Gwennie's Girl Page 30

  She turned to Benne, ‘Benne, I need to know what is going on.’

  ‘Get in the car, quickly, Lizzie. We have to go. I am driving you to Brazilia. You will be OK. Trust me. Just get in the car.’

  Lizzie knew she was vulnerable, knew she was not in control of this situation and sensed that her only hope was in fact to trust her gut feeling. Her gut said Benne was OK. She would trust Benne. Let him control the situation and trust he knew what he was doing.

  That’s a big step for you, Lizzie. Do it. Trust someone.

  She got into the car with the “cousin” sat crammed in beside her. Benne got behind the wheel, and they left for Brazilia and bumped their way over bad roads, stopping only to make sure the load was still secure.

  It was dark when they arrived. Benne pulled up in a small street behind a very glitzy, gleaming red sports car sitting empty on the edge of light from a bar further down the street. They all three got out of the pick-up, and Lizzie began to stretch and look around wondering where they were headed. Then she realised that the “cousin” was back in the vehicle, behind the wheel, and without a word, he drove away while Benne stood for a moment looking up and down the street.

  ‘Come on, Lizzie. We must be quick.’ He was reaching under the seat of the red sports car. He was jingling keys, and he was in the car. ‘Get in. Be quick.’

  ‘Benne, are we stealing this car?’

  ‘Lizzie,’ he teased, ‘I don’t think you do completely trust me, even yet, after all our time together.’

  ‘Benne, for hours in that pick-up truck you have told me nothing, not why you were late, nor why we drove here, nor who your “cousin” is or what he does. So, tell me now, are we stealing a car?’

  ‘No, Lizzie. This is my car. Trust me.’

  It was the last sentence that really unnerved her, but she threw her bag into the car and followed it herself. Benne took off at high speed. ‘Benne, at least tell me where we are going,’ she pleaded.

  ‘We are going to drive around for a little bit so you can see this beautiful city that has no heart; that was built for show of power; that is really an empty shell in our country. Then I shall take for dinner at a good restaurant because I know you are hungry since breakfast, although you don’t complain. Then I take you to the airport and put you on a plane to Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘What!’ Lizzie screeched. ‘A plane to Rio? Says who? I’ve heard nothing about Rio.’

  ‘You will be met at Rio, and you will go to Nova Iguacu. There are people there who will take care of you.’

  ‘I suppose you already have a ticket for me?’

  He opened the glove compartment and pulled out an envelope. ‘For you, madam,’ he said.

  ‘It is seriously all a bit confusing. Are these changes of plan really necessary?’ asked Lizzie.

  He was serious now. ‘Very necessary, Lizzie. We shall eat soon and you will feel better.’

  It was a quick meal but warm and delicious with beans and rich, brown stew and fresh, fresh bread. In no time it seemed, she was at the airport. Her bag was checked, she was holding a boarding pass, and Benne was kissing her good-bye.

  ‘Use the information well, Lizzie. It is costly and important.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Benne. Thank you. Thank you for all your help and all your care.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I look forward to seeing your story and report. I’ll get a copy, don’t worry. And I’ll tell the kids. Travel well.’

  ‘Benne,’ she called as he turned towards the exit.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did we steal that car?’

  ‘Trust me, Lizzie. Would I do a thing like that?’ he grinned.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know,’ Lizzie muttered as she watched him disappear.

  In due course, she arrived at Rio, was met by a small man with her name on yet another scrappy piece of paper, was driven to a church hostel and finally slept. It was here that she met three boys whose names were on the “extermination list”, boys who had run and been given shelter. It was in Nova Iguacu that she saw the daily horror of newspapers with photos everyday of murders, violent murders. Then she was back at the airport, returning to Switzerland. The strangeness now seemed like the product of her active imagination. Had she been followed? Was she being threatened? Was that why plans kept changing? Did that sort of thing really happen to middle-aged, middle-class ladies? Had she seen too many movies?

  When she made her verbal report back in the office she felt embarrassed that people might think she was making it all up—the man in the airport, the cameras, the last minute changes to her schedule, the drive in the pick-up, the visit of the police. She was, perhaps, even more surprised when it was all taken as real and somewhat ordinary.

  ‘The Securidad knew your plans before you left here, I guess,’ said one colleague. ‘It is a common form of harassment.’

  ‘But’, said Lizzie, ‘could it have been that? I mean, there was no attempt to hide. It was all sort of obvious.’

  ‘That’s what makes it harassment,’ she was told.

  ‘Do you think those contacts were in danger?’ Lizzie asked, thinking especially of Benne.

  ‘They are always in danger. It’s good you did as they suggested. They know what is best to do.’

  As Lizzie prepared to write her story, she realised she had trusted someone with her vulnerability. You haven’t done that for a while, girl. Remember Mum’s old prayer? ‘God grant me the courage to change what must be changed, the patience to accept what cannot be changed and the wisdom to know the difference.’ Pick your fights. Pick your battlegrounds. The old guerrilla tactics of, ‘Gwennie the Survivor, the Unafraid.’

  Enough Now

  Sam woke her when it was still morning and dark calling from the airport where he was about to board British Airways for London. ‘I’ll be there a few days, then I’ll come on to Geneva. I need to see you, Lizzie. We’ve wasted enough time. I think you should just go in this morning and resign. Come back with me. I need you. You’ll love it. There will be plenty for you to do.’ He rushed the words. She could hear the noise of the airport behind him and could hear his excitement.

  ‘I can’t make a decision like that right now, you crazy man,’ she said. ‘Go catch your plane and I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘I love you, Lizzie. I need you. Stop hedging and just agree. You’ll see it will be wonderful.’

  She could feel his excitement. It was good to be loved and wanted.

  ‘Go catch your plane. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Don’t think about it. Do it, girl. I need you. Got to run. See you soon—with your suitcase packed!’

  ‘Don’t pressure me, Sam. Go catch your plane.’

  ‘I’m warning you, girl. This time I mean business. Bye. Take care of yourself. Got to go.’

  The line went dead. She could picture him running for the gate smiling and sure of himself, not frightened of anything. All that strength and sureness. Would it spill over her? Would that keep her safe? Was that what she needed? Someone else to keep her safe? No, she did not need anyone she would do it herself. But then maybe to have someone else too? Think about it later. In the morning darkness, her alarm sounded, and she rolled out of bed, and another day was beginning.

  The big boss called, ‘Hi, Lizzie. Come in. Come in. Sit down.’

  Now, what?

  ‘Chechnya. We need a report urgently. OK for you to go Thursday? Here’s your brief, and you’ll get more from the guys on the desk this morning. No need to tell you to be careful—they’re making a real mess in Grozny. You’re not to go into the city itself—or what’s left of it. Just get close and let us know what, if anything, local groups can do. We’ve got all the big stuff in hand on the borders for the refugees. It’s all in there,’ he pointed to the file he’d put in front of Lizzie.

  ‘I can’t go, Thursday,’ she said. ‘Can’t I go next week?’

  ‘Next week? Have been reading the papers? Even Thursday is a bit late.’


  ‘But this war has been on again, off again for decades, centuries almost. Won’t it wait a week?’

  ‘Lizzie, the logistics guy has just got back, and he’s a mess. Says he’s never been so scared in his life. He’s not used to that sort of thing and we’re not sure his report is accurate. We need more information to be sure that we’re sending what’s needed and we need to know who can help these people—inside the borders. Come on, Lizzie. Just do it.’

  This was the second time this morning that she had heard those words: “Just do it”. So a bloke was scared, and they were sending her. Hmm.

  ‘Oh shit, all right. Thursday.’

  ‘Language, Lizzie, language,’ grinned this bloody bureaucrat who had just destroyed any chance of her spending real time with Sam. He’d arrive and she wouldn’t be here. Shit. Shit. Shit. She grumped her way back to her office, threw the file on her desk and stood looking out at the black lace of the trees against what was now a gloomy sky. She knew Sam would be pissed off because he would be disappointed, and she wondered if… would he be really angry. She just wasn’t sure. ‘I’ll try to telephone him—or hope he calls me. He will call, I’m sure. Then, at least, he’ll know. Maybe he won’t come at all.’

  ‘Talking to yourself, Lizzie?’

  She turned to see her secretary standing in the doorway, grinning.

  ‘First sign of madness, they say,’ she continued. ‘You look miserable. What do you mean “maybe he won’t come”, love? Of course he’ll come.’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t be here,’ explained Lizzie. ‘It’s Chechnya on Thursday. Not sure when I’ll be back.’

  ‘Chechnya? Another war? What do these boys think you are?’

  ‘C’mon, we all know I don’t usually mind. It’s just that Sam rang this morning. He’s on his way to London and said he’d come over for a couple of days. It’s a shit that I won’t be here.’

  ‘You know, sister, it’s time you took that man seriously. You’ve done the adventure bit around here. You’ve told the stories that can make a difference. You’ve done more than your share. It’s enough now. Marry him. Or at least go and live with him. He’s crazy about you, and he would look after you. You could do with a bit of nurturing, my lady. Think what it would be like. He’d spoil you and love you, and from what I see, he has too much sense to think he can control you!’

  ‘But I’m happy as I am with no risk, no doubts. Life is simple and happy for me here. I like being on my own. I really do.’

  ‘Lizzie, for a woman who takes a lot of chances, you are sometimes a real coward. What do you mean your life has no risks? You are always in risky places. Get real woman. This is a good man. Take the chance on him. Give him a go. Don’t marry him if you’re not sure but take the step. Trust what he says. You know you’re OK on your own but it might be better than OK with him.’

  ‘You’re a romantic,’ grinned Lizzie.

  ‘Read your own poster,’ retorted her friend. The poster was old, dog-eared and spotty now. Lizzie looked at Amelia Earhart, all soft, feminine in shades of pink and brown with her aviator’s goggles and a leather hat.

  When an adventure is offered, you don’t refuse it. All very well Amelia but you probably landed in the drink.

  That night, Sam telephoned from London. ‘You’re not serious?’ he groaned when she broke the news about leaving for Chechnya on Thursday. ‘Can’t you put it off?’

  ‘I tried, Sam, but it can’t be done. I have to leave Thursday morning. I’m really sorry. I’m disappointed too.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s OK, Lizzie. I know you wouldn’t do it deliberately. Well, I shall just have to come over on Wednesday night. How about a date for dinner, and I’ll stay and see you off at the airport, next morning?’

  ‘Oh, Sam, that would be fantastic. Can you manage it? What about all your meetings?’

  ‘I’ll be there, girl. I’ll just need to re-schedule a few things. Who knows? I may even be able to come over again for a few days when you get back from this next hellhole you’re visiting.’

  ‘Do you think you could? I’ll tell them I’m taking the days off and they can’t send me off again, straight away. I’ll do the report in the plane. It would be wonderful.’

  ‘OK. It’s a deal. I’ll see you Wednesday night, wave you off with a white lace handkerchief and be there to greet you on your return. Is it a deal?’

  ‘It’s a deal. You’re marvellous. Shall we stay in Geneva, or shall I book somewhere out of town?’

  ‘Out of town, my girl, and you do not, I repeat, do not, tell your office where you are going. I want to talk to you (among other things) on Wednesday night, and I want you all to myself for a few days when you get back. So make sure you get back in one piece. Hell! When I think about it, why are you going to Chechnya anyway? They’re bombing the shit out of that place. You can’t be going into Grozny. Can you?’

  ‘No. I’m ordered to go no nearer than the outskirts. I might not even get that far, who knows?’

  ‘It’s time I took you in hand, young woman. I’ll just have to carry you off and hold you hostage in some sewing circle or ladies tea-group. Chechnya, for Pete’s sake. I’m in love with a lunatic.’

  ‘Are you? With me? Are you really in love, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, woman. I am in love. I’ll show you how much when I see you Wednesday. And book us in somewhere romantic and sexy. Nothing simple or politically correct. Find us a bit of decadent luxury. OK?’

  ‘It’s a deal. I’ll let you know where on Wednesday.’

  By the time Lizzie met him at the airport, she was all packed and ready to leave the next morning with her desk at the office cleared so the evening was free. Sam came into the arrivals area looking tanned and fit. It would seem that Thailand agreed with him.

  He kissed her and gave her a hug. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said and Lizzie felt her eyes fill with tears because it was good to be wanted and loved. She felt him scrutinising her face. ‘You’re tired before you set off on this latest escapade,’ he said. ‘Can’t you get out of it?’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ answered Lizzie, ‘but I’m OK really. I’ve just had a rather difficult week—and I’m disappointed too, you know. It takes it out of me, a bit.’

  She wondered if he would say any more, but he just put his arm around her shoulder, picked up his suit bag and headed for the door. ‘So where are we eating, my lady?’ he asked when they were settled in the car.

  ‘Are you in a carnivorous mood? Do you fancy fish? Or a fondue? You say and I’ll choose the restaurant,’ replied Lizzie

  ‘Well, I’ve been eating British fish and chips for a couple of days. What about a good old Swiss fondue?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Lizzie. ‘So, we’ll go to the local. It’s always reliable, and I love the place. I’ll park the car, and we can walk down. Do you want to wash up or change first?’

  ‘If I get you back to that apartment, my girl, we will not go out to eat. Blast the hours here. No lunch after 2 pm and no dinner after 10 pm. Bloody uncivilised, I call it. So, let’s eat first and then you may lure me into your clutches, into that little love nest of yours.’

  They left the car and wandered down the street, holding hands like a pair of adolescents. Lizzie was greeted with a smile when they entered the corner restaurant. There were never tourists here, only lots of regulars, some of whom nodded too, while she and Sam took off their coats and scarves and hung them near the heavy curtain that kept the draught out while the door opened and shut.

  It was always a little like entering Dr Who’s time machine when you were between the door and the curtain, but it was warm and snug inside. In the first section was a bar and tables with people relaxing over the small glasses used for wine when you were not having a meal. On most tables, there were pewter carafes, half a litre, a litre, depending on the number of drinkers—and the drinkers’ capacity. Lizzie and Sam were shown into the fondue area. Because of the strong cheesy smell, most restaurants kept a separate section for
fondue eaters. Their table was in the corner, with two pew-like benches, so it was rather like a cosy cubicle. Almost every inch of every wall was covered with old, wooden skis, brass and copper pots, farming implements, snowshoes and an assortment of odds and ends that looked more like instruments of torture than anything else. But everything was mellow with the soft patina of age and only the occasional glint of copper or brass broke the uniform glow.

  The fondues were wonderful. Bubbling cheese and wine with herbs or mushrooms and long forks to dip the cubes of crusty bread and twist them around before making the distance from pot to mouth without dripping cheese. As the pot was emptied, a crispy, crunchy coating was always left on the base known as “the nun’s portion”, and it was scratched up and shared as the final delight. If one did not want simple cheese fondue there was bubbling cheese, wine and tomato eaten with hot potatoes boiled in their jackets and brought to the table, wrapped in red-and-white checked cloths in shallow baskets. Fendant was the preferred drink, grown on incredibly neat vines in incredibly neat terraces overlooking Lac Leman. Lizzie always loved the difference between the upright, prim, trim Swiss vines and the flamboyance of the French ones and the “let-it-all-hang-out” Italian versions.

  Sam and Lizzie were both hungry so the food tasted better than ever. Conversation was easy between them, as Sam talked about his house and garden, his stuff at the office, the particular problems of working in an Asian culture and the joy and beauty that made those difficulties all worthwhile. He was animated and, again, Lizzie thought he was thriving on the newness and the challenges. He had also made sure he was up to date about the war in Chechnya so he could talk to her about the coming mission and what she hoped to achieve. He didn’t ask again about her not going, just told her, ‘Be careful, Lizzie I need you to come back—and preferably in one piece.’

  Over the last of their wine, they sat, replete and relaxed, and he took both her hands in his, across the table. ‘So, what about it, Lizzie?’

  She looked down at their fingers intertwined on the cloth and didn’t know how to answer.