He explained that his great-grandfather was the adopted son of a Jewish Austro-Hungarian baron, Maurice von Hirsch, a wealthy banker who lent money to King Edward VII and made a fortune building the first railways connecting Turkey to Europe. Hirsch was also a philanthropist who donated his money to programs for the settlement of the persecuted and impoverished Jewish people living in Russia and Eastern Europe. As Baron de Forest, Paul’s great-grandfather became a British MP, was a close friend of Winston Churchill’s, and later became a citizen of the Principality of Liechtenstein, where he was given the title of count by the prince. In 1944 he set up a charitable foundation for the protection of the natural environment, which Paul’s father runs to this day. Paul spent his childhood living in a castle in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, on the French Riviera, next to Zairean president Mobutu Sese Seko’s villa. Paul’s father airlifted one hundred endangered lemurs out of Madagascar to their home and set up a private zoo that stretched all the way to the sea, full of mini monkeys that terrified Paul as a child.
I stared at him. What would I tell Nina, my Italian grandmother who rode the boat from Bari, Italy, to Ellis Island and struggled her entire life to provide for her family? Nina frowned upon people who had their success handed to them on a silver platter. And would Paul frown upon my middle-class family? I was unsure what the count title meant in present-day translation—were people supposed to curtsy in front of him? Did he wear a kilt? Did his family live in actual castles? Before I could formulate a reaction, words flew out of my mouth.
“Don’t tell my family,” I said.
? ? ?
I SHOULDN’T HAVE WORRIED; Paul fit into my world just fine. At first it was I who had a problem fitting into his. A few months into our relationship I was planning a trip back to the Darfur refugee camps in eastern Chad and flying through Paris. Paul, coincidentally, had to be in Paris for his best friend Oscar’s thirtieth-birthday party. I had a backpack with camera gear and a satellite dish and another, carry-on-sized bag in case we had to catch a UN flight to the border—they always restricted luggage weight. I packed a few linen tunics, a pair of jeans, cargo pants, head scarves, a bug net, a headlamp, wet wipes, antibiotics, running shoes, and one set of workout clothes in case there happened to be a gym in the hotel in Ndjamena, the capital of Chad. Paul told me the weekend would be casual, so I stuffed a few dressy tops into my bag. In New York, a birthday party often called for fitted jeans, a stylish top, a pair of high heels, and some silver jewelry. But I had never hung out with Swedes before.
When I arrived at the restaurant to meet Paul, Oscar, and about forty of their friends, I knew I was in trouble. Everyone was a statue of blond, elegant perfection. The women were wearing semiformal gowns made of fine fabrics that somehow gathered gracefully on their curveless bodies. Their hair had been styled professionally into rolling, blond curls. They all carried Chanel, Prada, Gucci, or Louis Vuitton bags. Glistening diamonds hung from their earlobes. The men sported Gucci loafers, Prada suits, Audemars Piguet watches, labels I didn’t know.
And there I was in my Zara top, my Levi’s jeans, and my Nine West heels, on my way to Darfur.
As Paul introduced me to the men and women, they looked me up and down, and then turned their backs and walked away. No one cared who I was, what I did for a living, or that I was going to Darfur to document a war so people like them could have a clue what was going on in the world outside Stockholm or Paris. I started sinking into insecurities I didn’t even know existed. The next day I raced to Zara, scrambling to find something fancy enough to wear.
“But you are a tough, successful woman—a war photographer who has traveled around the world,” Paul said. “You really care about these women?”
There was a second dinner scheduled for the following night, and I was dreading the disapproving glances by these women who had never worked a day in their lives. I was still a woman, and I still cared what I looked like; no matter what I accomplished with my career, nothing eliminates those stinging insecurities you develop as a child or teen. And for better or worse, these people would occasionally pop up in Paul’s life. I would have to deal with them again, which made me question Paul’s judgment, too: How could he like these people? Did I want to be a part of this world?
Maybe I was so upset because I actually wanted this relationship to last. Something about Paul’s eccentric background mirrored my own. It made him flexible about my time-consuming profession, and capable of embracing this crazy, weird life of mine. We had found familiar ground in the wilderness of our familial abnormalcy: our love of our work. He respected my industriousness and drive. The love between us was organically unconditional, allowing us to be ourselves, without any limitations. It reminded me of the love my family gave me. Suddenly, standing at that stupid Swedish party, I realized that Paul was different from any other man I had ever known.
That evening, I sat alone at a table while everyone cavorted around me, when one of the Swedes approached me for the first time and asked if he could sit down.
“Sure,” I said, surprised.
“My name is Carl. I think you are the only other person here with a job.”
I laughed. The next morning I sprinted off to Darfur, where I felt completely comfortable.
CHAPTER 9