by Di Morrissey
Miche looked pleased. ‘Well, I had a lot of good material to work with. It was quite an experience. And spending so much time with her was a luxury. I hope Sally doesn’t feel I betrayed her confidence. I can’t imagine having that sort of access to other subjects.’
‘It’s likely you won’t. But if you are thorough and careful and balanced, you can build up a reputation so that people want to be interviewed by you.’
‘I don’t want to do puff jobs to please the subject like so many journos seem to do!’ exclaimed Miche. ‘Nor do I want to be an utter bitch and rip into people just to be sensationalist. I’ve noticed that many writers who take that kind of tack spend half of the article talking about themselves.’
‘Good point. So what are you going to do next?’
‘Depends on Ali. I’m going in to see her on Monday.’
‘Make an appointment with Belinda,’ advised Larissa. ‘Ali doesn’t subscribe to an open-door policy.’
*
Miche sat before Ali’s desk trying to reposition the shadowy figure that had so haunted her mother. Miche always thought of dinnertime with her late mother as ‘Time for Tales of Ali’. Lorraine always came home and bitched about the young woman she was so threatened by. Now Miche faced this same woman who was boldly wearing the mantle of the sleek, slick editor.
Ali was inscrutable behind the dark Chanel sunglasses, yet it seemed to Miche she was uncomfortable. ‘You’re staying with Larissa?’ asked Ali.
‘Yes. Until I find my own place. I’ll share, I guess.’ Miche paused, waiting for details of the job she was here to take up.
‘In Sydney?’
Miche stared at Ali. ‘Of course. Unless you plan to send me somewhere else?’
‘It’s up to you. Your piece on the model Sally Shaw is excellent. I’m glad I organised for Donald to do the photographs,’ said Ali, making it sound as though Donald’s photographs had saved Miche’s article. ‘However, I don’t know that you’ll find a story so suited to your, er, talents every month. We are happy to consider any suggestions or submissions.’
Miche flinched. ‘Excuse me? Ali, I understood from Nina I was to take a full-time position here. I have come all the way across the world on that assumption.’
‘Assume nothing,’ said Ali cryptically. ‘Nina mentioned your talents and I am buying your Sally Shaw piece. Finding subjects so suited to your . . . interests might not be always so easy.’
Miche was close to tears, but too angry to cry. ‘I feel confident I can write well about any subject I might be given. I realise I’m not that experienced but . . . I do have to support myself,’ she added pointedly.
‘We pay the going rate for articles. It’s quite generous. I suggest you go and talk to Bob Monroe, our features ed, about story ideas. As far as being on staff, that’s out of the question. You’ll be a regular contributor depending on editorial space and content.’
‘I see.’ Miche rose, furious at Ali and scared about her prospects. ‘I’ll make an appointment to see Mr Monroe.’
‘Ask Belinda now. He may be free. And Miche, in your own best interests, downplay your association with Nina. You don’t want murmurs about nepotism. Surviving on your own merits is always best.’
‘You bet. It’s what my mother taught me.’ Miche headed for the door. ‘Thanks for the time.’ She didn’t look back at the figure behind the desk.
Ali groped for a parting pleasantry. ‘Your article is the lead feature next issue, by the way.’
But Miche was quietly shutting the door and in minutes had been directed to Larissa’s office where she burst into tears.
Larissa gave her a hug. ‘God, she’s a bitch. Of course you should have a full-time job. She doesn’t want you on the staff payroll so she doesn’t have to pay all the loadings. You’ll make more money freelancing anyway. And, you’re a free agent, Miche. You can sell your articles anywhere. She may have done you a favour.’
Miche wiped her nose with a tissue. ‘I guess so. It’s not what I expected. I guess I was remembering how comforting Blaze used to be in New York, when Nina was there. God, no wonder everyone here seems so scared of Ali.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve just come into the building.’
‘I watched a few of the younger girls in the hall outside Ali’s office. They scurried with their heads down like frightened mice. Albeit rather elegant mice.’
Larissa laughed. ‘Yes. Ali sent out an edict that she was not to be publicly addressed by the juniors. She doesn’t pass the time of the day with minions. If they walk in the elevator with her, they stand at the back looking at their shoes and wait till she leaves before moving, even riding past their floor.’
‘Well, I’m glad I have to pitch ideas to Bob Monroe and not Ali,’ sighed Miche.
‘Yes. Be glad you’re not an executive or senior staffer having to pitch their ideas to the playpen.’ Miche looked at her quizzically. ‘I’ll explain later. Come on, I’ll treat you to lunch.’
It was just before daylight when Nina arrived back at the city hotel she’d left two days before. The lone concierge, who’d not been at the desk on her last visit, seemed suspicious of a foreign lady turning up at 5 a.m. He explained she could wait in the early-opening café until the day manager came on duty at six.
The dark-walled Dalmatian Café had carpet the shade of dried blood, musty brocade curtains and solid chairs and tables with functional settings. She imagined the food was as heavy and stodgy as the surroundings. It was a room designed to brood in over the thick coffee that Nina sipped as she waited, trying not to fume.
She did not see the old concierge from the apartment block where she’d been staying, hurry from the hotel manager’s office.
The duty manager appeared half an hour later and explained a room would be ready as soon as possible.
‘I don’t need a room for very long. I’m leaving for the airport as soon as I shower and make a phone call and collect my papers from your safe,’ said Nina.
He shuffled and clasped his hands together. ‘Madame, I am not authorised to open the safe. I am only the duty manager. The hotel manager and the receptionist will be here very soon.’ He gave her a pained, somewhat puzzled look. ‘Madame, you checked out of our hotel. Why did you not take your passport? It is an important document.’
‘I am aware of that. Which is why I preferred to leave it here in your safe while I was travelling and . . . sightseeing. I told the receptionist I would be checking back into the hotel.’
‘There is no booking here, Madame.’
‘I know, I didn’t know when I’d be returning. Your hotel doesn’t seem very busy,’ commented Nina, who had rarely seen more than a handful of guests in the hotel. ‘I felt confident you would have a room for me.’ She tried a smile in the hope of thawing the frostiness of the little man who wore his official position like a giant, fur-lined cloak. Was he naked like a plucked bird beneath the enormous coat of officialdom? Nina’s smile became genuine and she inwardly giggled at the concept of her metaphor. The duty manager saw no humour in the occasion.
So she sat, waiting for the hotel manager to arrive, sipping another lukewarm coffee, convinced there was a room ready. The duty manager seemed to be one of those officious types who bustled and bossed, appearing to be very busy, yet rarely making a decision.
Nina finished her coffee and decided she would wait no longer. As she headed back into the lobby, a man in a dark suit politely greeted her. ‘Mrs Jansous, I am Mr Zarvic, the manager. Your suite is ready. Please, forgive the delay.’ He spoke in English.
‘Where is my luggage?’
‘It has been sent to the room. I understand you wish to retrieve items from the safe?’ He went back behind the dark-wood reception desk. He leaned across the oak divide and spoke in a low voice. ‘Madame, would it not be best to leave your documents in safe-keeping? Until you leave?’
Nina hesitated. Yes, it would, but instinct told her to retrieve her passport and extra travellers’ cheques. ‘I have
other documents I wish to put away and I’d like to take out some money.’
The manager paused a fraction then quickly waved a hand. ‘Please, Madame, you can obtain money from our cashier and add it to your bill.’
Nina was gently insistent. ‘I’d like my documents, please.’
‘Of course. Would you mind signing this form so we may match the signature on the deposit slip? Then it will be sent to your room. Which I hope is to your liking.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘I will escort you to the lift, Madame.’
‘Could you please arrange for a taxi to take me to the airport in an hour or so.’ Nina was going to jump on the first plane that took her closer to Lucien.
The manager reacted with instant concern. ‘But Madame, there are no planes. There is a bomb scare. The airport is closed. I suggest you stay here for a day. The planes will be flying again in twenty-four hours,’ he explained cheerfully.
‘What do you mean a bomb scare? Why? Who?’
‘Madame, such things happen at any time all over the world. The actions of one desperate person or group cannot reflect on whatever unfortunate city or country or airline they choose. Please, we have a beautiful suite for you. Enjoy our hospitality and our city.’ He gave a slight inclination of his head and smiled.
Nina sighed. She had little choice, it seemed. He handed her a key. ‘We will be happy to take you to the airport in our hotel limousine. If you want to leave your rental car here we can arrange for it to be collected and the account added to your bill. As soon as the airport is open, we will let you know.’
‘Thank you. That would be helpful. I don’t suppose I can make a reservation now?’
‘To where, Madame?’
‘The first plane out that can take me to . . . France or Italy.’
He gave her a flash of a raised eyebrow look, but remained obsequious. ‘We will do our very best.’ He led her gently towards the lifts.
Nina felt she was being bulldozed, that they were avoiding producing her passport. But she was more concerned about her luggage, so she followed the manager to the elevator as he handed her a key.
The room was large and lavish in an overstuffed, ornate, antique European style. A maid was opening the heavy drapes in the sitting room, a vase of fresh flowers sat on a coffee table. Nina walked through to the bedroom to find her suitcases open, spread on the bed. Her coat was hanging in the open closet.
The maid bustled in, apologising for not having unpacked. She lifted the top outfit from the bag, but Nina politely stopped her, speaking in Croatian. ‘That is not necessary. I will manage. Thank you very much.’
As the door closed behind the maid, Nina hurriedly checked her bag. The journal and jewellery were intact. She breathed a sigh. Why did she feel that these documents were looming as a liability? Why did she feel she had to hide them in her luggage? It was doubtful customs officers would search her bags and they were, after all, her family possessions. She longed to show them to Lucien.
She rang his home, but there was no answer. She then dialled his office. The answering machine came on. ‘This is a message for Lucien from Nina. Don’t come to Zagreb, I’m taking the first plane out, hopefully to France . . . or Italy. I’ve found more than I expected. There’s no trouble, but I want to come back. I’d like you with me . . . for lots of reasons. Not just because I love you. If you return in time, call me at the hotel. I’m in room twenty-six. Otherwise I’ll call you from the airport and give you my destination and you can meet me there. Bye, darling.’
She began to dream about returning to Zagreb with Lucien and discovering the city and surrounding areas. How wonderful to explore it all with him. It hit her hard how much she had missed this – travelling for pleasure with a loved companion. All the trips she’d made around the world had been dedicated to business. The few times she’d taken true holiday breaks had been with Clara or on her own. Even after her marriage to Paul Jansous, she and her new husband had postponed their honeymoon, but had never taken their planned world tour due to work pressures. They’d thought there’d be time for that later. Instead she’d become a young widow who’d taken on an enormous responsibility with her own business.
Nina took a leisurely bath, ordered coffee and cake then began to make notes of events over the past few days.
After a while she paused, twiddling with her pen as she reread what she’d written.
Nina then called Belinda who put her through to Ali.
‘Hello, Nina . . . this is a surprise. I’m just about to go into a meeting. I thought you were travelling, exploring, researching and so on.’ Ali pre-empted a long conversation.
‘I’ve been researching my grandparents’ old home and I think I’ve stumbled onto something interesting. A kind of buried treasure. From what I can make out with my basic language and a dictionary, I think my grandfather led something of a secret life.’
‘Really? Well, I’ll look forward to reading it . . . in due course. Was there anything I can do . . . ?’ Ali didn’t sound the least bit interested.
Nina hesitated. ‘I wanted to discuss it with you, or perhaps with Larissa if you’re busy. I may need assistance from someone with historical and political knowledge of this part of the world.’
Ali groaned inwardly. This was sounding more boring than she’d imagined. ‘I’m sure this is all fascinating to you. But are you sure it’s going to interest Blaze readers?’ Ali didn’t want to put Nina off the idea as long as it kept her away. ‘I mean, maybe you should do a bit more digging while you’re over there. What sort of treasure, by the way?’
‘Family artefacts and old papers. Buried in my grand-father’s garden. Can you believe it? The house has long gone, a dreadful block of flats is there, but part of the garden is still intact. I found a journal he kept during the war . . . I think it could embarrass or even incriminate a few powerful figures here.’
‘Hmmm. You sure you haven’t stumbled onto a Hitler’s diaries type of hoax?’
‘This stuff hasn’t been touched since around 1946. The political issues aside, it’s a pretty interesting personal story, don’t you think? It’s turning out to be a bit more than a visit to the old homeland and looking for family roots,’ Nina pointed out.
‘You know what we want in the magazine, Nina. You just keep delving. Maybe there’s a lot more to find. Take your time – all is well here. Now I really have to . . .’
‘Can you transfer me to Larissa or Bob Monroe please, Ali?’
‘Editorial meeting,’ said Ali quickly. ‘I’ll have someone call you. Nice talking to you, Nina.’
Nina stared at the handset as the disconnected phone line began humming. She put the bedside phone back in its cradle.
The doorbell buzzed. The hotel concierge, who had made her wait earlier that morning, stood smiling politely. He handed her a manila envelope. ‘Your papers from the safe, Madame.’
‘Thank you.’ Nina took the package then, on a sudden impulse, asked, ‘I have something else to leave in the safe. Could you wait a moment?’ She went into the bedroom and retrieved the old journal. She shook out her passport and traveller’s cheques and put the journal in the strong manila envelope, resealed it and twisted the cord around the two tabs and signed her name across the flap.
She handed it to the manager. ‘Would you return that to the safe for me, please. I’ll sign whatever you need when I check out.’
‘Of course, Madame.’
As he opened the door, Nina added as an afterthought, ‘It’s not valuable. Just sentimental.’
He nodded and closed the door quietly behind him. It was only much later that Nina wondered why he was in casual clothes and not the formal suit he’d worn on duty.
Nina spread the jewellery on the bed, carefully studying each piece. These had belonged to her grandmother and Nina had faint memories of Clara carrying her in to say goodnight to her grandparents. Her grandfather’s smile reserved just for her, Grandmama stooping to kiss her on the cheek or smooth her hair in place. She liked to think
she could remember her wearing these pieces of jewellery, but was more likely recalling photographs of her elegant and wealthy grandmother. All Nina really remembered was the dragonfly pin. Its glittering ruby eyes and diamond wings had always fascinated her. These pieces needed cleaning, so she put the necklaces and ornate chokers, the elaborate bracelets, the pearls rolled in a silk bag, and the rings in their boxes back into the leather pouch. She kept out one piece – a gold signet ring that had what looked to be a family crest on it – and slipped it onto her finger. She didn’t want to go through the drama of having the safe opened again, and something told her not to let anyone see her putting away what appeared to be a fat stash of jewellery. So she looked around for somewhere to hide the pouch, finally settling on an ornamental vase high on the shelves above the bureau.
Nina then went for a walk, hoping the situation at the airport would soon be resolved and planes could start moving.
Sun washed over the beautiful old stone buildings, but they still looked cold and impersonal, like black and white photographs in an album compared to colour prints. She came to a row of cafés that looked more cheerful than the mournful coffee shop at the hotel. Nestled alongside the cafés were a few boutiques selling luxury items – leather shops, a furrier, an expensive food store with imported goods including liquor, liqueurs and chocolates. Nina was in the up-market section of the city where tourists or the very wealthy local residents shopped. An antiquarian bookstore and a jeweller were across the street and Nina crossed the wide avenue, heading for the bookshop, but on impulse swerved into the jewellers. Antique estate jewellery and a replica Fabergé egg were displayed on dusty black velvet. The signage was in English as well as Croatian. The door tinkled as she pushed it open.
A balding, bespectacled gentleman lifted his head from the jewellers’ eyepiece that he’d been using to study a ring. He pushed his glasses on top of his head and rose to greet her.
‘Good morning, Madame. How may I assist you?’ He spoke Croatian with a German accent.
Nina answered in English. ‘I was wondering if you can tell me anything about this.’ She pulled the ring from her finger. ‘It has been in storage a rather long time, I’m afraid.’
