moments of contemplation, he said, ‘Can I ask you something, Pidge?’
‘You can ask me anything.’
‘Why is it that some combat photographers come out done in, shattered like I am, and others don’t?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’re up front with the troops, and just because it says PRESS on our helmets and flak jackets it doesn’t mean we’re not going to get shot at. We’re often targeted because we
are
the press. Let’s face it – we’re in the trenches with the troops. Some photographers handle that well. They can seemingly cope forever. Others just can’t.’
I shook my head. ‘Let me correct myself, most of us can’t cope. Not in the end. Because we’ve witnessed too much horrific stuff. And you know that a lot of troops return home suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as some combat journalists.’
‘I don’t have PTSD.’ He looked at me intently.
‘But you are shattered, Zac. You will get better, though.’
‘I hope to God I will.’ He glanced around Florian’s, almost as if to reassure himself where he was. ‘We get hooked on war, don’t we?’
‘We do. All of us. That adrenaline rush is very addictive. But the smart ones get out. Eventually. And stay out, if they know what’s good for them – lead safer lives.’
He was silent for a moment or two, then he leaned closer, said quietly, ‘I can’t go back, Serena. Whatever you might think, I just can’t hack it any more.’
A surge of relief ran through me. I was convinced he meant every word and that he would not change his mind.
We had been sitting in Florian’s for hours, and when we finally left it was early evening. We walked back to the bolthole in silence. But that had never been a problem for us; our silences were companionable.
I glanced around, feeling relaxed. Venice had that effect on me. The piazza was much less crowded because of the hour; the wind had dropped and it was a pleasant evening.
I looked up. The sky had changed, had deepened to a soft pavonine blue, and the fading light bathed everything in a hazy softness, as if a gauze veil had been draped over the ancient buildings.
Venice was calm, seemed otherworldly in the twilight. I had always loved this place from my childhood, and it held happy memories for me. I realized it was a good place for Zac to recover, and I was happy Harry had thought of putting him in the bolthole.
At one moment, Zac took hold of my hand when we were in the middle of the square, swung me around to face him.
‘What is it?’
‘What happened to me? To you? To us, Serena?’
I was silent for a second, then I said, ‘Life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Life got in the way. It changed you, it changed me.’
‘Do you mean it also split us up?’
‘Sort of, yes. We’re victims of Life, and all the nasty tricks it plays on people. Life frequently comes up to hit you in the face.’
‘Can it be repaired?’ he asked quietly.
‘What?’
‘Our relationship?’
I stiffened involuntarily, and did not answer at first. Finally, I said in a low, noncommittal voice, ‘I don’t know … I’m not really sure, Zac.’
He nodded.
We started to walk across the square again. As we approached the street where the bolthole was located, he said in a soft, loving voice, ‘I still have feelings for you.’
When I did not respond, he asked, ‘Do you?’
‘Certain feelings, yes. However, the most important thing is for you to get better, Zac. Only then can we think about our past relationship.’ I was careful not to mention the future.
‘Understood,’ he muttered.
We went on up the street in silence.
F IFTEEN
W hen the noise first started and I woke up with a start, I thought, for a split second, that someone was banging a nail into a wall to hang a picture. Then, as it grew louder, and more intense, I decided it must be filtering in from outside. But no, it wasn’t.
The noise was actually coming from the living room, just
‘You can ask me anything.’
‘Why is it that some combat photographers come out done in, shattered like I am, and others don’t?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’re up front with the troops, and just because it says PRESS on our helmets and flak jackets it doesn’t mean we’re not going to get shot at. We’re often targeted because we
are
the press. Let’s face it – we’re in the trenches with the troops. Some photographers handle that well. They can seemingly cope forever. Others just can’t.’
I shook my head. ‘Let me correct myself, most of us can’t cope. Not in the end. Because we’ve witnessed too much horrific stuff. And you know that a lot of troops return home suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as some combat journalists.’
‘I don’t have PTSD.’ He looked at me intently.
‘But you are shattered, Zac. You will get better, though.’
‘I hope to God I will.’ He glanced around Florian’s, almost as if to reassure himself where he was. ‘We get hooked on war, don’t we?’
‘We do. All of us. That adrenaline rush is very addictive. But the smart ones get out. Eventually. And stay out, if they know what’s good for them – lead safer lives.’
He was silent for a moment or two, then he leaned closer, said quietly, ‘I can’t go back, Serena. Whatever you might think, I just can’t hack it any more.’
A surge of relief ran through me. I was convinced he meant every word and that he would not change his mind.
We had been sitting in Florian’s for hours, and when we finally left it was early evening. We walked back to the bolthole in silence. But that had never been a problem for us; our silences were companionable.
I glanced around, feeling relaxed. Venice had that effect on me. The piazza was much less crowded because of the hour; the wind had dropped and it was a pleasant evening.
I looked up. The sky had changed, had deepened to a soft pavonine blue, and the fading light bathed everything in a hazy softness, as if a gauze veil had been draped over the ancient buildings.
Venice was calm, seemed otherworldly in the twilight. I had always loved this place from my childhood, and it held happy memories for me. I realized it was a good place for Zac to recover, and I was happy Harry had thought of putting him in the bolthole.
At one moment, Zac took hold of my hand when we were in the middle of the square, swung me around to face him.
‘What is it?’
‘What happened to me? To you? To us, Serena?’
I was silent for a second, then I said, ‘Life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Life got in the way. It changed you, it changed me.’
‘Do you mean it also split us up?’
‘Sort of, yes. We’re victims of Life, and all the nasty tricks it plays on people. Life frequently comes up to hit you in the face.’
‘Can it be repaired?’ he asked quietly.
‘What?’
‘Our relationship?’
I stiffened involuntarily, and did not answer at first. Finally, I said in a low, noncommittal voice, ‘I don’t know … I’m not really sure, Zac.’
He nodded.
We started to walk across the square again. As we approached the street where the bolthole was located, he said in a soft, loving voice, ‘I still have feelings for you.’
When I did not respond, he asked, ‘Do you?’
‘Certain feelings, yes. However, the most important thing is for you to get better, Zac. Only then can we think about our past relationship.’ I was careful not to mention the future.
‘Understood,’ he muttered.
We went on up the street in silence.
F IFTEEN
W hen the noise first started and I woke up with a start, I thought, for a split second, that someone was banging a nail into a wall to hang a picture. Then, as it grew louder, and more intense, I decided it must be filtering in from outside. But no, it wasn’t.
The noise was actually coming from the living room, just
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