Mark Lee - The Canal House

I hate being in a social situation without my camera. I never know what to say or what to do with my hands. Perhaps Julia sensed my uneasiness because she ignored her dinner and made an effort to talk to me.

“Is it strange to be back in England?” she asked.

“Not particularly. I don’t have a home to come back to, just this hotel near the British Museum.”

“It’s getting harder for me to make the transition from a relief camp. The moment I get off the plane at Heathrow, it feels too noisy and frantic and there are too many advertisements. People are always complaining about the most ridiculous things.” Julia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “George Riverton talked for fifteen minutes about how he got the wrong seats at Wimbledon.”

“Sounds like a tragedy.”

“I can’t see you getting annoyed about anything, Nicky. You seem like a calm person.”

“I just watch and take pictures. I don’t risk as much as you.”

Julia shook her head. “I should risk a lot more. There’s always something extra you can do, another step in the right direction.”

The broccoli was taken away and I hoped it would have a dignified funeral. We were served a rubbery custard, and then Wallace brought out a bottle of twenty-year-old brandy, crackers, and a large chunk of Stilton cheese that looked like a piece of rotting firewood. I dug out some cheese with a silver spoon and smeared it onto a wheat cracker. It was rich and well aged, easily the best part of the meal.

Jax Riverton sipped some brandy and decided to acknowledge my existence. “So tell me, Mr. Bettencourt—did you see Richard save the child’s life?”

“What child?”

“In the Times article it said that he found a sick little girl at the relief camp and gave her some kind of transfusion that saved her life.”

“That must have happened when I wasn’t there.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“No. I’m sure Richard did save her life. That’s easy to do at a place like Kosana.”

“It doesn’t seem easy to me. Even the Times reporter was impressed. The photograph was marvelous.”

“If you’re hanging out with starving people, there are lots of opportunities.”

“Have you ever saved someone’s life, Mr. Bettencourt?”

“That’s not my job.”

“I see. Rather than doing something about the suffering, you just stand there and record it.”

When Jax turned away, I grabbed the Stilton and dug out another chunk with the spoon. Richard was telling everyone what he thought about the euro and I pretended to listen, nodding or shaking my head at random points in the monologue. I eavesdropped on the conversation between Daniel and Julia. From what I could gather he had asked Julia what she would do if she quit relief work and she was trying to answer him. Julia had read quite a few books when she was traveling around Africa. Most of these favorites were kept at her aunt’s house in Windsor and Julia wanted to buy a house in the country with a lot of bookshelves.

“That’s what I dream about. Bookshelves and a good view at sunset.”

“Sounds like an achievable goal.”

“Mind you, it has to be my own view and my own shelves.”

“Would you stay in England?”

“I can’t tell you that. The fantasy only goes so far.”

Richard was talking about the euro rising or falling or flying out the window. Pouring some more brandy, I lost part of the conversation.

“So what do you want, Daniel? To be famous? Win the Pulitzer Prize?”

“That wouldn’t change anything.”

“Do you want a bigger salary? Most of the journalists I know are always talking about their salaries.”

“I’ve never really thought about money. I’ve always had enough to get by.”

“You must want something. Most people do.”

Daniel was quiet for a moment, but I didn’t dare glance at him and let him know I was listening. “I want …” He paused again, then spoke with complete certainty. “I want to live a good life.”

“What do you mean by that?” Julia asked. “Buying a home like the people in Richard’s television ads? Playing golf? Eating chocolate?”

“I do like to eat chocolate and I own the farm in Italy. I’m afraid I don’t know much about golf.”

“Golf or something like it? Is that what you mean?”

“I want to understand the consequences of my actions. That’s all I can really tell you. During the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to find a new way to live. I don’t have any answers, only the desire.”

At the end of the table, the talk had turned into a consideration of international relief aid. Richard spoke a little louder, trying to draw everyone into the discussion. “In Britain, if there’s a flood or a train wreck, we don’t send out a twenty-three-year-old Oxfam volunteer wearing a T-shirt and sandals. It should be the same procedure in foreign countries. The work needs to be done by professionals.”

“But that twenty-three-year-old girl and others like her encourage popular support for foreign aid,” George said. “Professionals are politically isolated.”

“That’s why Hand-to-Hand is going to create a different paradigm. Using the Internet, our contributors will be able to interact with the staff and help pick the country we’ll be working in.”

Daniel drank some brandy, then lowered his glass. “So the professionals will do the work, but the amateurs will tell them what to do?”

“Not totally. But we want them to be emotionally connected to our activities. There are constant moments of suspense and drama in any relief camp. Will this person live? Will that person die? Using the digital cameras we’ve set up in the camp, we can create our own story.”

“That could lead to panda-bear relief work,” Daniel said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Panda bears are cute so people want to save them. If you’re dependent on an audience reaction, won’t your contributors prefer situations where the starving people are appreciative and photogenic?”

Malcolm reached for the brandy. “Which is why no one gives a damn about the Somalis. Nasty group of people.”

“I care,” Julia said. She was trying to be polite so her voice wasn’t loud or confident. When no one reacted, she said it again. “I care if they live or die.”

“Well, of course you do. That’s your job,” Jax said. “But George is talking about the rest of us. Public opinion.”

When Wallace removed the cheese, the dinner was over. Malcolm and Richard went into the library for another drink, but everyone else drifted off to their rooms. I could see Julia watching Daniel as he headed up the staircase. I wondered what she had thought when Daniel said he wanted to live a good life. I’m sure Jax Riverton and the others would have smiled if they heard that phrase. It sounded like something a sensitive friend would say walking home from a college party. A few years later, the friend would become an arms dealer or a public relations consultant defending the oil companies in Nigeria. Or perhaps something not so dramatic at all—just an assistant executive something or other who had a favorite TV show and washed his car on the weekends. That was what happened to most people. Not a good life or a bad life, just an ordinary one.

I realized that everything was different if you took Daniel’s statement seriously. Idealists are dangerous to themselves and the people around them. If you truly wanted to live a good life, it was a revolutionary act. I could admire someone like that, but I knew that I’d never make such a choice. It bothered me to think that people would be staring at me and criticizing my decisions. If you want to be a saint, you have to risk looking like a fool.