Interference

by Amélie Antoine

  And weddings are only the tip of the iceberg. They also hire me to put together hilarious albums of the bachelor and bachelorette parties: the bride surrounded by her closest friends; the groom downing his umpteenth drink; and a host of other moments that just have to be preserved for posterity. Then there are the birth announcements, family portraits, baptisms, and the list goes on. They all put on cheerful smiles and show off their flawless happiness—or the appearance thereof. In fact they’re all on edge because they absolutely need me to get good pictures that look spontaneous while they’re really anything but, photos that seem to capture an authentic moment of happiness when it actually took a whole lot of organization and at least twenty shots to get a single frame where everyone’s eyes are open.

  I love photography. But not like this. Not cookie-cutter, assembly-line photography where nothing changes but the faces. What I really want is to be a photojournalist. To go on adventures, far from here, and immortalize world events. To witness moments that will go down in history: wars, armed conflicts, protests, disasters—both natural and man-made. I want to take pictures of kids playing on battlefields, of wives grieving for their husbands, of soldiers still eager to fight. I want to capture all that emotion in their facial expressions. I want people to hear the cries when they look at my photos, to be able to imagine the laughter and sobs. I want the people who see my photos to suffer alongside the man on his knees screaming at the sight of his home razed to the ground and family slaughtered, to be moved by the mother nursing her baby as the bombs fall, to be revolted by the little girl holding a doll in one hand and a gun in the other.

  That’s my dream. I’ve had a camera swung over my shoulder constantly since I was seven, when my grandfather gave me my very first one and told me it’d make me rich—not with money, but with memories. I started taking pictures of my family, trying to capture those private moments you don’t see in the traditional photos organized into chronological albums sitting in closets. My parents must have felt like they were living with a paparazzo, but no matter how hard they tried to keep me from taking pictures of everything I saw, it just fueled my passion.

  I have photos of them that they’ve never seen. Midargument, my mother yelling with her hands raised in exasperation—“It’s always the same story with you!”—my father sighing and frowning, waiting for the storm to pass. My mother smoking a cigarette in her nightgown, alone in the yard, her gaze lost in the distance. My father straining fettucine in a colander, sending the noodles up into the air with a smile, showing off his talents for my benefit. My little brother, Nathan, having a temper tantrum because we never let him win at Clue: tears of rage on his cheeks, eyes closed, lips pursed tight, hands in fists. “It’s not fair!” All those moments are worth so much more to me than the traditional family portrait in front of a Christmas tree or birthday cake. Moments like that prove—in a fraction of a second—that family isn’t about the bland happiness we try so hard to make others believe we’ve achieved. These moments capture emotions, real emotions: sadness, anger, happiness, surprise . . .

  Ever since I got my first camera, I’ve felt like I’m always looking at the world through a lens. I’m always looking for the perfect frame, the right light, and ideal colors. I develop every picture I take in black and white because I like the contrast, the dichotomy, and the way it enhances emotions.

  These photos are all on my website, under the “Everyday Life” tab. When I’m not working, I traipse through the streets like Henri Cartier-Bresson, looking for a kiss, a slap, an exclamation, an outstretched hand, a sad, pleading glance, or a fit of laughter to catch on film. A child refusing to hold his father’s hand, a circle of teenage girls whispering in front of their high school, a penniless man on the bus begging the ticket checker not to fine him, a waiter spilling coffee on a horrified patron. Click, click. I never stop.

  So until a press agency gives me my first big break, or I manage to save up enough money and contacts to travel the world for several months, I have to put up with Mr. and Mrs. Happy. I’ve been scrimping and saving for two years. I’ve sent résumés and cover letters everywhere I can think of. Now I’m just waiting for my time to come.

  I’m giving it a few more months before I leave on my own. For Syria, Iraq, Sudan, or Mali; there are plenty of choices. Nobody believes I’ll actually go, but what does that matter. My father thinks I’m too dependent on the comforts of Western living to take off, and that photography isn’t a career anyway. My mother thinks my plan is completely insane. I’m pretty sure she prays every night for me not to go through with it, because she’s so afraid of me risking my life for a few authentic shots.

  If I had more money, I would’ve packed my bags a long time ago. I would have treated myself to the freedom that comes with working as a freelancer, selling my photos to the highest bidder, without a single financial hiccup to interrupt my travels. I want to witness history as it happens, and share these immensely important moments with the world.

  In the end, people always get what’s coming to them, and soon—very soon—I’ll be able to make my dreams come true. I know it. I’ll do anything to make it happen.

  “Could you take your wife’s face in your hands and kiss her tenderly on the forehead, with your eyes closed? A little more to the left . . . There, that’s perfect.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MAY 16, 2013, 7:30 P.M.

  CHLOÉ

  The minutes and hours drag on as I wait. Knowing exactly what’s going to happen doesn’t change anything: I’m still incredibly anxious about how the day will end. I can’t wait for everything to come to light, for Gabriel to finally know. But I’m scared too. I wish I could postpone the revelation, keep him from finding out for a while longer. I almost wish I could go back in time, jump up and yell, “I quit!”

  It’s seven thirty now. Gabriel must be worried sick. We usually text, e-mail, or call each other several times a day. We don’t do cutesy love notes, but we always have little things to say, plans to confirm, grocery lists to finalize, and ideas of what to do later to share.

  Last night we even talked about having lunch together in town. So he must have been waiting to hear from me since noon. He’s probably sent five or six texts with more and more question marks and exclamation points, and left two or three messages on my voice mail. Maybe he even tried to reach me directly at the gym, where Elise, the receptionist, will have told him that nobody has seen me all day and that my classes had to be canceled at the last minute because no other trainers were available to sub at the drop of a hat. I can imagine Elise’s angry sighs and condescending tone, which betray the jealousy she’s felt toward me for years now. “Can you believe it? We had to tell clients that they’d come in for nothing, that their step class was canceled, without any sort of justified explanation! I mean, really, it’s so unprofessional . . . Well, I say that now, but maybe Chloé does have a valid excuse . . . Oh really, you haven’t heard from her either?”

  It’ll teach that bitch a lesson when she finds out what’s really going on. She’ll be sorry she didn’t think before speaking, sorry she indulged in so much unwarranted criticism. At least there’s that. I’ve never been able to stand her. She’s been snobby with me ever since she was hired, even though I’d already been working at the gym for a year! I understand that it must not be easy to be a receptionist in a gym where all the trainers have perfect bodies. Especially for a heavy girl. With greasy hair. But that’s no excuse for her contempt and cheap jabs, like her habit of changing my schedule at the last minute, for example.

  Of the four trainers, I’m the only woman. And I’m not stupid: I know they hired me primarily because I’m pretty and upbeat with an amazing figure. I’m not bragging, that’s just the way it is. Anyway, the same is true for the other trainers too. They’re all attractive and well built. Pablo, Sébastien, and Mehdi. Three young men with tanned skin and bulging biceps under tight T-shirts. Hey, you have to motivate the clients to buy memberships somehow.

  Male c
lients at the gym often openly hit on me, while the women wish they had my toned legs and flat stomach. I teach class after class of step aerobics, BodyCombat, BodyAttack, and Pilates. I also work individually with clients to develop training programs specifically suited to their goals: a new mom looking to drop the baby weight; a forty-something woman who’s decided to firm up her glutes; a college student hoping to wow girls on the beach; an overworked executive on his way up the corporate ladder who needs to blow off steam; etc. I feel their muscles, take their measurements, and weigh them, then come up with a training plan with weekly goals. I aim for efficiency and quick results, and my clients appreciate my enthusiasm and iron will. And, of course, my body helps too.

  I’m going to miss my job. I’m addicted to exercise, and I have no idea how I’m going to unwind without swimming, running, jumping, or pedaling. I know, it’s stupid to think about that when it’s so trivial compared to all the rest.

  And I guess this whole situation won’t even be hardest on me.

  Eight o’clock. Will this day never end? What can I do besides wait for the other shoe to drop? What will happen to me afterward? Will I fade away? Disappear? Wait for the end?

  I can see everything, but can do nothing. I’m invisible. I don’t exist. And that’s not something I’m used to.

  Gabriel is waiting. I watch him, powerless. He’s just gotten home.

  “Chloé?” he calls from the foot of the stairs in a worried yet hopeful tone.

  I want to answer him. At this exact moment, I want him to hear me. “I’m here,” I whisper, but silence continues to reign in our home. I repeat myself, louder, “I’m here!”—but Gabriel doesn’t react. My voice resonates through empty space, disembodied. I reach out my hand to touch his face, but he doesn’t feel it, of course. He goes upstairs into our room, where nothing has changed since this morning. He sits down on the bed, distraught. He gets out his Nokia and redials the same number he’s been calling all day. He waits. “You’ve reached . . .” He hangs up and throws his phone across the room. The black back pops off as it hits the wall. He runs his hand over his face, takes a deep breath, and goes to pick up the pieces. He puts it all back together and leaves the room with a defeated look on his face.

  For a few minutes, I can still see the shallow crater where he sat on the bed.

  GABRIEL

  At eight o’clock, when Gabriel comes home from work to an empty house, he finally realizes that something is not right. Until then, he’d been successfully brushing aside the worry that had been nagging at him all day. But now a wave of anxiety floods his brain, and he does nothing to stop it.

  There’s nothing surprising about Chloé forgetting their lunch. Just like there’s nothing surprising about her not answering her phone or calling him back from work. None of that is anything to be worried about. Most of the time she puts her phone in her gym locker and only has time to take a quick look at it between classes. While they do communicate a lot during the day, it’s mostly by text or voice mail. Or by e-mail, when she’s working odd hours and happens to be at home while he’s at the bank.

  But her not meeting him at the bank at seven thirty for a ride home when they are supposed to have dinner at his parents’ house at eight thirty—that is not normal. The fact that she’s not at home now choosing her dress is even stranger. And the fact that he still can’t reach her on her cell, that she hasn’t called back despite his increasingly anxious messages, definitely means something has happened to her. Though Chloé often makes fun of Gabriel’s overprotectiveness, she’s careful to reassure him regularly to keep him from worrying about nothing. She should have called him back by now, rolling her eyes as she said, “Why do you always imagine the worst? I didn’t realize my phone was muted, that’s all! And Elise set me up with another great schedule: nothing but tiny breaks, so I barely had time to shower between classes, much less text! I’ll see you later, okay?”

  Sitting on the bed he shares with Chloé, he listens as her voice mail picks up yet again, then throws his phone against the wall in anger. He immediately regrets it when he sees the small mark the phone has left on the taupe wall Chloé repainted just a few months ago. He makes a mental note to use some of the leftover paint in the garage to fix it before she notices.

  He picks up his phone and heads back downstairs to the living room. He dials the gym, but it’s after eight and nobody answers. He should have called earlier, started worrying sooner. Could she have gone out for a drink with her coworkers? No, she knew about the dinner they’d planned for tonight; they talked about it before going to bed last night, and she reminded him to buy his mother flowers or a potted plant. When he went up to their room, he even saw her pale yellow dress hanging from the closet door.

  At eight thirty, he decides to go to the cove. Maybe Chloé decided to go swimming tonight instead of this morning? Maybe he misunderstood, maybe the dinner with his parents is tomorrow night, maybe . . . Gabriel’s thoughts are racing, irrational and incoherent. His anxiety is overwhelming and he can’t think straight anymore.

  Chloé will be at the cove. He’s sure of it. When he gets there, she’ll be drying off with her big turquoise hibiscus-print beach towel, a surprised look on her face. “What are you doing here? Are you all right, sweetheart? You don’t look so good.” She’ll take him in her arms but won’t understand why he seems so relieved.

  She has to be at the cove. If there’s any place in the world he’ll find her, it’s there, the peaceful place they found together after moving to Saint-Malo, during one of their long walks. That day, they had parked along a quiet road outside the city and started walking as they discussed all the work that needed to be done on the house. Chloé had noticed an incredibly narrow trail that seemed to lead down to the ocean and insisted that they explore it. Gabriel had tried to get out of traipsing through the scrub and stinging nettles, but he knew that there was no point in disagreeing with his wife: when she got an idea in her head, you either followed her or watched her walk away. After a ten-minute descent resulting in ripped pants from coming too close to vengeful brambles, they’d found themselves in a tiny enclosed space: a beach that was barely fifty square feet, with the water almost licking their toes. They had sat down and watched the waves come and go with relaxing regularity. Chloé had turned toward him and whispered in a mischievous voice, “You see, it was worth ruining your pants!” As he’d wrapped his arms around her shoulders, she had leaned her head on his chest. “I wish we could stay here forever,” she’d murmured. He’d nodded without speaking, simply enjoying a moment of perfect, unadulterated happiness.

  Ever since that day they’ve kept coming back to their hidden spot to enjoy its calm, quiet solitude. Chloé comes to the cove to swim in the ocean, leaving her towel and the rest of her things on a rock near the water without having to worry about someone taking off with them while she does her laps. It’s their special place.

  Gabriel grabs his car keys from the table in the entryway and is about to head out the door when his phone rings. Unknown number. Chloé?

  His heart is racing as he picks up the phone.

  EMMA

  I try bouncing up and down on my suitcase to zip the damn thing up. I can almost hear my mother shouting, “Be careful, Emma. There’s no point in forcing it; you’ve put too much in it. You’ll have to take some things out if you want to be able to close it!” I smile as I push as hard as I can on the lid. Done at last. Then I notice the tripod for my DSLR sitting in the middle of my living room floor, when it should be at the bottom of my red suitcase. The suitcase I must have lost at least five pounds closing!

  I sigh.

  Oh well, I’ll put the tripod in a second bag. That way I’ll have room to bring all sorts of other indispensable things I haven’t thought of yet.

  Tomorrow I’m leaving for Saint-Malo, where I’ve taken out a short-term lease on a studio apartment. In addition to my weekend bookings for weddings and baptisms, I’ve been hired by the tourism office to redo its entire
website with recent photos of the city and its surroundings. I’m also planning to offer my services to the summer music and theater festivals that take place in the area, to build up my own website.

  This summer will be a decisive time for me. In just over six months, my future will be set. Will I have enough money to go abroad and live my dream, to finally leave everything behind and dare to do what I’ve always wanted to do? Or will I stay here taking wedding pictures to eke out a living, and become so bitter and cynical that I scare everyone away? I’ve given myself six months to find out.

  I think about calling my mom before getting into bed with a book, but think better of it in the end. I need some encouragement, and I’m afraid she’ll tell me yet again that she doesn’t understand why I need to exile myself to Brittany for months, that it certainly won’t help launch my career or boost my finances, that it would be better for me to start thinking about meeting a nice guy, that she’d like to have grandchildren in a few years, that she even asked my father not to take down the swing set in the backyard just in case, etc., etc. My mother is really good at making up a whole life for me, a future that has nothing to do with what I want or with my goals.

  She doesn’t understand that if I don’t get to live my dream, if I give up on it before I can even try, I won’t have any reason to get out of bed in the morning. I can’t work in an office all day like her, doing the same repetitive, insignificant tasks over and over again, going to pointless meetings. I can’t handle living such a boring, routine life simply to pay the bills. That’s not me. I can deal with taking phony pictures awhile longer, but only because I know it’s temporary.