Nina and Lucien walked through Dijon in a happy daze.
Later, over lunch, Lucien reached for her hand. ‘Is this to be another interlude in our lives, Nina? Is this our destiny – paths that briefly cross too many years apart?’
Nina returned the pressure of his hand. ‘It’s not how I imagined things would be. One’s dreams in life seldom work out as we’d like them to. But I don’t believe in having regrets. It’s too painful considering what might have been.’ There was a catch in her voice.
With the prescience she remembered, he asked, ‘Why are you really here in France? I believe it’s more than just a little holiday. You’ve cleared the decks for a reason.’
‘You always saw things coming before I did.’ Nina smiled fondly at him and then continued. ‘Family has become something of an issue for me. Since my mother died, it has hit me that I know so little of my own parents’ background . . . even more, perhaps, because I have no family of my own to concentrate on. Except for my goddaughter, Miche, and she has, because of sad circumstances, become even more precious to me. I know she will make a life of her own, but for the moment we are very important to each other.’
‘Why isn’t she here with you?’ asked Lucien.
‘We spent time together in Paris. She’s going to Sydney to spread her wings. With my help, but from a distance initially. I want her to find her way for a bit without my shadow swallowing her, to let her feel she’s doing it on her own. Which she is.’
‘And you?’
‘Clara told me a few stories before she died and they have been haunting me. I feel the need to go back to my homeland and assuage old ghosts. As much for Clara as for me.’
Lucien poured her another glass of chardonnay. ‘We have all the time in the world. Tell me Clara’s stories. I always loved them.’
The wine was finished and Nina realised she’d been talking for over half an hour about what Clara had told her, what she remembered as a child, and what she hoped to find and how she had set her plan in action.
Lucien listened attentively, nodding his head in agreement now and again. Nina stopped speaking and took a long deep breath.
As if discussing whether to order coffee or dessert, Lucien merely commented, ‘I’d be interested in going to Croatia with you. I’m between films and have the
luxury of choosing what I do next. I’ve often thought of making a film there, ever since Clara told me stories of her childhood, the setting of the Dalmatian coast, her escape with you. Your family saga is intriguing . . .’ He glanced at her. ‘I even thought of weaving in the story of Einstein’s abandoned daughter who was sent to a home in Croatia. What are the chances of finding, or making a claim on your family heritage?’
Nina couldn’t help laughing. ‘Lucien, you just keep going forward don’t you? You were always impetuous.’ But she couldn’t subdue the tingle of excitement at the prospect of spending more time with him. ‘The area has been through so many wars and such political and economic upheaval. So many people displaced, homeless, killed, families splintered. I wish I could help in some way. I’ve been so fortunate.’
‘You’re a very powerful woman, you just have to find the right avenue for practical, effective assistance,’ he advised. ‘Surely as a media mogul you could drum up attention in the press.’
Nina chewed her lip as she thought for a moment – a habit Lucien remembered with a pang from their early years together. ‘I’ve been thinking I could write something. I’d like to do that. I started out as a journalist. I suggested it to Ali, my Australian editor, last night. I am, after all, going on something of an intriguing journey,’ she said. ‘There must be a way of entwining my personal odyssey with raising awareness of how Croatia is today and what has happened there.’
Lucien was immediately enthusiastic. ‘It would be much safer and easier for you if I came along. I could take stills for your story.’
‘Lucien, wait. I have to think this through. Of course I’d love you to come with me. But I want to be sure . . . that you really want this.’ She looked down.
He read the subtext of what she was really saying. ‘Nina, there are no strings, no pressures, no obligations. Yes, we have both changed – how could we not after living our lives these many years?’ He paused and reached out to lightly touch her cheek. ‘Nina, could we try again? To spend a little time together? I will accept whatever terms you impose. It just seems to me that this accidental meeting wasn’t an accident . . . what do you think?’
