As they drove on, Vivien had the feeling that with every turn of the wheel, every beat of their hearts, they were leaving behind the roles of aunt and niece and becoming more like friends. She felt something inside herself relaxing, as if the image of Greta that tormented her days was fading, along with the image of Sundance naked in the arms of a man older than her father that tormented her nights.
They had left Roosevelt Island behind them and were heading downtown along the East River when it happened. About half a mile ahead of them, on the right, a light suddenly appeared, wiping out all the others. For a moment it was like a distillation of all the lights in the world.
Then the road seemed to tremble under the wheels of the car and through the open windows they heard the hungry roar of an explosion.
CHAPTER 12
Russell Wade had just arrived home when a bright light suddenly and unexpectedly appeared over on the Lower East Side. The big ceiling-to-floor living-room windows framed that light, a light so vivid it seemed like part of a game. But it didn’t go away, and continued to override all the other lights. Through the filter of the unbreakable window panes came the muted sound of a rumble that wasn’t thunder but a destructive human imitation of it. It was followed by a cacophony of alarm systems set off by the blast, hysterical but futile, like little dogs uselessly barking behind an iron fence.
The vibration made him instinctively take a step back. He knew what had happened. He had realized immediately. He had already seen and felt that kind of thing in another place. He knew that glare meant incredulity and surprise, pain and dust, screams, injuries, curses and prayers.
It meant death.
And, in an equally sudden glare, a flash of images and memories.
‘Robert, please …’
His brother was anxiously checking the cameras and thelenses and making sure he had enough rolls of film in thepockets of his jacket. He wouldn’t look him in the face. Maybehe felt ashamed. Or maybe he was already seeing in hismind’s eye the photographs he was going to take.
‘Nothing’s going to happen, Russell. You just have to stayand be quiet.’
‘And where will you go?’
Robert had smelled his fear. He was used to that smell. Thewhole city was imbued with it. You could breathe it in the air.Like an ugly premonition that comes true, like a nightmarethat doesn’t fade when you wake up, like the screams of thedying that don’t end once they’re dead.
He looked at him with eyes that might have been seeinghim for the first time since they had arrived in Pristina. Ascared boy who shouldn’t be there.
‘Ihave to go outside. I have to be there.’
Russell realized that this was the only way it could be. Andat the same time he realized that he could never be like hisbrother, not even if he lived a hundred lifetimes. He went backinto the cellar, through the trapdoor under the old carpet, andRobert went out the door. Into the sun and the dust and the war.
That was the last time he’d seen him alive.
As if reacting to these thoughts he ran into the bedroom, where one of his cameras was lying on the desk. He grabbed it and went back to the window. He switched off all the lights to avoid reflections and took a number of shots of that distant hypnotic glare with its sickly halo. He knew these photographs would never be used, but he did it to punish himself. To remember who he was, what he had done, what he hadn’t done.
Years had gone by since his brother had gone out through that sunstruck doorway and for a few moments the distant bursts of machine-gun fire had grown louder.
Nothing had changed.
Since that day, there hadn’t been a single morning when he hadn’t woken with that image in front of his eyes and that sound in his ears. Since that day, every pointless photograph of his had been merely a new image of his old fear. As he continued clicking the shutter, he started shaking. It was animal rage, silent and instinctual, as if his soul was shuddering inside him and making his body vibrate.
The clicking of the lens became neurotic
click
click
click
click
click
like a homicidal maniac firing into his victim
Robert
all the bullets he has, unable to stop pulling the trigger, continuing as a kind of nervous habit, until all he hears in return is the empty dry snap of the firing pin.
That’s enough, dammit!
Punctually, like a set answer to a set question, the shrill urgent sound of sirens came from outside.
Lights without anger.
Lights flashing, good lights, healthy lights, rapid lights. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances.
The city had been hit; the city was wounded; the city was asking for help. And everyone had come running, from all over, with all the speed that compassion and civic feeling gave them.
Russell stopped shooting and, in the light from outside, reached for the TV remote control. He switched it on, and found it automatically tuned to Channel One. The weather report should have been on about now. The broadcast was interrupted two seconds after the screen lit up. The weatherman and his maps of sun and rain were replaced without warning by Faber Andrews, one of the channel’s anchormen. His voice was deep and his face grave – appropriate to the situation.
‘News just in that a building on the Lower East Side of New York City has been rocked by a powerful explosion. We have no idea yet how many casualties there are, but first reports suggest the number could be high. That’s all we can tell you for now. At the moment we don’t know the causes of this terrible disaster. We should be able to get a better idea soon. What everyone is hoping is that this wasn’t a criminal act. The memory of other tragic events in the recent past is still fresh in our minds. Right now, the whole city, the whole of America, maybe the whole world is watching and waiting. Our reporters are already on their way to the scene, and we should soon be in a position to bring you more up-to-date news. That’s all for now.’