CHAPTER 32 #2
The quiet rattle of the coffee tray announced Dr. J’s return from the cooking area. “Here we are,” she said.
Jasha, just behind his mom, extended his hand toward the bed. “Please, sit.”
Dr. J set down two d?ezvas, hammered copper beakers that were wider at the bottom than the top and with handles on the side, and four small porcelain cups with sugar cubes in the bottom.
Grace squeezed onto the small bed beside Brenna and Jasha.
“This looks fabulous,” she said, tipping her head in a small bow of acknowledgement.
She’d heard that since the siege, asking for a glass of water in Kav?ak was like asking for the family jewels.
To be served coffee was royal treatment. “It smells delicious.”
“Can you believe, even coffee is controversial topic?”
Dr. J replied, picking up the first of the cups and pouring.
“Some call it kafa, others kava, or kahva. Some say this is Turkish style, from days of Ottoman Empire. Others argue with heated emotions, saying it is unique to Kav?ak because of way it is served. We fight over nothing.”
The coffee she set before them—however it was called—was foamy, dark, and fragrant.
“What matters is Mama makes it best,” Jasha said, picking up his own small cup, lifting the unscarred side of his face into an openly-affectionate smile.
“Brenna tells me you’re willing to be interviewed for our documentary,” Grace said to her hostess, her mind racing over the topics the interview should cover once coffee time was over.
“Oh, yes,” Dr. J replied. “I would be honored to be part of this. Journalists like Brenna and you serve most important function. You record history. You provide evidence. Later, no one can deny these facts, or distort them for their own political agenda.”
Grace smiled inwardly. Jasha must have told his mom about the attack on Brenna, and now she was indirectly trying to bolster her up. Ayuh. She liked Dr. J already. She wrapped her hands around the tiny cup and sipped the strong, sweet concoction, letting Dr. J’s words hang in the air for Brenna.
The conversation meandered. Brenna finished her coffee before the others, and excused herself while she set up for the interview.
She unfolded two reflectors, placing one at each side of Dr. J, then aimed her battery-powered lights into them.
The light would bounce off the reflective material and softly light the old woman’s countenance, Grace knew, but the background would remain shadowy, lending the image the quality of her subterranean life.
When she was satisfied, Brenna clipped a lavalier mic to Dr. J’s blouse, set the camera on a tripod near Grace and framed up the shot so she could continue conversationally, without the distraction of the camera.
Brenna stood behind the camera. The tally light turned red. She was recording.
Grace took her cue, and seamlessly shifted conversation into interview mode.
Brenna hadn’t given her much prep time, so she just asked Dr. J about her experience of the war.
What had her own losses been? How did it come to pass that people who were once friends now shelled each other?
How had the citizenry been manipulated for political ends?
What power did individuals have, in extreme environments such as war?
What happened to individual morality? Were there ever just wars?
The rapport she had established with her during coffee, and Brenna’s lack of fuss, relaxed Dr. J. She spoke with emotion, eloquence, and humor. “We are completely free,” she said at one point. “Free of belongings, free of income, free of hope.”
Twice during the interview, incoming shells exploded nearby. Grace and Dr. J stopped talking, waited calmly, then continued. Brenna let the camera run.
In closing, Grace asked Dr. J how she stood living under such primitive conditions.
“I have no choice,” she said. “No one asked me.”
After she was satisfied that she had covered the major ideas, Brenna got Dr. J to demonstrate how she kept warm, cooked, washed dishes, and so on. Back in the edit suite, Dr. J’s interview could be superimposed over these images—especially where she spoke of the rigors of life without the basics.
While Brenna completed the pick-up shots, Grace sat back against the cold cement wall, and rested. Two days ago, she had been vital and energetic. Today, she was exhausted, coughing, and in constant pain.
While Brenna packed up her equipment, Jasha padded up to her. “My mother and I are leaving now,” he announced.
Grace’s eyes popped open. “Leaving?”
“Jasha’s going to take his Mom to the hotel, then come back,” Brenna explained. “You and I will go ahead to the nursery, and he’ll catch up to us there. If he doesn’t… can’t… make the rendezvous, we’ll go on to the airport without them.”
Grace sat up, as shocked as if she’d been tossed out of a bobbing raft into a raging sea. She looked from her to Jasha. “Where’s the nursery from here?”
“About a mile west of here, skirting the foot of the mountain.”
“West,” Grace said tersely. “Toward those tanks.”
“Once we complete the nursery interview,” Brenna said, ignoring Grace’s observation, “we’re finished. Done-done.”
“Don’t cut to the pot of gold, Brenna. I don’t like it.”
“So what do you suggest? That we retrace the same route we came in on? It’s not as if going back is safer.”
Grace rubbed her chin.
“Going back puts us further from the airport, Grace. You and I are flying out at dawn tomorrow. The further west we go, the closer we are to our departure point. We can go directly there after the interview.”
“You and I,” she confirmed, “are flying out.”
“Yes. You and I.”
“And we will go to the airport immediately after the interview.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.”