Although he couldn’t understand what the boys were saying to each other, he understood the tone and body language. The biggest boy in the group was demanding the food and the little one beside Mark was trying to consume as much of it as he could before having to give up his prize. Always one to root for the underdog, Mark stood and glared at the boys. He felt like a big bully as he towered over them, but on the other hand, they would certainly understand the concept, as they bullied the younger boy. They backed off, turning to head back the way they had come, but not before shouting something at the little boy. Mark hoped he hadn’t made anything worse for the kid, but a glance down showed the boy had already dismissed the group from his mind while he fished in the bag of almonds.
With nothing else pressing to do, Mark decided to stick around and guard the boy until he was done eating, but when the child finished, he stood and tugged on Mark’s sleeve and pointed down the opposite direction from where the other boys had gone.
“What? You want me to go that way?” Mark asked, pointing down the road.
The boy smiled and yanked on Mark’s arm again, until laughing, Mark went along with him. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to do today. Show me your city.”
Their first stop was the market and Mark bought some more fruit and nuts for the boy, along with a kabob of lamb and vegetables for each of them. They ate as they walked, with the boy keeping up a running commentary that Mark didn’t understand.
Before he knew it, he was on the outskirts of the city and the ruins of a citadel stood before them. Mark uncapped his camera and took photos of it. The sun was on its downward trek in the western sky and lit the citadel with a soft light. Snapping away, Mark stopped to thank the boy but he was gone. He missed the chatter, but was glad he’d been able to at least give the kid a decent meal.
After taking a dozen photographs from several different angles, Mark decided to head back to his hotel. He didn’t want to be caught outside its safety after dark. He’d learned that much while he was here. Mo had warned him that the Taliban ruled most of the country and people out after dark were at risk. It still puzzled Mark that Mo appeared to have accomplished very little in regards to the book, and his sudden detour to a village with his cousins confused him. Why did they need his presence now? Mo had lived in the States most of his life and his cousins had managed without him all that time, but Mark guessed it wasn’t any of his business. The whole trip had turned out much differently that he had expected. Why hadn’t Mo spoken to anyone who wasn’t a relative? At least, it seemed that way to Mark. Everyone they had met had been a cousin or an uncle or a close neighbor of one of them. Maybe Mo had spoken to them in Pashto and Mark just hadn’t been aware, or when he hadn’t been around, but if so, it seemed like Mo was relying on his memory as Mark hadn’t seen any sign of a tape recorder. He was no expert writing a book, but he thought that it involved copious note-taking.
Sweat ran in rivulets down his back as he finished the last of the water he had brought with him. Thirst pushed thoughts of Mo from his mind and he focused on finding a drink. He started to pass a bazaar but with his water gone, he hoped that he would be able to find a refill there even though he’d learned the bazaars sold goods and not food.
At first, he didn’t really pay attention to the goods on display, but after he found someone who showed him a well, Mark filled the bottle and then strolled along the stalls, sipping the water. One stall displayed a beautiful rug. He wasn’t much of a decorator, but the artist in him appreciated the colors and patterns of the wool. The next stall had gorgeous scarves and he thought of his mother. She would love one and he figured he should get some kind of souvenir from his time here. He picked out one and paid for it, then realized he’d better get his dad something too.
He spotted a vendor with intricately carved wooden crafts. Perfect. His dad’s hobby was working with wood. After looking over the selection, he chose a basket that collapsed. Not only was it very cool, he imagined his dad would find a use for the basket in his woodshed behind the house. It could hold nuts and screws or something. Satisfied with his purchases, he headed back to the road, but he passed a stall with a table full of old cameras. He could no more pass it by than a woman could pass a chocolate fountain.
Most of the cameras were relics and he picked up one, turning it over in his hands, smiling. His grandfather had owned one like it. He set it down, and scanned the rest. A few were only a decade or so out of date, but they were cheap models that he barely glanced at. He could find one of those in any thrift shop in the States. He saw a few models that he was pretty sure were Russian made and when he examined the back of one, the Cyrillic writing confirmed it. The camera was in good shape and he debated buying it. It had a big red ‘50’ stamped on the top and he wondered what that meant. While he pondered its significance, his eyes wandered over the other cameras and caught on one. It didn’t look very different from the Russian one, but the body had more metal and less plastic. He set the Russian camera down, the puzzle of the ‘50’ forgotten. The air around the other camera seemed to shimmer. He cast a look over his shoulder at the setting sun. The rays must be hitting the table just right.
He picked up the camera and felt a jolt race up his arms and he lost his grip for a second, dropping it like a hot potato as he staggered back a few steps. Luckily, the camera only fell a few inches onto the table. He wiped his palms on his thighs. The vendor had started putting cameras away for the night and when he reached for the one Mark had dropped, a flash of irrational panic shot through him at the thought of losing it. He grabbed it before the vendor could. This time, there was no jolt, but there was…something. Like a thrum of energy. He could feel it run up his arms and wash over him.
It wasn’t painful, but reminded him of one time when he was out in an electrical storm and the hair on his arms had stood on end just before lightening had struck a tree not more than a hundred feet from him. At the time, the lightning strike had terrified him, but later, he recalled the incredible energy that had enveloped him just before the bolt. It had been like being injected with a dozen cups of coffee, only that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a jittery feeling. It was as if someone had taken his nervous excitement from taking his first driver’s exam or first kiss and mixed it with the burst of excitement he felt on Christmas mornings when he was still a kid and Santa was still very real.
He was at once filled with both confusion and assurance. His confusion came from not knowing the cause of the energy, but he was sure he had to have the camera. His gaze shot to the sky, certain he’d find a dark storm cloud above, but there was only a deepening blue sky that brightened to a brilliant orange in the west. The vendor didn’t seem to notice anything amiss and had merely shrugged at Mark and put away a different camera.
Mark lifted the camera and tried to pantomime taking a photograph, asking, “Where did you get this? Does this work?”
Another shrug.
“Does that mean you don’t know, or you just don’t know what I’m asking?”
The vendor smiled and shook his head.
Mark decided it didn’t matter if it worked. He had to have it. He rationalized that it would look great on a shelf in his studio if nothing else. He pulled out his wallet. “How much?”
At the sight of the wallet, the man knew exactly what Mark was asking and named his price. It was more than Mark expected, but he guessed he hadn’t hid his eagerness very well. He was sure he could have haggled and bartered the price down, but he didn’t want to take the time. After handing over the cash, he took the camera, surprised at the sense of calmness that washed over him once it was in his hands.
* * *
The next morning, he woke up early, eager to use the camera. He opened the back, searching for a source of the energy, but it appeared like any other camera. Disappointment swept through him, but then he felt silly. What had he expected? A tiny nuclear power plant churning inside? Despite the benign appearing interior, it was a very cool looking camera. He still felt t
he energy, but put it down to something he ate or maybe a virus he must have picked up. For all he knew, there were little parasites swimming in his blood right now. The thought made him shudder and drop the camera on the bed.
The energy stopped like someone had thrown a switch. If he had parasites, wouldn’t they keep swimming or whatever they did until he either died or got rid of them? He reached out a finger and touched the camera. A sizzle of energy zoomed up his arm. He grinned. Parasites couldn’t do that.
He wanted to use the camera, and while he hadn’t found a nuclear power plant inside of it; he had found a lot of dust and sand. It was almost as if the thing had been buried in sand at one point, but luckily, the lens still retained its cap and he didn’t detect any significant scratches. As much as he wanted to use it, he didn’t want to ruin it, so he resigned himself to waiting until he was back in Chicago and could get it professionally cleaned.
With a sigh, he wrapped his softest t-shirt around it and packed it in his suitcase. He didn’t have an extra camera bag and hoped it would be okay. Looking at it, he guessed it had to be about sixty years old and figured if it had made it this long in such good condition it should weather the trip to Chicago okay if he had it surrounded by his clothes.
His hotel had a shared bathroom with others on his floor, so he took his towel, washcloth and a clean t-shirt and boxers and tried to clean up the best he could in the tiny bathroom. Hopefully none of the other guests would need to use the facilities while he was busy.
He couldn’t wait to get home and take a long, hot shower. He felt like he had dust embedded an inch deep in his pores and it would take months to feel clean again. Water was a commodity he had always taken for granted, but in his travels through Afghanistan, where it had to be drawn out of a well, he appreciated the effort it took to obtain it a lot more. The hotel had water, but the water pressure was a mere trickle and he filled up the basin and had to wash using that. Cupping the tepid water, he splashed his face, and then soaped up the washcloth, scrubbing his cheeks and his beard. There hadn’t been many opportunities to look in a mirror the last few weeks and his appearance startled him. His skin was so brown and his beard longer than he had ever worn before. It was like looking at a stranger. Mentally, he added shaving to his ‘To do’ list when he returned. Feeling refreshed, if not exactly clean, he returned to his room to find Mo sitting on the only chair. If Mark had been dusty, Mo was positively filthy. And was that…blood on his neck?
“Mo? Are you okay? What the hell happened to you?”
“Nothing. My cousins and I camped out in the mountains with some other men from the village.”
On one hand, Mark was a little disappointed that he hadn’t been invited along. He and his dad used to camp and hunt when he was a kid. It might have been fun, but the prospect of camping with Faisal and Sayeed drained the appeal out of the idea. However, if Mo had asked him to go, he would have and done his best to avoid the cousins. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his expression because Mo waved a hand dismissively.
“You wouldn’t have liked it. It was more like a religious retreat than a camping trip. I would have told you about it before we left Chicago, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to go or not. They’re very selective about who attends.”
Mark shrugged and draped the damp towel over the doorknob, hoping it would dry before morning so he could use it again. “No problem. I spent my day exploring Kabul and found the coolest old camera at a bazaar. I’ve packed it already, but give me a second and I’ll show it to you.”
Mo shook his head. “Sorry, maybe later. My room’s next door and I need to hit the bed hard.”
His enthusiasm faltered, but Mark nodded. “Sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter 3
The loft was cool from the air conditioner, but even with it running full blast, it couldn’t erase all of the humidity from the Chicago air. With trepidation, Mark unwrapped the camera, freeing it from the confines of the t-shirt. What if he had only imagined the energy? Or what it had just been some kind of strange static electricity from the hot, dry air in Afghanistan? He had been back home for five days already, but he had been so busy catching up on photography shoots, paying bills, and processing the photos he had taken in Afghanistan, that he hadn’t had a moment to play with the camera.
A frisson of excitement hit him as his fingers brushed the metal and energy raced up his arms. “Yes!” He set out the soft brushes he had taken from his studio. He wasn’t sure he wanted to trust the camera to anyone else to clean. What if they did something and it lost the energy? He couldn’t explain why it was so important to him, just that it felt right. Without it, it would be nothing but a pretty showpiece. Nice, but not very exciting.
He put on some music and spent the rest of the evening cleaning every nook and cranny of the camera, using a can of compressed air to get the sand and dust out of cracks he couldn’t reach with his brushes.
Satisfied at last, he stretched and glanced at the clock. Tomorrow was Saturday and other than a quick headshot for a kid in the morning, he didn’t have anything else scheduled. He would try out the camera the next afternoon. It looked like standard 35mm film would work. The source of the energy became an even bigger puzzle to him because there was no obvious source. Everything on the device was mechanical, not electrical.
Saturday morning couldn’t pass fast enough. The kid had been cute and mostly cooperative so Mark had recommended a couple of agents to the mom. Something about the boy reminded him of the little boy in Afghanistan. Maybe it was just his dark hair and eyes, but Mark took it as a good sign for trying out the camera. Maybe it was a sign that the camera would work.
Finally. Mark strolled along the lakefront, enjoying the great weather and taking shots of whatever caught his eye. Tufts of grass sprouting from sand dunes, the lake, and he even sprawled on the ground and took a photo straight up through the leaves of a tree. He thought it might show some good contrast between the dark leaves and the dapple of sunlight. The lake was choppy and kids stood in front of the waves, squealing and laughing as the waves carried them in to shore. He sat on the beach and drew his arm over his brow. The sun beat down and the water looked inviting. Too bad he hadn’t thought to wear his swimming trunks.
A few women in bikinis were lying on the sand and he couldn’t help contrasting their mode of dress with what he had seen in Afghanistan. He had never thought twice about a woman in a swimsuit except to enjoy the view. When that thought hit him, he felt added heat creep up his neck. Were women there forced to wear the suffocating burqas to protect them from guys like him who had indecent thoughts about women in bikinis? He shook off the idea. It wasn’t like he acted on the thoughts. The more he contemplated the burqas and their use, the more insulted he became. He had self-control; it wasn’t as if he was going to throw the nearest woman in a bikini down in the sand and have his way with her, but the dress restrictions seemed to imply that men couldn’t control themselves.
At that moment, the woman turned her head and opened her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as her eyes met his. He blinked and turned away, embarrassed to be caught staring, and the heat turned to a burning flame of embarrassment. If she only knew what he had been thinking…Mark looked again, feeling the urge to explain, but she had closed her eyes again. Obviously his attention hadn’t disturbed her. He stood and brushed sand off his pants and headed for home.
* * *
Mark had a darkroom in his studio, but only used it occasionally when he wanted a special effect. It was more cost-effective to send his film into a company to get developed and get proof sheets. It allowed him to book more shoots if he didn’t have to spend a lot of time developing film, but sometimes he missed doing his own, so he took the opportunity to develop the film from his first use of the antique camera in his own studio. When he had finished and they were dry enough to handle, he sorted through them.
The tuft of grass and the tree photos turned out pret
ty cool, but the one of the lake was flat. Mark frowned and set it aside. He should have focused on something on the lake such as a sailboat.
Disappointment at the ordinary photos drained some of his excitement. For some reason, he had expected more, but the reality was, it was an old camera and the device was only as good as its operator. He stared at the picture of the water and shook his head. Boring. What had he been thinking? He tossed it aside. The second to last photo stopped him cold.
A little girl was sprawled on the sand and what appeared to be a lifeguard was pinching her nose as he leaned over her. His other hand tilted her chin and it was apparent he had either just given her a breath or was about to give one. A woman had a hand on the child’s chest, and her face was contorted with anguish. He stared, trying to comprehend where the photo had come from. He had put his own film in. He was mystified. Had he somehow clicked the shutter by accident and taken the picture? It didn’t make sense. Maybe there was some way the film could have been packaged with this photo already on it. He didn’t know how, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. The little girl’s eyes were open just a fraction, and he shuddered at the blank stare.
The last photo was one he had taken of a kite in the sky. It was okay, but it added to his confusion about the image of the little girl. He would expect something like that to be on end of the film, otherwise he would have had a double exposure with his own photo superimposed over the one of the little girl, but he saw no evidence of that. If it had been at the end, he could see where he had thought the film was finished, maybe the counter was off or something.
Mark blew out a deep breath and flipped through the photos again. It didn’t make any more sense the second time through, so he tried to put it out of his mind and when his friend George Ortega called to see if he wanted to go out for a few beers and a game of pool, he jumped at the offer.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 4