“Looks expensive.”
“Well yeah, but I was able to get a loan for it on decent terms. Interest rates are low, and they liked my growth strategy.”
“Growth strategy?” This didn’t bode well.
“I’m moving into digital image processing in a big way. Making use of the latest technology. Drop a few buzzwords and you’d be amazed how eager some banker will be to throw money in your lap.”
“But this was your best darkroom.”
Bill sighed. “It was your favourite, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I’d forgotten that, Steph. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Bill.”
“Sure, but you’re one of my best customers, and now I’ve gone and pissed you off.”
Bill leaned back against a small table, which groaned against his weight, threatening to send the new desktop PC on top of it crashing to the floor. He sighed again. “At least I still have the two other black and white rooms left for you,” he said. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, they’re free quite often. A little too often, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure it’s just a dry spell,” Stephan said. “It was dead for me this winter, and I actually got really worried, but now I’ve got plenty of work again. Just promise me you won’t take those last two darkrooms away too.”
“I’ll always do film here, Steph, Scout’s honour. It’s what got me into the business in the first place. And there are still a few purists like yourself left who demand it.”
Stephan shook his head. “Purists” sounded like a euphemism for something less positive. He’d never thought of himself as a Luddite, but the evidence was mounting. “Maybe I should just pack it in, go digital like everybody else.”
“That’s not what I was suggesting at all, Stephie – don’t get paranoid on me. Although now that you mention it you really should try some of this new gear. Our high-resolution printer is fully up and running now. You can do poster-size blow-ups lickety-split.”
“Hmmm.”
“Think of how good your factory shots would have looked printed out in full colour on a three-foot by five-foot sheet.”
To Stephan’s surprise, he found the idea exciting.
“Think it over,” Bill said. “But meanwhile, please keep coming here with your film. You are still a valued customer, you know.”
“Don’t worry about that, Bill,” Stephan said. “I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”
He pried open the first negative canister with a bottle opener, as he had done however many hundreds or thousands of times before. The canister’s top popped neatly off, its metal casing falling away to reveal the coil of unexposed film within. Next, he expertly wound the film onto a plastic spool and cut the spindle from the end. Then he inserted the spindle into a developing tub and screwed the lid into place. He flicked on the safety lamp, and the tiny darkroom filled with a soft red light. He’d once read that the bridges of warships were illuminated by red lights, because they did not dilate the eyes of the crew members and thus interfere with their night vision. The image of that appealed to him.
As he processed the negatives – pouring each of his chemicals into the tub in turn, then shaking the tub rhythmically to spread the liquid evenly over the film – his mind wandered back to his conversation with Bill. Maybe one day he would give digital a serious try. It didn’t have to displace his film work, though inevitably it would take time and energy away from it.
He poured the last of the fixer out of the tub, then unscrewed the lid and removed the spool. The roll of negatives unfurled, looking like an illustrated strand of DNA, its secrets now made visible. He held it up to the light, to catch a first glimpse what was imprinted there.
* * * * *
Over the next few weeks he didn’t see Natacha nearly as often as he had earlier in the year. It was mostly a work thing. Natacha had a bunch of extra responsibilities on her plate now that construction season was in full swing. And Stephan’s bookings with both new clients and old had continued its upswing.
He missed seeing her every day, of course. On the other hand, their relationship had gotten serious so quickly that it seemed only natural, now that the getting-to-know-each-other period was over, that they would pause and regroup. He was also secretly fonder of tuna-fish sandwiches, ramen noodles and baked beans than he cared to admit, and felt an illicit pleasure as he reacquainted himself with such bachelor foodstuffs in Natacha’s absence – not that he didn’t still find her gourmet creations to be both delicious and nourishing.
He was genuinely excited by the prospect of moving in with her. Still eager to give co-habitation a try, he was also keen to get to know more of her neighbourhood, with its excellent restaurants, stylish furniture stores, and pretty side streets. Plus, it was a change, one he could see himself stomaching with relative ease. There was still a lot of work to do before the move could even begin, however. He needed to give notice to his landlord that he would be leaving his condo, which still had several months left on the lease, and to pare down his possessions, which meant putting up a bunch of ads on Craigslist. Moving was such a headache, and he was annoyed to be doing so again less than a year after moving in, even if it made sense.
On a Thursday evening in late July, he went down to Café Diplomatico on College Street to meet Pete for dinner and drinks. It had been a blazingly hot summer so far, humid and sultry. That day had been no exception, but the evening brought with it a slight breeze, which made sitting out on the patio a reasonable option. Their table was street-side, with an unobstructed view of the passing crowds. Stephan could tell when a beautiful woman was passing without looking, because Pete’s eyes would begin to drift after her.
Stephan himself remained uninterested in such things these days. He understood that Pete’s distraction was innocent enough, and that his friend would never dream of betraying his wife. But he himself preferred not to even go there. He was one hundred per cent off the market.
In addition to the human crowds, the wasps were also out in full force that evening. One of them kept dive-bombing Stephan and Pete’s table, landing on their antipasto misto platter again and again, until Stephan picked up his fork, on sudden instinct, and with a slow downward stroke crushed it – with an audible crunch – into the shiny slice of ham on which it had alighted.
“Oh my god, did you see that?” Stephan cried out in amazement. The wasp hadn’t seen the fork’s narrow tines, it seemed. Perhaps it had been lulled by the light shining down unbroken between them.
Pete leaned in, folded the slice of ham in half over top of the wasp, as if closing a book.
“Enjoy your ham grave,” he said, solemnly.
Their main dishes arrived a few minutes later, and they ate in comfortable silence for a while, savouring their food and drink. Pete was the first to speak.
“I almost forgot – how’s living up at Yonge and Eglinton treating you?” he asked.
“It’s not, actually,” Stephan admitted.
“Not treating you well?” Pete asked with a frown.
“Not treating me anything.”
Pete considered this. “You mean you haven’t moved yet? I thought that was a done deal.”
“It was. It is,” Stephan said. There was no reason to be defensive. “I just haven’t had a chance move my stuff up there yet. We’ve been busy.”
He felt suddenly guilty, as if he’d been caught in a lie. Which was silly – there was no conspiracy here. He’d assured Natacha that he’d make the move happen any day now, and in response she’d casually asked him to keep her posted.
Pete studied him with narrowed eyes. “You’re sure you’re still going to do it?”
“Absolutely,” Stephan said. “We’re just letting things unfold organically.”
“Organically? You mean like a marijuana plant?”
“I was thinking more like fair-trade coffee, or a beautiful flower. Some sort of rare and valuable orchid.”
“That�
�s cute,” Pete said. “But I wouldn’t leave it too long if I were you. She’s a great catch, you’ve said so yourself. She’s smart, nurturing, has a life of her own.”
“It’s true,” Stephan said, with pride. “She really is quite awesome.”
“Well then, all I’m saying is don’t forget that old Woody Allen line about a relationship having to keep moving forward, or it’ll wind up like a dead shark.”
“Or a wasp in a ham grave.”
Over the course of the following week, after giving Natacha an official heads-up, he began to move his possessions over to her place. She lent him her car for a few days, which made the job easy and meant that they’d only need to rent a van for a few hours at the end of the process to pick up his larger pieces of furniture. He took his time, trading efficiency for ease. He felt a sense of relief now that he was going through with it, and Natacha seemed to as well, he noticed.
One Saturday afternoon he was at home packing when he spotted an old cardboard shoebox tucked away under his bed. Reaching an arm into the narrow space beneath the box spring, he managed to catch the corner of it with his fingertips. He drew the box out and, sitting down on the bed, removed its dusty lid.
Inside he found a thicket of old negatives, some in clear plastic organizers, others scattered loosely. There were also stacks of contact sheets and black-and-white prints. He recognized them as keepsakes he’d put aside over the last few years. It was strange that he was always so careful to hang onto things, and yet so seldom bothered to revisit them after setting them aside. If all of his old photographs, the personal ones, were to disappear in a fire or flood, he would probably feel sad for a few days and then immediately forget that they had ever existed.
He flipped absently through the pile, occasionally pausing to study a print that caught his eye, or to hold a strip of negatives up to the light for a glimpse of its contents. There were shots from parties he’d attended years ago, sunny streetscapes, photographs of old friends he was no longer in touch with, even a few images of Gamblor in Stephan’s old basement apartment.
He smiled, reflecting on his last few years in the city – if nothing else, it had been a colourful time in his life. Then his eye caught a distinct curve peeking out from the bottom of the box. Scrabbling down through the mess, he uncovered an old print, already yellowing and curled at the edges. It was a shot from a series of black-and-white nudes he’d done of Jenny Wynne back in the early days of their relationship. The shots were artistic and tasteful – not pornographic or even particularly revealing. He felt a wave of nostalgia as he flipped through them.
Jenny had suggested to him, in jest, that he could build a show around these shots. It would be fodder for an amusing scandal – the Telegraph’s readers were a prudish bunch, after all, and easily riled – but of course she’d only been kidding around, pushing his buttons. The shots had been for private consumption only, and he’d been supposed to give her the negatives for safekeeping but somehow it had never happened.
He found the contact sheet and dug it out, along with a handful of additional prints and a few strips of negatives. She’d allowed him only a single roll before experiencing a sudden, uncharacteristic, attack of modesty, he recalled. The shoot had been fun – not to mention rather sexy – and he’d taken it seriously, carefully composing each shot. Aiming for a dark and moody style, he had relied solely on natural light from the skylight in his studio. Deep shadows enveloped her figure in most of the images, and her curves seemed to melt into the darkness.
It would all have to go, he decided. Sure, it would be easy to hide everything somewhere Natacha wouldn’t look, not that such a questionable move would even be necessary. He could just as easily show them to her, explain that she didn’t need to worry. He’d already told her a little about Jenny Wynne, how they’d had a casual on-again, off-again relationship and how they’d ultimately drifted apart. But he wanted to get rid of the images for his own reasons.
He gathered up the prints, negatives and contact sheet and carried them out onto the balcony, then lifted the grill out of his barbecue and turned on the gas. The lighter clicked drily a few times before the burner lit with a gentle fwoomp, producing a ring of blue flames. He gave it a minute to heat up, then began feeding the shots into the flame, using his barbecue tongs to hold each item by its edge to avoid burning his fingers. Heat from the flames wafted up at him. It carried a pungent chemical odour that stung his nostrils and brought tears to his eyes. He kept his mind blank.
A couple of minutes later, everything was gone. It might as well never have existed. After he’d finished, he let the blue flames lick at the air for a little while longer. Bits of ash floated in front of his eyes, dancing lazily within currents and eddies in the air. He exhaled, and their dancing grew briefly more animated. He smiled to himself. After another minute, he turned the main dial on the barbecue back down to zero, and the flame went out with a second fwoomp. He shut off the gas and went back inside to continue his packing.
The last stages of the move went smoothly, and Stephan was soon settled in at Natacha’s place. Within a couple of nights of closing the door on his loft for the last time, its scratched hardwood floors bare except for the occasional dust bunny or deceased fly, its walls scuffed and ready for a fresh coat of paint, he knew that it had been the right decision. His hedging and foot-dragging over moving in with Natacha had, it seemed, been a waste of energy. Being a live-in boyfriend, it turned out, suited him well. He thought of something he and Pete had once discussed: when you were on your own in a place, the colour could sometimes leach out of it. Gamblor had helped to mitigate that for Stephan to some extent, but the greyness remained.
Sure, he loved black and white photography, the simplicity and austerity of it. But black and white was for art, not life. When you lived with someone else, the other person’s presence added colour to your space, and to your existence. Their bottles of shampoo and shower gel in the bathroom, their coats in the hall closet, their shoes lined up by the front door, their food in the fridge and cupboards. It all contributed in a small way to a sense of fullness and well-being.
There were a few minor hiccups during the move. They’d had to get rid of several pieces of furniture since it wouldn’t all fit into Natacha’s apartment, and most of what they got rid of had belonged to him. There were frustrations on the work front too, that summer. He had decided to do a mix of themes for his fall show – including pieces he’d salvaged from his port lands project as well as some other miscellaneous shots – but the work had been going slowly. He hadn’t mentioned any of this to Natacha. He didn’t want to dim, even slightly, the warm light that suffused their first days as a live-in couple.
All the important things were in order, anyway, and they soon settled into a comfortable routine. Mornings, they would hang out for a few minutes in bed, nestling in the cool white sheets, talking and joking as easily as if they had known each other since childhood. Evenings, they would have a drink together out on the apartment’s modest back deck, talking over the day’s events and figuring out what they felt like for dinner. Amid such rituals, he quickly realized that Natacha’s quiet, home-focused way of living was more in keeping with his own rhythms than Jenny Wynne’s outward-looking style had ever been.
One night in early September, after Stephan had been living uptown for a few weeks and had fully settled in, they had Pete and Sally over for dinner. It was the first time he and Natacha had entertained together, and although their friends weren’t exactly a tough audience they still took extra care to ensure that everything was just right. They spent all afternoon in the kitchen preparing a huge spread of curries, salads and side dishes. Between phases of the food prep, they’d hurry around the apartment to vacuum and tidy. They arranged fresh flowers in vases in the front hall and on the dining-room table. They even turned on the artificial fireplace – for comic effect, and for (slightly out-of-season) ambience.
The two couples had much in common, and so spending time with Pe
te and Sally was like looking into a kind of mirror. The friendships and connections among the four of them went back a long way. This made Stephan feel even closer to Natacha, since she’d already been a part of his history, in a sense, years before the two of them had even met. There was a lot for them all to discuss: politics, music, the real estate market, movies and television shows, the future, interior decoration, the nature of true love. Sally let slip that she and Pete were thinking about trying for a baby soon. It gave Stephan a warm, excited feeling to think that his friend might become a dad, maybe even within the year, even if he himself felt nowhere near ready for such a step.
Towards the end of the main course, Pete stood up, tipsy enough for a corny gesture.
“Okay, guys, I really need to make a toast here.”
“I enjoy a good slice of toast now and then,” Stephan said. He’d had several glasses of wine, too.
There were general groans.
“To Stephan and Natacha,” Pete went on. “A wonderful, beautiful couple with a gorgeous home and a brilliant future together.”
They clinked their glasses and drank. The conversation resumed, and after a few minutes the hosts cleared away the dishes and brought out dessert, a rich, sweet rice pudding. Stephan topped up his glass one last time. He would finish this final drink, be half sober by bed time. All was well. In future years, it occurred to him, he would look back on this time as a turning point.
Across the room, the artificial fire emanated a soft, surprisingly cozy orange light.
Home again, home again, jiggity jig
by Jenny Wynne
As Samwise Gamgee says at the end of the third Lord of the Rings movie, Well, I’m back. (Don’t hate me for the fantasy reference, cool kids – Liv Tyler’s in those movies, and she’s absurdly hot and besties with Stella McCartney. Plus I’m a writer, okay? We’re all secret dorks. There, I said it. I’m out of the geek closet. Take that, haters – now I’m one of you.)
The Silver Age Page 16