Anonymity Jones

by James Roy

  ‘It’s silly.’

  ‘Say it.’

  So she said it. ‘I just don’t want to miss you. When you’re not around any more. Like Andi and Viera. Because I miss them, and I’d miss you even more.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And yes, you’re right, that is silly. Seriously, you shouldn’t worry about that. There’s nothing to worry about – we’ll always be tight, you and me.’ Tina laughed. ‘You’re a dickhead, you know that?’

  But to Anonymity, it was like Tina was a dinghy on the end of a rope and the rope was slipping through her hands. There were so many ropes, in fact, and each one seemed as slippery as the next.

  Mr Moffat offered Anonymity a stool at one of the tall art benches, and seated himself on another, facing her across the corner of the table. Folding his hands, he leaned on his elbows and smiled at her. ‘So.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You came to see me.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So...’

  ‘My major work. It needs Edge.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a bit of time to think about it.’

  ‘I know, but I wanted to show you what I’ve come up with so far, and ask your opinion.’

  ‘You’ve got it here?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, taking out her laptop. ‘It’s photography, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas, but they’re still pretty early and not very advanced. You know, just stuff I’ve scratched together. And sorry that it’s such a slow computer,’ she said as she watched the welcome screen sluggishly appearing. ‘I should buy a new one, but I’m saving for a new camera. One of these,’ she added, taking a brochure from her bag.

  ‘Oh, nice.’ He tapped the page. ‘This is some serious gear right here, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What lens?’

  ‘One of these,’ she said, handing him another leaflet.

  He blinked in surprise. ‘Cripes! How much will you need to save?’

  ‘I’ve almost got enough. I’m planning to have it in time to start taking my shots for my major work. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got all these amazing ideas busting to get out...’

  ‘So, you’re definitely going digital?’

  ‘Oh yeah. It makes sense, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t want to get into all that film stuff. I don’t really understand it, and there’s no space to set up a darkroom at home. Or the money.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he agreed. ‘It does get expensive, especially developing colour.’

  ‘Oh, so colour is different?’

  ‘From black and white? Oh yes, hugely different.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about anything,’ Anonymity said, sighing. ‘I’m a child of the digital explosion.’

  ‘Of course you are. Is that computer of yours up and running yet?’

  ‘Almost.’

  She began to show him what she’d gathered together. A couple of photo montages, some sites where she’d seen ideas that appealed. He seemed interested and had some useful suggestions. Anonymity was impressed by the apparent depth of his knowledge, particularly when it came to digital media and photography. She mentioned this, hoping he wouldn’t think she was being rude. ‘I don’t want you to think that I see you as an old man or anything,’ she said, cringing inwardly at her inelegance.

  ‘But I am an old man, when you consider how fast technology changes. You know, I’m not sure what we’ll do once this interweb thing blows over. I mean, it can’t last, can it?’

  Anonymity grinned. ‘No, it’s a fad. Won’t even be around in five years.’

  ‘Right. A distant relic of the past, which we’ll remember fondly as we dust off our bottles of darkroom chemicals and our enlargers.’

  ‘And typewriters.’

  ‘Exactly. And quills. But for now, let’s imagine that digital is going to last, and that photography is my thing as well. I mean, as an art teacher I have to be able to teach drawing and ceramics and all that gear, and I did study it at uni and art school, but my first love is photography.’ He clutched his chest and gazed at the ceiling. ‘My first and true love.’

  ‘Wait – you went to art school?’

  ‘Sure. I left high school at the end of Year Ten, went to art school, then headed off to uni as a mature-age student. I probably wouldn’t recommend doing it like that, by the way.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anonymity.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that you look younger than that.’

  Mr Moffat smiled. ‘Younger than what?’

  ‘To be able to do all that stuff, and be as young as you are. Because I was only joking about being an old man, you know.’

  ‘I know. So, how young do you think I am?’

  She shrugged, and tried to concentrate on not appearing self-conscious. It didn’t work – his gaze was like a laser pointer.

  ‘Go on – guess.’

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty-four, maybe?’

  ‘Close, if you add a few,’ he said, smiling. ‘Try twenty-nine.’ ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow! I would never...’

  ‘It’s true. Anyway, as I was saying, photography is my thing. And some might say tragically, the old kind of photography, mostly. You know, with film, and chemicals. The kind we were just making fun of.’

  ‘No, that’s cool. Old-school. I like retro.’

  ‘Would you like to see some of my work, old-school though it might be?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t have any of it here – it’s all at home. But I did have an exhibition recently, and I’ve still got the prints all framed and matted up. I can bring some in if you’d like to see them.’

  ‘I would! Definitely!’

  ‘Good. So I will.’

  Three days later, the Four Musketeers walked slowly along the line of large prints that Chris Moffat had leaned up against the whiteboard, on the ledge. Meanwhile he stood to one side, arms folded.

  The images were bold, slow-exposure shots of cityscapes, with people moving ghost-like and dreamy through stations and underpasses. Red lines etched by passing tail-lights. Red and green intersecting lines made by slow-turning ferries. The colours were garish and otherworldly, like Polaroids.

  ‘So? What do you think?’ he asked. Was that a slight quiver in his voice?

  ‘They’re awesome,’ Anonymity said, and she meant it.

  ‘Totally,’ Tina agreed.

  He smiled nervously. ‘I always feel a bit weird showing them to people. But that’s part of being an artist, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you sell them?’

  ‘Of course, but I haven’t sold a lot. People come to launches of exhibitions for the free wine and the tiny pieces of toast with fancy cheese on top, and they wander through galleries to feel cultured, even if they don’t know what they’re really looking at. But they don’t put their hands in their pockets very often.’

  ‘If I had the money, I’d definitely buy one,’ Anonymity said.

  ‘You could spend that money you’ve been saving up for your new camera,’ he suggested.

  She grinned at him. ‘I like them, but not that much. But no, I would definitely buy one of these.’

  ‘You would? Which one?’ he asked, and the girls walked along the line of prints once more. ‘Hypothetically.’

  ‘There,’ said Tina, stopping at a night shot of a fountain, with the water slowed down and smoothed, gushing out and down all milky into the swirling pool below. ‘That’s really good.’

  ‘I like this one.’ Andi stood in front of an image in which brightly lit office towers leaned in, threatening to fall on the viewer.

  ‘This is very cool,’ said Viera, and her choice was predictably dark.

  Anonymity stopped and pointed. ‘No. No, this one.’

  It was an image of a station entrance that led underground. Night-bound figures drifted through the shot, semi-transparent like spectres, and off to the right, sit
ting against the wall of a boarded-up magazine stand, with his knees drawn up to his chest, a vagrant man gazed at the viewer. As the only other centre of quiet in the place, he seemed transfixed by the camera.

  ‘Yes, I like this one too.’ Mr Moffat was standing behind her, his face close to her shoulder. ‘In fact, it might even be my favourite.’

  ‘It reminds me of that photo you showed us a few weeks ago,’ Anonymity said. ‘The mother, from the Great Depression.’

  ‘ Migrant Mother. Dorothea Lange. And I’m flattered.’

  ‘But there are so many to choose from.’ She turned her head slightly. She could smell him, a little like wood shavings and a little like incense.

  ‘I know there’s a lot of choice, but when you see the one you like, you know. And I know.’

  ‘Well, this is the one I’d have. If I wasn’t buying a ridiculously expensive camera.’

  ‘And you’d probably be disappointed,’ he replied, almost in a whisper. ‘See the yellow dot in the corner of the frame? That means it’s sold. I’m posting it tomorrow.’

  ‘See? I told you mine was better,’ Tina said, her voice elbowing into the conversation. ‘Mine’s not taken.’

  ‘Neither is mine,’ Viera said.

  ‘This one might be taken, but I still prefer it,’ Anonymity said. ‘Hypothetically.’

  Not long after that, the Musketeers crossed the quad near the senior canteen, where boys who should have known better wrestled good-naturedly in the queue, while the posse of girls they were hoping to impress made a stoic display of ignoring them.

  ‘What was that?’ Tina asked Anonymity.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘You didn’t see it?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘In the art room?’ Tina shook her head. ‘Shit, girl.’

  ‘I saw it,’ said Andi.

  ‘It was very clear to me,’ agreed Viera. ‘Very clear.’

  ‘I don’t know what you lot are talking about.’

  That evening, Anonymity was once again sifting through some of her photos on her laptop, looking for anything that even vaguely resembled what she’d seen lined up against the art room whiteboard. Anything that could make her feel something, that would grab her and drag her in, like the smell of a café on a cold rain-driven day.

  ‘Some of your shots?’ John was standing at her door, holding a mug and wearing a smile. A brown droplet had formed on the bottom edge of his mug and was threatening to fall. ‘Did you take these?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned back to the screen, hoping to appear dismissive, but not rudely so. There was a fine line, and she felt sure that with practice she would learn to tread it.

  But he wasn’t taking the hint. His presence moved closer, until it was close behind her. She could hear a faint whistling in his nostrils, and then a quiet slurp of his coffee. She tightened, waiting for the brown droplet to fall onto her back or the arch of her neck.

  ‘They’re good,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it. They’re good.’

  ‘I mean it too. Thanks.’

  She selected a new image, and her computer took a moment to think. Then the picture appeared, unrolling quickly down the page.

  ‘Your computer’s struggling.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Graphics processing like you want to do is too much for it.’

  ‘I know, but it’s the best I’ve got.’

  ‘No. Photos as good as those deserve better.’ Then, as if to change the subject, he said, ‘Heard from your sister lately?’

  Anonymity kept her voice steady and matter-of-fact. ‘Yeah, she sent me an email yesterday.’

  ‘And? How’s she going?’

  ‘It was a private email.’

  ‘Sure, but you can at least tell me if she’s well, can’t you?’

  ‘She’s well.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘Europe.’

  She expected a sigh, or something. It was the reaction she was going for. But, like hers, his voice remained level and patient. ‘Any particular part of Europe?’

  ‘Amsterdam, I think.’

  ‘I see. I’ve never been. Well, wish her my best. Make sure you do.’

  ‘I will.’

  The following afternoon Anonymity came home from school to find a new laptop on her desk, thin and sleek, with an expansive, dark screen. She hesitated at her door, and looked back along the hallway. She was alone in the house. Stepping forward, she prodded the trackpad with one finger, and with a faint hum from within the silver body, the screen glowed to life.

  Happy birhtday!!!

  Stunned, she sat down.

  Happy birhtday!!!

  He’d misspelt exactly half the words. And her birthday was still several weeks away.

  She heard the automatic garage door jolt and begin its slow upward journey, and the rumble of John’s car idling into the garage. Would Corinne be with him or would he be alone? And where was Sam, to growl at him and keep him on his toes?

  Downstairs, the key rattled in the front door. No voices. No communication. He was on his own.

  ‘Hello?’ he called, and Anonymity stared at the screen.

  Happy birhtday!!!

  Footsteps on the stairs, and the creak of the banister. One day that thing was going to give way, and anyone who happened to be leaning against it was going to fall. It might not be far enough to kill them, unless they broke their neck, or struck their head on the corner of the piano, but they’d almost certainly injure themselves. Maybe it would be him, today, and the idea made her mouth twitch.

  ‘Oh, you are here,’ he said as he came to the doorway.

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’

  ‘You found the computer, then.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Um...’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, it’s gorgeous. You really shouldn’t...’

  He was closer now, standing behind her, and she couldn’t bear even the thought of turning around.

  ‘Why did you buy me a computer?’ she asked.

  ‘You needed something faster, and this is exactly that. It’s something faster.’

  ‘I know, but–’

  ‘Also, I could afford it. I’ve done OK, and I figure, why sit on money? It’s just money. It’s no good to anyone if you don’t spend a bit of it.’

  ‘Yeah, but–’

  ‘And it’s your birthday soon.’ He nodded towards the computer, as if the words on the screen were all the proof he needed.

  ‘It’s almost a month away.’

  ‘But you need a new computer now.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘If you don’t like it, or don’t want it...’

  ‘No, I do. It’s great.’ She twisted in her chair, faced him, stood up. ‘Thank you, John.’

  He smiled and shrugged. ‘It was my pleasure.’ Then he spread his arms, and in spite of herself she hugged him. He was the complete gentleman, and something about the unexpectedness of that made her angry. He smelt vaguely of soap. He patted her lightly on the back as she hugged him. Then he released her and took a step back, and so did she, momentarily unbalanced by the chair behind her.

  He ran his finger along the top of the screen. ‘I really hope you enjoy it. It’s got a couple of pretty good graphics programs on it already, but if they’re not what you need, just let me know and we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, John. It’s great. Really.’

  The evening passed in a moment as Anonymity learnt her way around her new toy. Later, on her way to bed, Corinne came to Anonymity’s room.

  ‘So there it is,’ she said. ‘Wow, that’s a pretty impressive machine. That was generous of John, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve already said thank you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So...’

  ‘So nothing. I just think it was very kind of him.’

  ‘It was,’ Anonymity replied, wondering if she looked like
she needed convincing.

  ‘Quite the birthday present.’

  ‘Yes. It’s great.’

  ‘Have you changed your view?’ Corinne asked.

  ‘Of John? Because of a computer? Is that why he bought it for me?’

  ‘No! He was just being a good friend. But–’

  ‘OK. Then that’s ... great.’

  The following day she told Tina, who seemed annoyingly – but not unexpectedly – indifferent. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘New machine. So now you can process all those spy camera photos you’re taking of him.’

  ‘Don’t. That’s kind of gross.’

  ‘You got that right. Still, it is a new computer.’

  ‘So?’

  Tina shrugged. ‘So nothing. Just that. It’s a new computer. A very nice one.’

  ‘But what did he think I was going to give him in exchange for it?’

  Tina took half a step backwards. ‘You don’t seriously think...’

  Anonymity frowned. ‘Weirder things have been known to happen,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know, but ... but he wouldn’t. Would he?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  Later that day she had art, the period before lunch, and while the last of the stragglers were arriving she went to the bookcase at the back of the room, picked up a glossy art history book and began leafing through it.

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’ Mr Moffat asked, walking over.

  ‘Not really. Just waiting.’

  He stood close by her shoulder and looked at the page. Wood shavings and incense. ‘Monet. Nice. Do you like Monet?’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t you mean he’s all right? As in, a person?’

  ‘Don’t you mean he was all right? As in, past tense?’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘A lot of haystacks, though,’ she said. ‘I mean, seriously, how many did he have to paint?’

  ‘It was actually the same one, over and over. Hey, are you able to hang around for a minute after class?’ he asked.

  ‘I guess so. Why?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it then. But it’s OK – you’re not in any trouble.’

  When the bell went at the end of class, she took her time packing up, and even then had to wait for Emma Dickins and Juliet Hua to finish talking to Mr Moffat. These girls, the same age as her – at least in years – were giggly, silly, embarrassing to watch. She was also conscious of an uncomfortable tightness in her throat as she watched them wasting his time, asking him questions that no one should have to wait until after class to ask.