The Smoke Jumper Read online

‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few months, maybe.’

  ‘Where?’

  Julia had the magazine ready and pushed it across the table.

  Amy glanced at it and went on eating her spaghetti.

  ‘I already saw that. Is that where you’d work?’

  ‘If they’d have me. Did you read it?’

  ‘Sure. I always read Connor’s stuff. Is that where he lives?’

  Julia laughed. ‘Oh, no. I think he was just visiting. I don’t know where he is right now. Where was that last postcard he sent you from?’

  Amy frowned, wrinkling her little nose. ‘I think it was . . . India. Is Uganda like Kenya?’

  ‘It’s right next door. People say it’s even more beautiful.

  They call it the Pearl of Africa.’

  ‘The Pearl of Africa.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you and me going to help these children in Uganda.’

  ‘I get to help too?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure there’s plenty to do.’

  Amy shrugged. ‘Cool.’

  ‘You mean you’d like to?’

  ‘Sure. May I have some more spaghetti?’

  Julia found the phone number of the charity in Geneva and called them. An efficient-sounding woman with a French accent said yes, they did indeed need properly qualified counselors at St. Mary’s, in fact at the moment they were desperate for them. She told Julia that the organization had an office in New York and gave her the address and number.

  Julia called Linda in New York to get her reaction, half expecting to be told she was insane. Instead, Linda asked a couple of questions, weighed things up for about a second and a half and said, ‘Go for it, girl.’ Why not bring Amy to New York for Thanksgiving, she suggested. Julia could visit the charity’s office and check things out.

  What Julia forgot to say was that she hadn’t breathed a word about the plan to her mother who, ever since she had heard about Julia’s father coming to visit, had been a little snippy. When Julia called to say they were coming to New York, instead of sounding pleased, her mother immediately took offense that they would be staying at Linda’s apartment in Greenwich Village rather than with her in Brooklyn. Julia tried to explain that as it was going to be Amy’s first trip to New York since she was a baby, they wanted to be in Manhattan, in the thick of it, so that they could do the whole tourist bit - Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, ice skating in Rockefeller Plaza.

  ‘You know,’ she added unwisely. ‘All those things I never did as kid.’

  ‘Was that my fault?’ her mother snapped. ‘You never wanted to. Anyhow, you go ahead. Stay with Linda. I’m sure you’ll be a lot more comfortable. It’s fine.’

  Which of course meant that it was far from fine. Julia eventually managed to mollify her, the main concession being that they would come to her place for Thanksgiving dinner. Somewhat grudgingly, Linda was invited too.

  Julia wrote the charity’s New York office, enclosing a resumé. She agonized over whether or not to mention at this early stage that she would want to bring her eight-year-old daughter and decided it was best to come clean. A woman with a formal but friendly voice called her two days later. She said she hoped that Julia understood that St. Mary’s was, technically, in a war zone (although for more than a year things had, in fact, been peaceful), that the food and accommodation were basic and that the pay was somewhat less than basic, in other words, none.

  Julia asked about the possibility of bringing Amy and the woman said it was unusual but not unheard of. However, it would, of course, be entirely at Julia’s own risk and she must understand that the organization could not in any way be held responsible for the girl. Julia said fine. They arranged the interview.

  Thanksgiving had never been Julia’s favorite holiday. What it mostly summoned were memories of family fights. All the uncles and aunts and cousins used to come and when they had finished decimating the turkey they traditionally turned on each other. This year, she hoped, would be different.

  They flew into New York on the Wednesday evening and the following day Linda drove them through a cold rain in her new black BMW over the bridge to Brooklyn. It was where Julia had grown up, but even as she pointed out the local landmarks to Amy, recounting exploits from her youth, she felt oddly detached, as if she were talking about someone else’s past. Her mother’s little house, with its neat handkerchief of a backyard, looked much as it always had, but still Julia could find no connection with it, not even with her own bedroom, where some of her teenage paintings still hung on the walls and a huddle of cuddly toys eyed her reproachfully from the windowsill.

  Her mother had invited Julia’s cousin David and his family. Brad was a year older than Amy; Becky was five. Julia had always been close to David but had never really taken to his wife, Liz. A pert little woman, always immaculately turned out, she worked as an office manager and treated the world as if it were part of her job. She mothered her children with an ostentatious perfection that always made Julia feel inadequate.

  It was the first time they had seen each other since the funeral and Liz’s manner, all these months later, was still laden with a cloying sympathy that made Julia wanted to scream It’s okay, Ed’s dead but we’re doing fine, so act normal for Christsake! But instead she just smiled and smoldered. What made it worse was that Julia’s mother, in her new role as The Hurt One, virtually ignored her while gushing over Liz, who, of course, had come at the crack of dawn to help with the cooking and had brought gifts for everyone and was altogether utterly goddamn angelic.

  Wedged shoulder to shoulder around the table in the cramped dining room, they had almost finished eating when Linda dropped the bombshell about Julia’s plan to go to Africa. Julia was too far away to kick her and before she could squash the conversation, her mother pounced.

  ‘You’re taking Amy and going to work in Africa?’

  ‘Mom, it’s just an idea.’

  ‘It’s the most ridiculous idea I ever heard. You must be out of your mind.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Linda mouthed guiltily at Julia across the table.

  ‘I thought she knew.’

  ‘Africa!’

  ‘Maria, I’m told it’s really beautiful out there,’ David said.

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about this right now?’ Julia said, glancing at the children who, sensing a scrap among adults, were all eyes and ears.

  ‘What’s wrong with Africa, Grandma?’ Amy asked.

  ‘Africa’s where they made The Lion King,’ Becky declared with great authority.

  ‘They did not,’ Brad said.

  ‘They did too.’

  ‘The Lion King is a cartoon, dorkbrain. It’s just drawings.’

  ‘Well, that’s where they did the drawings. And I’m not a dorkbrain.’

  She tried to pinch his leg and he punched her on the arm and she howled. Amy wasn’t paying any attention. Her eyes were fixed on Julia.

  ‘Okay, you guys,’ Liz called out. ‘Who’d like more ice cream?’

  All three children fell for the ruse and she led them diplomatically out into the kitchen and shut the door.

  ‘Everybody in Africa has AIDS!’ Julia’s mother now announced.

  ‘I think there are one or two who don’t,’ David said, giving Julia a sly wink of sympathy.

  ‘What do Ed’s parents think? I mean, I assume you already told them.’

  The barb was justified. Julia had mentioned it to them on the phone, casually, only the other day.

  ‘They think it’s . . . exciting.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Mom, please. Let’s not talk about this now. It probably won’t even happen.’

  To say that Ed’s parents were excited was literally true; excited as in aroused and agitated, although their reaction had been somewhat more demure. Ed used to say that his mother spoke with subtitles which often said exactly the opposite of what came
out of her mouth. It was easier to read these subtitles when she was sitting in front of you, but over the years Julia had become adept at picking them up over the phone too. So when she’d called the other night and outlined the idea to Susan, giving it as benign a gloss as possible, she knew even from the length and weight of the pause that her mother-in-law thought she must have gone insane.

  ‘Well, Julia. What a very interesting thing to want to do.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s crazy?’

  ‘Crazy? Well, no, of course not. I mean, I’m sure you’ll have considered all the possible risks of taking Amy to a place like that.’

  Julia replied in the measured, positive tone that she normally reserved for the parents of her most hapless students.

  ‘Yes, of course. But they can be minimized. And I really believe that what she stands to gain from the experience outweighs whatever small risk there may be.’

  The conversation ended with Susan sighing and saying that she was sure Julia would decide for the best. Maybe Julia was being paranoid, but the subtitle of that suggested that her mother-in-law was off that very minute to see a judge about a restraining order.

  By now Liz had shepherded the kids with their ice cream into the living room and sat them down in front of a video. Not to miss the fun of the fight, she had come back to the table. Side with my mother, Julia silently vowed, and you’re dead meat. Her mother was like a dog with a bone. In the space of about five minutes she moved in a seamless segue from AIDS to malaria and from there to war and famine and snakes and crocodiles.

  ‘What about the cannibals?’ Julia muttered rhetorically.

  Linda sniggered wickedly. Julia’s mother gave her a withering look and then adjusted it to icy for Julia.

  ‘I’m sorry? What was that?’

  ‘You forgot about the cannibals.’

  Her mother stared at her for a moment. Then, in a textbook display of noble martyrdom, she lowered her eyes and lifted her chin and quietly stood up.

  ‘If everybody’s done,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll clear the dishes.’

  Five miserable hours later, back at the apartment, Julia checked that Amy was asleep and rejoined Linda on the big leather couch. The two of them had already made quite an impression on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Linda poured them both another.

  ‘Seeing your mother today, at last, I understood why you guys are so goddamn good at guilt. It’s like she invented it.’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t mean it. It’s my fault for—’

  ‘See what I mean?’

  Julia smiled.

  ‘Listen, Julia. Don’t give yourself a hard time. They may not even offer you the job. If they do, then you can decide. But, babe, it’s your life. You’re the only one who knows what’s best for you and for Amy. And change is good, whatever. I mean, look at me. I used to be an anarchist with black lipstick and now I’m a lawyer with a black BMW. Isn’t life cool?’

  They talked on until long past midnight. About family and friends and work and, finally, men. In particular, Linda’s apparently endless quest for one with whom she could bear to spend so much as a year, let alone a lifetime. She said that the only ones she ever liked were either gay or married. Then, as if out of the blue, she asked about Connor and whether Julia had heard from him lately.

  ‘Not for a long time. Amy had a postcard from India a few months ago. But since then nothing. He even forgot her birthday this year. First time ever.’

  Linda took another drink, staring at her over the rim of the glass.

  ‘What? What’s with the meaningful look?’

  Linda shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, what?’

  ‘Well, one didn’t exactly need a degree in telepathy to figure out what you two felt about each other.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. As I recall, you were the one who was smitten.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Well, me, for one. He was my husband’s best friend for heavensakes! How could you even think such a thing?’

  ‘Hey, don’t go all prim and haughty on me. All I asked was had you heard from him.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, fine.’

  There was a long pause. Linda lit another of her long cigarettes and leaned her head against the back of the couch, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

  ‘Is he the reason you want to go to Africa?’

  Julia erupted. ‘Linda, for crying out loud, what’s gotten into you tonight? What a totally idiotic thing to say. Of course he isn’t. How could you even think that?’

  ‘Whoa, babe. Sor-ry!’

  ‘I mean, really, Linda. Sometimes ...’

  They changed the subject but the conversation never quite recovered. Julia went to bed feeling a little drunk and rather more foolish for having so overreacted. The truth was, beyond the fact of his being Amy’s father, Connor was an issue that she had long ago trained herself to handle by denial. He had never ceased to live within her, but in a corner that she never now allowed herself to visit. When Linda had challenged her so directly about her feelings for him, it was like someone poking the scar of an old wound.

  And as she lay there with Amy asleep beside her, a living shrine of their joined selves, Julia admitted to herself that her friend was right. However vigorously she had been trying to deny it to herself, deep down she knew that this urge to go to Africa was of course connected with Connor. She wasn’t so crass as to imagine that they would find him there. The rational part of her knew full well that they wouldn’t. Indeed, she had no idea where in the world he might be. No, it was something more complex that drew her. She wanted to see what he had seen, to take their child to a place that had moved him and be moved by it too and be connected with it and through it to him. And even though he was now a stranger and must long ago have stopped loving her, at least in this small vicarious way she might yet share this part of him.

  26

  Connor woke with a start and for a moment couldn’t figure out where he was. He lay still and listened, staring up into the folds of his mosquito net dimly paled by the first hint of dawn. Then he heard orders being barked and soldiers running across the dirt compound outside and he remembered.

  He could hear the strain of an engine making its way up from the lower camp beside the river and he quickly got up and out of the net and unrolled his jeans and shirt that he used for a pillow. By the time the vehicle roared to a halt outside with its lights slicing in through the hut’s open doorway he was dressed and shaking out his boots for scorpions.

  ‘Muzungu! Wake up! You must come!’

  It was Okello, the arrogant young buck of a colonel who had been his chaperon for the past twelve long days of waiting. He knew Connor’s name perfectly well but always called him muzungu, the Swahili for ‘white man.’ They had forged an instant and mutual dislike and Connor didn’t bother to answer.

  ‘Muzungu! Get up! Get dressed!’

  He yelled some kind of reprimand at the young guard who sat all night outside Connor’s hut. According to Okello, the guard was there for protection, but Connor knew that the real purpose was to stop him sneaking down into the camp to talk to the abducted child soldiers.

  Okello ducked into the doorway and stood there framed and peering in, the Jeep’s headlights glinting on the matching silver Colt automatics holstered on his hips. He was maybe twenty-five years old, about six feet three or four and powerfully built. Connor had never once seen his eyes for they were always screened by a pair of wraparound sunglasses with reflecting snake-eye lenses. Even now, in the dark, he was wearing them, which probably accounted for why he hadn’t spotted Connor sitting to one side on the shadowed mud floor, tying his boots. Okello walked over to the mosquito net and poked it with the short horn-handled cane he always carried. Connor had seen him use it once on a young soldier who had somehow displeased him.

  ‘Muzungu! Wake up!’

  Connor stood and picked up his camera bag and at
the sound Okello turned sharply and saw him.

  ‘You must come! Now!’

  ‘What was the name of that charm school you went to?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it. What’s going on?’

  ‘You will see.’

  ‘Is it Makuma? Is he here?’

  ‘Come, hurry!’

  The compound was thronged with soldiers, some still pulling on their clothes as they ran, while those of higher rank yelled at them. In the back of Okello’s Jeep sat two of his henchmen dressed up like a pair of gangster peacocks in their shades and pirate-style bandannas and crisscross belts of ammunition. One was cradling an M16 and the other a 90mm rocket launcher. Connor gave them a cheery smile.

  ‘Morning, fellas. My, do we look the business today.’

  They just stared through him as they now always did.

  ‘Yep, slept like a baby. Thanks for asking.’

  It probably wasn’t smart to tease them but he was interested to see if one day he could coax just a tiny smile. It clearly wasn’t going to happen today. He swung himself up into the passenger seat while Okello climbed behind the wheel, screaming more abuse at the guard. He rammed the Jeep into gear and sent it hurtling perilously through the crowd, its wheels spinning and showering all behind them with dirt.

  In the dusty purple half-light, they followed the trail that climbed in a long meander to the plateau, their headlights bouncing and jagging across thickets of acacia and eucalyptus and the threadbare backs of the soldiers going the same way on foot. The trail was rutted and rocky and Okello kept his hand on the horn, yelling at those who were slow to move out of the way. Sometimes the Jeep clipped or bumped them, which only made him yell louder and lash out with his cane as he passed them.

  Half an hour later the soldiers were lined up on the plateau of baked earth and grass, rank upon rank of them, maybe two thousand Connor calculated, more maybe, all standing with their weapons shouldered. There were armored cars and personnel carriers and an array of artillery and mounted machine guns, all apparently assembled for inspection. During his days of waiting, he had been denied access to the younger soldiers, and even now Okello told him to keep his distance and not to photograph them. Connor scanned the rows of faces, searching for the one that was the cause of his coming here, the face he had never seen yet felt sure he would recognize. But there were too many of them and the light was still too dim.