Deep Black - Andy McNab [20]
We walked back to ‘Chetnik Mama’. He scanned the image, his face alive with admiration.
A woman wandered past, fanning her face with her catalogue.
‘It’s one hell of a photograph. But that’s not what’s going to make this famous. It’s him.’ He tapped on the perspex where the man was helping the women in the background. ‘You know who this is? Go on, have a closer look.’
I moved in. It was Beardilocks, I was sure of it. Leaning forward, I studied his face, my eyes just inches from his. His pale skin was smooth, stretched over high cheekbones below deepset eyes. He needed to put on a bit of weight to fill out that shirt collar. What struck me most was that, even in the midst of all the death and destruction, his nails were perfectly manicured and his long dark beard neatly clipped.
‘No.’ I pulled back from the frame. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Exactly. But one day you will. His face will be on as many T-shirts as Che Guevara’s. They wanted some of my stuff here, but fuck ’em, man. I’ve had two exhibitions of my own. I’ll let them have what I want, what I think is important. Not just some stuff to fill this wall or that.’
One of the staff, a woman with blonde hair over a black polo-neck, came over to us. ‘Could you please be quiet? Images like these deserve respect, you know.’
Jerry shook his head slowly in disbelief. ‘C’mon, Nick, you want fresh air?’
We walked outside into the sun. Jerry put on a pair of mirrored wraparounds. ‘By the way, Nick, you look shit. But it’s still good to see you, man. A beer for old times’ sake?’
We turned left, looking for somewhere. I’d have one beer and go.
‘You’re married, then.’ I nodded at the gold band on his finger.
The smile hit maximum wattage. ‘We just had a daughter. She’s three months old. Chloë. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
I grinned back at him. ‘I guess she must take after her mother . . .’
‘Funny. You?’
I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about Kelly. That was private stuff. Even Ezra only got the abridged version. The full story was the only thing I had that belonged just to me.
We went into a designer bar with low lights and leather settees. There were soon two Amstel Lights on the table between us, and the conversation continued. I found myself enjoying it. He wasn’t the sort of person I would normally get to know: he was a lot better than that.
He’d been just twenty-three when we met at the Holiday Inn. His plan had been simple enough. Fly to London, buy a Hi-8 video camera to join the 35mm his mother had bought him as a graduation present, then hitchhike to Bosnia and take pictures that told the truth. He was going to sell them, once he found out how. By the sound of it, he’d done both.
‘You cover the Gulf?’
‘You kidding? With skin this colour? The last thing I need is to get on the wrong end of some friendly fire . . .’
His big challenge now was how to balance work and family. I told him I wasn’t exactly the world’s leading expert on that, but knew it wasn’t going to get any simpler.
Jerry nodded. The three of them had moved from Buffalo less than a month ago, and Renee was nesting big-time. ‘Maybe another child next year, who knows?’ He went a bit dewy-eyed again. ‘Good things, Nick. Good things.’
He ordered another beer, and I heard myself doing so too. We got back to talking about the exhibition. ‘You know what?’ His voice wavered. ‘I’ve spent all my working life managing to block out the horrors I see through the lens so I can project my message through the image, but since Chloë everything’s changed. You know what I’m saying?’ He swallowed hard. ‘Like, the tragedy of that mother trying to protect her child, knowing that she herself had only seconds left to live. Hoping desperately that someone would look after it . . . Looking at my stuff, it takes on a new meaning now. What a waste . . .’ He took a long swig. ‘It’s all bullshit, isn’t it?’
I rubbed my hand into my hair again and wiped my face with it.