“A camera like that is a magic machine. It pops and flashes, and before you know it, you’re immortalized in a picture,” I said in feigned naïveté.
Irina smiled. “Oh no, there’s a lot more to it than that. First you have to develop the film, then fix it and wash it in water. Once the negative is dry you can print the image on paper.”
“The negative? What’s that?”
“You mean you’ve never seen a negative?”
“We don’t have anything like that in Baia Luna. But it’d be interesting . . . I mean, very interesting to see how the trick is done, how you get the picture onto the paper. Or is it a trade secret?”
“Oh heavens!” Irina was amused. “You can learn about it in school. Chemistry and physical science. Well, I was planning to develop your pictures after I closed the shop, but there aren’t any more customers anyway. If you want, I can show you how everything works in the lab. I mean, if you’re really interested. Would you like to see?”
“Yes, it would be great to see the lab.” I was enjoying playing the inquisitive boy.
“Then follow me!”
“I don’t understand that technical stuff anyway,” Grandfather interrupted. “I’ll take a look at the People’s Shopping Cooperative in the meantime.”
Ilja left the studio.
Irina took the film cassette out of the camera, and I followed her down the steps. In the basement things weren’t anywhere near as orderly. Innumerable cardboard boxes of photographs were stacked to the ceiling on uneven shelves. Canisters of developing chemicals stood around everywhere. Dusty picture frames and old optical equipment were piled in a corner. Irina opened a heavy iron door to the darkroom and turned on the red light. It took my eyes a while to get used to the half darkness, but gradually I could make out enlargers, pans containing various liquids, glass beakers, tongs, and clotheslines from which hung drying strips of film and enlargements. Although I was seeing all these things for the first time, I already had an idea what they were and how they were used. Fritz Hofmann had explained to me how the photographic development process worked. Irina took a black cloth and shut out the light from a basement window onto an airshaft.
“That seals it off. Not a sliver of light can get through. You have to understand: film can only be developed in absolute darkness. The smallest ray of light and it’s spoiled.”
“Why not just brick up the window instead of having to hang the cloth in front of it every time?”
“Because of the fumes from the chemicals. If you had to breathe them for hours at a time, they’d make you sick. You have to air out the darkroom from time to time. Are you ready? It’s going to get completely dark now.” The pretty lab assistant picked up the film cassette and turned out the light. “I need a few minutes to bathe the film in developer. When it’s done, it has to be fixed and washed, then we’ll put the light back on, and you’ll see your first negative.”
I listened to the sounds of Irina working; obviously, she could find her way around blind. After about five minutes, she turned the light back on and opened up the tap. “You can do the washing yourself,” she said with a laugh and handed me the developed film. “But only hold it by the edge, or there’ll be fingerprints on your photo when it’s done. Hold the film up to the light, and you’ll see why a negative is called a negative. Your light skin is dark and the pupils of your eyes are little white specks. On a negative, everything is reversed. You see? By the way, customers usually have to wait three days to pick up their finished ID photos. I’m making an exception in your case. But in case you run into Herr Hofmann, not a word about being here. Nobody from outside is allowed down here. Even my colleagues aren’t. Herr Hofmann is afraid someone could turn on the light by accident when we’re working in here. That’s why the switch is way up here above the lintel. But Herr Hofmann is funny about some things. I’m the only one he trusts to do the lab work. He only takes care of the most important jobs himself. Okay, now I’ll show you how we make a positive from a negative. You’ll see how the image gets transferred to paper.”
In other circumstances I would have found Irina’s explanations extremely interesting, but in this situation I had to force myself to listen attentively. My mind was on something else entirely, but I needed patience and a good deal of luck. In the dull glow of the red light Irina took a piece of printing paper out of a cardboard box and placed it in a frame under the enlarger. She laid a strip of film on top of it with four negatives the size of an ID photo, then a glass sheet. “If a customer wants a bigger print, I put the negative up here in the enlarger. That isn’t necessary for small ID pictures. For them the negative is directly in contact with the paper. Do you understand what I mean? Here, I’ll show you.”
Irina turned on the enlarger, counted “twenty-one, twenty-two,” and turned it off again. Then she took the photographic paper and slid it into a pan of developing solution. “Now the magic begins,” she whispered as she swished the sheet back and forth with some tongs. I watched the edge of the paper get gradually darker, and then the suit jacket and the dark tie and finally the contours of my face emerged. The girl waited awhile longer, lifted the sheet out, and put it in the pan with fixer. She handed me a pair of tongs and told me, “Keep it moving around. Count to sixty slowly, then you can turn on a regular light, let the paper drip off, and rinse it under running water for a few minutes. When that’s done, I’ll name you honorary first assistant to the assistant. And you can decide which print you want for your ID.”
Then I got the lucky break I was hoping for. From the first floor came the faint sound of the doorbells.
“Darn. I should have closed up the shop. I’ve got to go upstairs, but you know what to do.” Irina pushed open the iron door and disappeared.
“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.” I had counted fast, but not too fast. I put the sheet into the water bath and turned on the faucet. Then I hurried to the blacked-out window and pushed aside the black cloth. Behind it, a grill separated the lab from an airshaft that very probably led up to a back courtyard. The window was locked. I thought of Kora Konstantin. The old woman was good for something after all. Now I set about actually doing what Kora in her twisted fantasy had accused the teacher of doing. Barbu was supposed to have secretly opened the window to the library and then used it to gain entry to the rectory at night. I turned the latch ninety degrees. I was able to open and close it easily. Then I left the window open a crack, hung the black cloth in front of it again, and went back to rinsing my portraits.
Irina Lupescu returned. “Your grandfather’s back. It was too boring for him in town. He’s waiting upstairs. So, have you decided which picture you want for your ID?”
I hadn’t. “Why did you take four pictures? One would have been enough.”
Irina took the contact print from me and examined the little portraits. “Here’s why I took four! Look here! This one is blurry. And here you blinked just as the flash went off. The other two turned out all right. I would choose this one. You look friendly and determined and not so terribly stiff and serious.”
I decided I could depend on Irina’s judgment.
“I’ll cut out your picture, and then it will take a few more minutes to have your grandfather’s ready.”
“What’ll you do with the pictures that didn’t turn out?”
“I throw them away, but you’re welcome to take them with you. We don’t have any use for them.”
“What about the negatives?”
“Oh, I can’t give you those. We have strict orders from Herr Hofmann. They are the most valuable thing any photographer has, and for my boss they’re close to sacred. That way, we can make as many prints as you want whenever you need them. Even though hardly any customers take advantage of the opportunity.”
“And what do you do with the negatives if nobody needs more prints?”
“We collect and file them. The archives are in the next room. As a joke we call it the tabernacle, Herr Hofmann’s holy o
f holies. There are thousands of negatives stored in there. All in file boxes, neatly labeled and filed alphabetically. If we didn’t do that, we’d never find anything again. In twenty years you may have grandchildren of your own and want to give them a photograph of yourself when you were young. As a stylish young gentleman in jacket and tie.”
Irina gave another hearty laugh. I had to force myself not to be too attracted to her.
“Here I’ve been talking away and I don’t even know your name. What is it, anyway?”
“Pavel. Pavel Botev. My grandfather’s name is Ilja. My father’s no longer alive, unfortunately.”
“It’s a nice name, Pavel Botev. I like it.”
“And you, are you married already? Do you have any kids?”
Irina gave me a serious look. “No, I just got engaged. But I’d like to have children. A lot, in fact. But first comes the wedding.”
I summoned all my courage and asked, “May I ask who the lucky groom will be?”
“Of course you can ask. But I don’t want to give it away yet. As my mother always says, blow the trumpet when the wedding bells ring, not when the dress is still hanging in the closet. But I’ll tell you this much: he often works with my boss, Herr Hofmann.”
I bit my tongue. I wanted to take her in my arms and say, Don’t do it! Go back to the capital. Forget about that man. Forget him for the rest of your life. Instead, I let the name slip out.
“It’s Dr. Stephanescu, isn’t it?”
Irina stared at me in astonishment and shook her head. Then she broke out in a peal of laughter that really annoyed me.
“Are you completely nuts? Why in the world would you guess our party boss? He’s much too old for me. He could be my father. But my fiancé does know Mr. Stephanescu. Quite well, in fact. They often go out to eat with my boss, in the Golden Star. If you promise to keep it a secret . . .”
“I promise. Word of honor.”
“His name is Lupu. Lupu Raducanu.”
Up in the shop Grandfather sat dozing on the sofa for customers. I shook him. “Granddad, we’re finished. You’ve got to pay.”
“Keep your money,” said Irina. “I had fun with the two of you. I know for a fact that Herr Hofmann makes almost nothing from ID photos anyway. We only offer the service because we earn plenty on the orders from the party. But don’t tell anyone I said so.”
“But we insist on paying, just like anyone else.” Tortured by my bad conscience, I tried to get my feelings for Irina back onto the commercial level.
“Are you trying to insult me? You just mustn’t say anything to Herr Hofmann if you run across him in town.”
Once back on the market square, I felt dirty. Irina Lupescu’s credulity pained me. And I had exploited her with cold-blooded calculation. But what should I have done? Stephanescu was not going to fall on his own as Angela Barbulescu had prophesied. He would have to be brought down. And if anything could bring that man down, it was what was located in the basement archives of Hofmann, the master photographer.
Since we wouldn’t be able to get our new ID cards and sign the contract with the State Trade Organization until the next morning, there was no getting around having to spend the night in the district capital. We returned to the grounds of the trade organization’s Kronauburg wholesale market, but found the gate locked with a heavy chain and padlock. Two attack dogs leaped furiously at the chain-link fence, trying to get at us.
“The Hossu brothers stayed open in the evening and never had dogs,” grumbled Ilja. We moved on to the Pofta Buna, where we gave the owner a few small bills to keep an eye on our horse and wagon overnight.
“I’ve never stayed in a hotel. You haven’t either, have you?” I said.
Grandfather pretended to try to recall. “I can’t remember at the moment. But do you have any idea what a hotel costs? It’s not for the likes of us.”
“I saw a place called the Golden Star on the market square. Why don’t we ask the price of an overnight there? Without any commitment, of course. And besides, we can eat there, too. They’ve got a real restaurant and my stomach’s starting to growl. And we saved money. We got our pictures for free and when the postman comes with your first paycheck from the T.O., we’ll be in the clear.”
Granddad thought it over. Of course, the relatives of his deceased wife, my grandmother Agneta, would have put us up as they always did when we had to spend the night in Kronauburg. But Grandfather wanted peace and quiet, not to have to talk to his in-laws. And besides, he was hungry, too. “Okay. Let’s go back into town. It won’t hurt to ask.”
The prices at the Golden Star had been high even back in the days of the monarchy, when King Carol had stayed there. But they were much lower than Grandfather had feared. Although they were still exploiting its royal past to promote the hotel after it had been nationalized, the prices for rooms categorized as standard had been drastically reduced. At the hotel desk where his old ID was accepted without question, Grandfather paid for a double room.
It was a small but spotlessly clean room with colorful flowered wallpaper. The bed was freshly made up and had a scent unfamiliar to me. “Lavender,” Ilja said appreciatively and pointed to the pillows where two tiny chocolate bars lay. In the bath there was a white enamel tub with two faucets that Granddad immediately tried out. Hot and cold. They worked perfectly. Two bath towels hung from a polished brass rod, and there was a pile of neatly folded hand towels on a shelf.
“Take a look at this!” Grandfather was beaming like a child. In each hand he held a bar of soap wrapped in gold foil. “Genuine Luxor. We’ll use one and take the other one home. That old Raducanu woman’s going to be flabbergasted next time she asks for her fancy soap.”
We freshened up and, wary of the elevator, descended the stairs to the second floor. We pushed open the double door labeled RESTAURANTUL, not suspecting what a powerful assault on our senses awaited us within. The walls were painted a jarring orange that clashed harshly with the blue carpeting.
“Would the gentlemen care for a table by the window?” A waiter had materialized out of nowhere. He was wearing tails and had a white towel draped casually over his left arm. I thought at once of what my teacher used to tell us about the Paris of the East. As far as the achievements of civilized culture were concerned, Kronauburg certainly couldn’t hold a candle to the capital, but at least it could provide a foretaste.
“The window wouldn’t be bad,” I answered and saw myself straightening my shoulders and jutting my chin out a bit. Like on my new ID picture.
“If the gentlemen would please follow me.”
Grandfather had already seated himself, but I allowed the waiter to pull out a chair for me. While we contemplated the table with its starched white tablecloth on which an impressive array of plates, glasses, and small bowls already awaited us, I tried not to show how impressed I was. As a barroom gofer, of course, I was not unfamiliar with the gastronomic profession, but the painstaking accuracy with which these knives, forks, and spoons large and small had been placed next to napkins folded into towering pyramids was something else entirely. There was even a vase of red roses in the middle of the table.
Ilja raised no objection when I took out a pack of cigarettes. The waiter immediately stepped forward and gave me a light.
“What’ve you got to eat?” asked Grandfather.
“The gentlemen would like to see the menu? At your service!”
“Yes, please,” I replied before Granddad could say something else embarrassing and betray our humble origins. In a flash the waiter was back at our table. He opened the menus and handed them to us. Then he stood there waiting for our order. The guy made me nervous.
“We need a little time.” I again assumed the energetic expression and jutting chin Irina had taught me. It worked. The waiter silently withdrew across the blue carpet. In elaborate typefaces, the menu itemized suspicious-sounding dishes and dinners of several courses. In this establishment, there were culinary curi
osities that apparently occupied the plate not with but à la something else, like “artichokes à la vinaigrette,” which Grandfather was unable to imagine as something to eat. In addition, the prices were positively astronomical. But on the last page, under “Rustic Treasures from Our Folk Cuisine,” we discovered the kind of thing our taste buds were longing for. Although the prices were still lordly, they weren’t dizzyingly high. We motioned the waiter over, and Granddad ordered stuffed cabbage, pork chops, boiled potatoes, and sour tripe soup as an appetizer. “Same for him, and don’t be stingy with the portions.” The waiter suggested a draft beer with our order, which delighted Grandfather, since in our tavern we as good as never had any beer. I ordered a mineral water. I feared alcohol would make me sleepy, and I needed a clear head for the night to come.
Although Ilja was licking his lips after the meal and ordered another beer, he was still griping that Kathalina cooked better, but for a town meal it was not bad at all. I, on the other hand, insisted I had never dined so well in my life. As the waiter was removing our empty plates, he asked if the gentlemen would care for a digestif or an espresso, and now at last I could see how heavy and coarse and rude life in Baia Luna—where there was only one kind of glass for whatever you drank—must appear to someone from the city. Grandfather, who was acquiring a taste for beer, ordered another pilsner. “You won’t find better service than here anytime soon, Granddad. Let me treat you to something good,” I said patronizingly and ordered him a double konjaki Napoleon. He hadn’t the foggiest what my real motivation was. A tipsy Grandfather falling fast asleep would be useful to me. I could slip out of our hotel room unnoticed.
The konjaki was served in a large snifter. I was familiar with such glasses: Stefan Stephanescu had been holding one at the birthday party of young Dr. Florian Pauker while he flirted with the hopelessly love-struck Angela Barbulescu. That was the very moment Heinrich Hofmann had pressed the shutter release. The proof of whom the woman in the sunflower dress was about to kiss had gone up in smoke in the teacher’s living room. But that didn’t mean the possibility of proving it was lost forever. From Irina Lupescu I had learned a bit more about Heinrich Hofmann. If anything in the world was sacred to the photographer, it was the negatives in his archive.
The Madonna on the Moon Page 27