partygirl43
Refugee
THIS IS A MADE UP STORY!! 100% FICTION.....
Chapter 4
The night sky was beginning to fade into dawn as we sped down Lakeshore Drive towards home. In the rear view mirror, Tom kept glancing back at me. I knew what he was thinking. He could think all he wanted, but his boss was a perfect gentleman. We arrived home. Tom stopped the car, but kept the motor running. He turned to me and handed me a cell phone.
“Right.” He said “This is yours.” He was terse in his direction. “This is my line to you. When B would like to see you, I will call.”
I nodded. He continued. “You cannot make any out calls with the phone.” Then he handed me a small day planner. “Now, here’s the remaining itinerary so you’ll know what city he’s in. All of the arrangements will be made for you.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
Tom nodded. All I had to do was wait.
“Can I ask you something Tom?” I said. “Why the secrecy?”
“Why didn’t you ask him yourself, Miss?’ He said.
“Well, I know he said being involved with him would be complicated, I guess I didn’t know exactly how complicated.” I said.
Tom shifted in his seat, “I think Bono’s looking for discretion because he’s trying to protect others feelings.”
“O.K.” I nodded. The answer made only partial sense to me. I knew that his ex-wife was dating a French race-car driver.
Tom got out opening the door. “I can tell you are important to him. He would not bother otherwise. He’s not your typical man, or rock star.”
“Tom,” I said sliding out of the seat “that is the understatement of the year.” I offered him my hand. “It’ll be a pleasure working with you, Tom. Stay safe out there.”
He shook my hand and got back into the Suburban. “See you soon, Ms. Fisher.” The car pulled away.
A few days later I met my editor Margot for lunch at a sidewalk café. It was a beautiful fall afternoon. It was unseasonably warm. At true Indian summer day. Margot noticed as I fidgeted in my seat and drifted off when she spoke to me.
“Are you alright?’ She inquired. “You’re acting weird.” She picked at her salad. I nodded slowly.
“Are you thinking about Goran? Margot said.
“Goran?!?!” I said startling.
I hadn’t thought of him in a while, and since my encounters with Bono I definitely was not thinking about him. The mention of his name jolted my reverie. Goran Stolar was complicated. When I traveled to Africa, my uncle was worried for my personal safety. His solution was to hire a ‘minder’ for the most dangerous parts of the trip. He worked for a shadowy, Blackwater type company. Sometimes he was the good-guy, sometimes he was the bad-guy; many times it was impossible to tell.
He was six foot three with olive skin, golden brown eyes and black wavy hair. He was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d seen. He looked like a movie star. He was also an impossible ass. He resented being charged with me and I did not appreciate his seemingly in-bred sexism. It was love slash hate, at first sight. We fought often. Soon he softened, when he realized I could handle myself fairly well. I think he liked me better when I asked for shooting lessons.
We are two improbable people in an impossible place, where everything is at once too real and surreal. There weren’t any dates or dinners, just terribly scary moments punctuated by calm. Our first kiss happened in a dusty village outside Mogadishu. I was desperately trying to get out of Sudan, but war-lords were cutting off supply lines, choking out NGO’s and humanitarians. This time they decided to use guns to get their point across. We were trapped in a small house, a hut really, his body shielding me. I was shaking, harder than I ever had. The volleys of gunfire sounding all too near. I didn’t understand how anyone could get used to that. Goran was so calm. I was thinking, ‘This is how I’m going to die’. Trapped in a small hut. I shook, my body convulsing from the most primal fear I’ve ever felt. As the gun fire stopped I started to cry. Goran calmly put his large hand over my mouth to keep me quite, so they would not come looking for us. He did not let go as we waited for an hour or so, till we could not hear a sound. Then he let go and I crumpled from the exhaustion of shaking. Goran put his arms around me and began rocking me, kissing the top of my head. I looked up; my face wet with sweat and tears, caked with dust and dirt and kissed him. What is it when the prisoner is in love with the captor? That’s how it was with Goran.
I blinked hard in the Chicago sunlight, squeezing out those memories. Then I shook my head and laughed, looking at Margot. “No, I’m definitely not thinking about Goran.” I said.
For the next few weeks I tried to content myself with work at the Foundation. I spent time working on my photos and writing in my journal, trying to get my head together. When I came home from Africa, I really hoped to get settled in to a more stable life. I wanted to go back to school so I could teach. Along the way, perhaps I’d meet a nice guy. I’d get married, have kids. The whole normal thing. I didn’t think I was even close to it. Sitting next to a rock star in his hotel room was not normal. Watching your boyfriend load an AK-47 with one hand was not normal. Normal. It was a word that was quickly losing its meaning.
I was sitting in my office when my Uncle’s assistant, Laura came flying in.
“Ansleigh, look what I have!” Laura said excitedly. I looked up from the monitor as she came around the desk and set some photos down in front of me.
“Look, these are from the party.” She said
I looked through the stack of pictures, not really remembering a photographer being there. I came to a few of Bono and me, taken from the distance. We looked to be deep in conversation.
“Ansleigh, those are sooo cute.” Laura smiled “You’d make a cute couple. It looks like you’re a couple there!” I looked up, she was grinning from ear to ear. She was right. There was closeness in our body language in the picture.
“So,” Laura said crossing her arms, “What was he like?”
“Well” I said trying to choose my words carefully “He has a way of making others feel very important. He’s a good listener.” Then I smiled, “He smelled great and has very blue eyes.”
Laura giggled, “Now that’s what I want to hear!”
I smiled back, “Well, that’s all I have to tell. Can I keep these? I asked. She nodded as went to the door, “Sure, Mrs. Bono!”
I went back to my e-mails; there was one from my friend Frieda. She was working with a NGO on the Ethiopian border. It read:
"Ansleigh, Hope you are doing well back in the U.S. Goran Stolar wanted me to contact you and relay that he is alive and well. He has no contact info as of now, but hopes to be home in Croatia by December and would like your contact info. I told him I would ask you for it. He seemed like he really wanted to get i ntouch with you. Can I pass the info along?---Frieda"
I pushed away from the desk. I looked at the picture of Bono and me, than I looked at the calendar. It was mid-September. By December, Goran could be dead. I hit the reply and typed: ‘Please do not give Goran my contact info.’
Chapter 4
The night sky was beginning to fade into dawn as we sped down Lakeshore Drive towards home. In the rear view mirror, Tom kept glancing back at me. I knew what he was thinking. He could think all he wanted, but his boss was a perfect gentleman. We arrived home. Tom stopped the car, but kept the motor running. He turned to me and handed me a cell phone.
“Right.” He said “This is yours.” He was terse in his direction. “This is my line to you. When B would like to see you, I will call.”
I nodded. He continued. “You cannot make any out calls with the phone.” Then he handed me a small day planner. “Now, here’s the remaining itinerary so you’ll know what city he’s in. All of the arrangements will be made for you.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
Tom nodded. All I had to do was wait.
“Can I ask you something Tom?” I said. “Why the secrecy?”
“Why didn’t you ask him yourself, Miss?’ He said.
“Well, I know he said being involved with him would be complicated, I guess I didn’t know exactly how complicated.” I said.
Tom shifted in his seat, “I think Bono’s looking for discretion because he’s trying to protect others feelings.”
“O.K.” I nodded. The answer made only partial sense to me. I knew that his ex-wife was dating a French race-car driver.
Tom got out opening the door. “I can tell you are important to him. He would not bother otherwise. He’s not your typical man, or rock star.”
“Tom,” I said sliding out of the seat “that is the understatement of the year.” I offered him my hand. “It’ll be a pleasure working with you, Tom. Stay safe out there.”
He shook my hand and got back into the Suburban. “See you soon, Ms. Fisher.” The car pulled away.
A few days later I met my editor Margot for lunch at a sidewalk café. It was a beautiful fall afternoon. It was unseasonably warm. At true Indian summer day. Margot noticed as I fidgeted in my seat and drifted off when she spoke to me.
“Are you alright?’ She inquired. “You’re acting weird.” She picked at her salad. I nodded slowly.
“Are you thinking about Goran? Margot said.
“Goran?!?!” I said startling.
I hadn’t thought of him in a while, and since my encounters with Bono I definitely was not thinking about him. The mention of his name jolted my reverie. Goran Stolar was complicated. When I traveled to Africa, my uncle was worried for my personal safety. His solution was to hire a ‘minder’ for the most dangerous parts of the trip. He worked for a shadowy, Blackwater type company. Sometimes he was the good-guy, sometimes he was the bad-guy; many times it was impossible to tell.
He was six foot three with olive skin, golden brown eyes and black wavy hair. He was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d seen. He looked like a movie star. He was also an impossible ass. He resented being charged with me and I did not appreciate his seemingly in-bred sexism. It was love slash hate, at first sight. We fought often. Soon he softened, when he realized I could handle myself fairly well. I think he liked me better when I asked for shooting lessons.
We are two improbable people in an impossible place, where everything is at once too real and surreal. There weren’t any dates or dinners, just terribly scary moments punctuated by calm. Our first kiss happened in a dusty village outside Mogadishu. I was desperately trying to get out of Sudan, but war-lords were cutting off supply lines, choking out NGO’s and humanitarians. This time they decided to use guns to get their point across. We were trapped in a small house, a hut really, his body shielding me. I was shaking, harder than I ever had. The volleys of gunfire sounding all too near. I didn’t understand how anyone could get used to that. Goran was so calm. I was thinking, ‘This is how I’m going to die’. Trapped in a small hut. I shook, my body convulsing from the most primal fear I’ve ever felt. As the gun fire stopped I started to cry. Goran calmly put his large hand over my mouth to keep me quite, so they would not come looking for us. He did not let go as we waited for an hour or so, till we could not hear a sound. Then he let go and I crumpled from the exhaustion of shaking. Goran put his arms around me and began rocking me, kissing the top of my head. I looked up; my face wet with sweat and tears, caked with dust and dirt and kissed him. What is it when the prisoner is in love with the captor? That’s how it was with Goran.
I blinked hard in the Chicago sunlight, squeezing out those memories. Then I shook my head and laughed, looking at Margot. “No, I’m definitely not thinking about Goran.” I said.
For the next few weeks I tried to content myself with work at the Foundation. I spent time working on my photos and writing in my journal, trying to get my head together. When I came home from Africa, I really hoped to get settled in to a more stable life. I wanted to go back to school so I could teach. Along the way, perhaps I’d meet a nice guy. I’d get married, have kids. The whole normal thing. I didn’t think I was even close to it. Sitting next to a rock star in his hotel room was not normal. Watching your boyfriend load an AK-47 with one hand was not normal. Normal. It was a word that was quickly losing its meaning.
I was sitting in my office when my Uncle’s assistant, Laura came flying in.
“Ansleigh, look what I have!” Laura said excitedly. I looked up from the monitor as she came around the desk and set some photos down in front of me.
“Look, these are from the party.” She said
I looked through the stack of pictures, not really remembering a photographer being there. I came to a few of Bono and me, taken from the distance. We looked to be deep in conversation.
“Ansleigh, those are sooo cute.” Laura smiled “You’d make a cute couple. It looks like you’re a couple there!” I looked up, she was grinning from ear to ear. She was right. There was closeness in our body language in the picture.
“So,” Laura said crossing her arms, “What was he like?”
“Well” I said trying to choose my words carefully “He has a way of making others feel very important. He’s a good listener.” Then I smiled, “He smelled great and has very blue eyes.”
Laura giggled, “Now that’s what I want to hear!”
I smiled back, “Well, that’s all I have to tell. Can I keep these? I asked. She nodded as went to the door, “Sure, Mrs. Bono!”
I went back to my e-mails; there was one from my friend Frieda. She was working with a NGO on the Ethiopian border. It read:
"Ansleigh, Hope you are doing well back in the U.S. Goran Stolar wanted me to contact you and relay that he is alive and well. He has no contact info as of now, but hopes to be home in Croatia by December and would like your contact info. I told him I would ask you for it. He seemed like he really wanted to get i ntouch with you. Can I pass the info along?---Frieda"
I pushed away from the desk. I looked at the picture of Bono and me, than I looked at the calendar. It was mid-September. By December, Goran could be dead. I hit the reply and typed: ‘Please do not give Goran my contact info.’
), and good writing.
YDW??????
