up.
‘Just one floor.’ Jerry was beaming like a Jehovah’s Witness who’d just added a brand new member to his congregation. ‘Hope she’s in. We normally take Chloë to the park about now.’ He turned towards me. ‘Nick . . .’ His voice dropped. ‘I never really got round to thanking you once we got back to Sarajevo. I’ve replayed it in my head so many times. I just want to say—’
I put my hand up to stop him. ‘Whoa, it’s OK. It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it.’ I didn’t want to go into all that stuff right now. Better to let it stay in its box.
He was a little disappointed, but nodded all the same. ‘Thanks anyway. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.’
The elevator stopped and Jerry played with his keys as we headed towards the apartment.
The white-walled corridor was lined with good grey carpet. The place was spotless. Most of the inhabitants probably worked in the embassies we’d driven past.
The moment he pushed the key into the door of 107, I was hit by the smell of fresh paint. He pointed along the passage. ‘No stroller. Coffee? We’ll go in the lounge. Too many fumes everywhere else. Sorry about the mess. You know how it is with moving.’
I didn’t really. I hadn’t been lying to George: my whole life fitted into two carry-ons.
The doors to two bedrooms were open on the right. Each had just a mattress on the floor, and piles of boxes and clothes.
The lounge was stark white. No curtains yet, but a TV, VCR and music centre with red illuminated LEDs. It didn’t look as if they were planning to keep the old carpet: it was covered with fresh paint stains. Everything else was baby stuff, changing mats, nappy bags and the smell of talcum powder. In the corner stood a blue carrycot on a stand, a plastic mobile with stars and teddy bears above it.
I could see a parade of pictures of all three of them along the mantelpiece. There were even a couple of Polaroids of Chloë on her own, looking very blue and wrinkly. The normal thing proud parents did, I supposed. The pictures were probably the first thing they’d unpacked.
He opened a box containing reams of contact sheets and photographs, all carefully protected in plastic sleeves.
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘And then some. See what you think.’
He went into the kitchen, leaving me to it.
Jerry really had come a long way since the days he carried his mum’s birthday present round his neck. He’d covered everything from the wars in Ethiopia and the refugee camps in Gaza to the Pope weeping in what looked like a South American slum.
Jerry clattered away in the kitchen as I held contact sheet after contact sheet up to the light.
When the serving hatch opened and a tray of percolated coffee and mugs appeared, I held up a laminated front page of the New York Times . ‘This Sudan picture one of yours?’
A tiny starving girl, no more than a bag of bones really, hunched naked in the dirt. Behind her, watching her every move, stood a vulture. It wasn’t just the picture that was fucked up. Beside it was an ad for a multi-thousand-dollar Cartier watch.
Jerry leaned through the hatch. ‘I wish. It’s one of Kevin Carter’s. He’s dead now. He won a Pulitzer for it.’
As I stood to collect the tray, a key turned in the lock.
‘They’re back.’ For the first time, he sounded just a little bit anxious.
I let him get on with family stuff and went over to the sofa, dumping the brew on a packing case. I could see into the corridor.
Renee wore jeans and a long, thick, hairy nylon coat, a sort of bluey-green colour. She shushed him as he went to kiss her. Chloë was asleep. As Jerry started to unstrap the baby from the stroller, she shrugged off the coat and came towards me. Her smile broadened but she kept her voice low. ‘Well, hello!’ She had a happy, homely face on a small skinny body. Her brown hair was gathered at the neck, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. ‘I’m Renee.’ She held out her hand.
‘Just one floor.’ Jerry was beaming like a Jehovah’s Witness who’d just added a brand new member to his congregation. ‘Hope she’s in. We normally take Chloë to the park about now.’ He turned towards me. ‘Nick . . .’ His voice dropped. ‘I never really got round to thanking you once we got back to Sarajevo. I’ve replayed it in my head so many times. I just want to say—’
I put my hand up to stop him. ‘Whoa, it’s OK. It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it.’ I didn’t want to go into all that stuff right now. Better to let it stay in its box.
He was a little disappointed, but nodded all the same. ‘Thanks anyway. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.’
The elevator stopped and Jerry played with his keys as we headed towards the apartment.
The white-walled corridor was lined with good grey carpet. The place was spotless. Most of the inhabitants probably worked in the embassies we’d driven past.
The moment he pushed the key into the door of 107, I was hit by the smell of fresh paint. He pointed along the passage. ‘No stroller. Coffee? We’ll go in the lounge. Too many fumes everywhere else. Sorry about the mess. You know how it is with moving.’
I didn’t really. I hadn’t been lying to George: my whole life fitted into two carry-ons.
The doors to two bedrooms were open on the right. Each had just a mattress on the floor, and piles of boxes and clothes.
The lounge was stark white. No curtains yet, but a TV, VCR and music centre with red illuminated LEDs. It didn’t look as if they were planning to keep the old carpet: it was covered with fresh paint stains. Everything else was baby stuff, changing mats, nappy bags and the smell of talcum powder. In the corner stood a blue carrycot on a stand, a plastic mobile with stars and teddy bears above it.
I could see a parade of pictures of all three of them along the mantelpiece. There were even a couple of Polaroids of Chloë on her own, looking very blue and wrinkly. The normal thing proud parents did, I supposed. The pictures were probably the first thing they’d unpacked.
He opened a box containing reams of contact sheets and photographs, all carefully protected in plastic sleeves.
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘And then some. See what you think.’
He went into the kitchen, leaving me to it.
Jerry really had come a long way since the days he carried his mum’s birthday present round his neck. He’d covered everything from the wars in Ethiopia and the refugee camps in Gaza to the Pope weeping in what looked like a South American slum.
Jerry clattered away in the kitchen as I held contact sheet after contact sheet up to the light.
When the serving hatch opened and a tray of percolated coffee and mugs appeared, I held up a laminated front page of the New York Times . ‘This Sudan picture one of yours?’
A tiny starving girl, no more than a bag of bones really, hunched naked in the dirt. Behind her, watching her every move, stood a vulture. It wasn’t just the picture that was fucked up. Beside it was an ad for a multi-thousand-dollar Cartier watch.
Jerry leaned through the hatch. ‘I wish. It’s one of Kevin Carter’s. He’s dead now. He won a Pulitzer for it.’
As I stood to collect the tray, a key turned in the lock.
‘They’re back.’ For the first time, he sounded just a little bit anxious.
I let him get on with family stuff and went over to the sofa, dumping the brew on a packing case. I could see into the corridor.
Renee wore jeans and a long, thick, hairy nylon coat, a sort of bluey-green colour. She shushed him as he went to kiss her. Chloë was asleep. As Jerry started to unstrap the baby from the stroller, she shrugged off the coat and came towards me. Her smile broadened but she kept her voice low. ‘Well, hello!’ She had a happy, homely face on a small skinny body. Her brown hair was gathered at the neck, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. ‘I’m Renee.’ She held out her hand.
Similar Books
