by Amy Cross
"Nonsense," Bella replies, schooching over and patting the seat next to her. "We were bored stiff anyway. Maybe you can entertain us." She turns to me, while simultaneously nudging my leg under the table. "Kate, aren't you gonna introduce me to your friend?"
"I'm not sure he's..." I pause, and as Mark sits down, I can't help thinking that he's already regretting the decision to come over. "Bella, this is Mark Harris. He's a photographer, he's doing some work at my school. Mark, this is my friend Bella from back home."
"Pleased to meet you," she says, shaking Mark's hand. "So what do you think of Kate's work, huh? She's a future star, right?"
"Actually," he replies, "I haven't see any of it yet."
"You're missing out," she continues with a big, fake grin. "Kate's got a total knack when it comes to taking photos. Me, I usually cut off the tops of people's heads, that kind of thing. Good job I work in fashion, right? But Kate knows what she's doing. She's into all that technical stuff like real film and development fluids and..." She pauses as she runs out of words. "She knows her fluids," she adds finally, clearly trying to stir things up a little. "That's the one thing I can guarantee you about Kate. She definitely knows her fluids."
"You prefer film to digital?" Mark asks me.
"Digital's so primitive," I point out.
"Give it twenty years," he replies, "and it might just catch up. Then again, I don't think it'll ever really be able to rival the unpredictability of film. The whole point of digital is that it's bound by rules concerning the way things should happen, whereas film is a beast that can never fully be wrangled. It's the difference between riding a well-trained pony or riding a thoroughbred. No matter how well you train the thoroughbred, you can never be certain it won't rear up and give you a shock." He pauses, and finally a broad smile spreads across his face. "And now I've just made myself sound like a pretentious ass!"
"Nonsense," Bella replies, giving him a playful, slightly drunk punch on the arm. "You sound like Kate when she's had a few beers and starts boring my tits off about cameras."
"I really should see some of your work," he tells me. "As I said the other day, most student work is dull, and I haven't seen a single worthwhile photo since I arrived here. I'm counting on you to show me that I haven't accidentally turned up at the most talentless school in the whole country."
"I'm not that good," I reply.
"Ignore her," Bella says, grabbing her beer and clinking it first against Mark's bottle, and then against mine. "Kate's a great photographer," she adds, nudging my leg under the table again. "Trust me on this. When she finally shows you her stuff, you're gonna be blown away."
Today
It takes a while to set the room up, but finally I'm ready.
It's late afternoon, and the sound of city traffic drift in through the open window. I'm in my bedroom, since the light is better in here around this time of day, and I've got various reflectors positioned so that they'll cast light on a stool next to the bed. Over by the wall, my new camera is set up on the old tripod I've been lugging around for years, and although I'm still fussing with the lighting, I know deep down that everything's been in position for a few minutes now.
There are no more excuses.
With a tightening sensation in my chest, I head over to the camera and start fiddling with the timer mechanism. This is going to be the first photo I ever take with the camera I bought earlier today at Angelo's, so I figure it's the perfect time to break my rule about never taking a self-portrait. There's a part of me that knows this is going to be a huge mistake, but another part of me thinks that after everything that has happened lately, I should probably take the leap.
I guess there's a chance that nothing will happen.
Once the timer is set for one minute, I head over to the stool and take a seat. I intentionally didn't change my clothes or fix my hair for this photo, since I want it to be raw and authentic; besides, making myself look good is hardly the point, so all that kind of crap is completely superfluous. Taking a deep breath, I stare at the camera lens and continue the countdown in my head. It should be down around thirty-five by now, so all I need to do is wait another half a minute or so, and finally this burden will be off my back forever.
That's the theory, anyway.
"Twenty," I mutter, still staring at the lens. "Nineteen, eighteen..."
As I continue to count out loud, my mind inevitably drifts back to the last time I tried to take a self-portrait. The events of that day are not something I ever like to contemplate, but right now I feel as if I'm poised to drive out the demons that took roost in my head all those years ago. I always knew this day would come, and that I'd eventually find the courage to go through with another self-portrait, but still... It's hard to contemplate the fact that this might go horribly wrong.
"Ten," I whisper.
It's crazy, really. I should have done this a long time ago. Instead, I let myself get worked up to the extent that I was no longer able to step in front of a camera. All this worry and fear has probably been for nothing.
"Five," I continue. "Four, three -"
At the last moment, a surge of panic roars up through my body. I try to fight it, but in the end I get up from the stool and rush toward the camera. I almost make it, before the flash goes off and the image is recorded. By the time I get over to the tripod, my mind is racing as I try to work out whether I got out of the shot in time. With trembling fingers, I open the side of the camera and pull out the roll of film. It's a total waste, of course, since there's only one exposure, but despite my confidence earlier, I'm suddenly convinced that taking a self-portrait today would be as dangerous and damaging as it was all those years ago.
Setting the roll of film aside, I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. I can never develop that picture. If there's even a chance of the same thing happening as last time, I can't take the risk.
Twenty-three years ago
"Eyes," Mark says as we stand in the chamber and wait for the elevator to reach the fourth floor. "Does that surprise you?"
"I'm not quite sure what you mean," I reply. The truth is, I'm starting to regret inviting him back to my apartment. Hell, I didn't invite him, not really; Bella set the whole thing up, and after drinking a few beers during the afternoon, I was just drunk enough to let her. Now I feel like a complete fool, and I know he's just going to politely leave once he's seen a few of my crappy photos.
"I can always tell a good photographer by looking at their eyes," he continues. "When I came to speak to your class the other day, I looked out at the students and saw a lot of plain, empty eyes staring back at me. I wasn't surprised when all their work turned out to be lacking. But your eyes really caught my attention, Kate, and that's why I'm excited to see your work." He pauses. "Sorry, I hope I'm not putting you under too much pressure."
I smile politely, as the chamber stops and the doors slide open. Leading him toward my door, I keep trying to think of an excuse that might get him to turn around. Unfortunately, I can't come up with a damn thing, and finally I have no choice but to unlock the door and let him into my small, cluttered apartment.
"Nice," he says, clearly being diplomatic. "It reminds me of my student place when I first came to the city."
"Sorry about the mess," I mutter, grabbing the sheets from the floor and shoving them back onto the bed, along with a pile of dirty clothes.
"I don't care about the mess," he replies. "Show my your photos. Not your best work, either. Show me everything."
"I keep most of it in a locker at school," I tell him as I head over to my desk. Picking up the nearest folder, I open it up and find that it's full of a bunch of landscape images I took a few weeks ago. I grab another folder, but this one is just a study I did for class, and I sure as hell can't show it to Mark.
"You're already trying to filter things," he says, coming over and grabbing a random folder from the desk. "You're over-thinking the process."
"No, I -"
Before I can say anything,
he opens the folder, and to my surprise I see that it's some of my oldest work: photos of the railroad trestles back home, including the shots of the mysterious man who appeared in some of the images. I feel as if I should explain what happened, but I don't want Mark to think that I'm losing my mind.
"Those were the first pictures I took when I got my current camera," I tell him, trying not to panic as he flickers through them. "I was still learning how to use it, so I really wasn't sure about the focal lengths or any of the other technical stuff. It's quite immature work, really -"
"I like it," he says, stopping as he reaches the blurry photo of my face. "That's an interesting one," he says after a moment, before taking a look at the next image, which shows the unnamed man. "Who's he?" he asks.
"I don't know," I reply.
He turns to me.
"It's complicated," I add. "He was just out there when I was taking the pictures, and he didn't seem to mind."
"You don't worry about pushing your camera into people's faces?" he asks.
"It wasn't quite like that," I tell him. "It was more... I didn't really expect him to be there. I mean, he wasn't, not really, he just..." I pause as I realize that there's no way I can explain this properly. "Here," I say, grabbing the photos and sorting through them until I find the images of Mr. Hermann. "That was my neighbor, I explain. "Not long after these pictures were taken, he came to the house to complain about me. Then while I was in hospital, he had a heart attack at home and died. By the time they'd found him, his cats had eaten half his face."
"Fascinating," Mark replies. "It's always interesting to see an image of someone who doesn't want to have their photo taken. Absolutely unethical, of course, and you could leave yourself open to legal action. I'm sure they warn you against this kind of thing at school, but personally..." He holds the photo up. "The only reason to learn the rules is so that you know how to break them," he continues. "It seems to me, Kate, that you have an innate understanding of the rules, and you can break them spontaneously rather than trying to think up ways to be edgy or different."
"So do you think any of my photos are good?" I ask.
He pauses, before closing the folder and putting it back on the desk.
"It's okay if you hate them," I reply, starting to panic. "I was just -"
"I think they're all extremely interesting," he says, interrupting me. "You've restored my faith in photography students. I guess I was right again. As soon as I saw your eyes, I could tell you'd be producing good work." He pauses, as if he might be about to say something else. "And now I should leave," he adds finally. "I'm sure you've got a lot to do, but I look forward to seeing you at school on Monday. And don't worry, I'll try not to embarrass you by praising your work too highly in front of the other students."
Once he's left, I realize that my hands are trembling.
Today
"There he is!" Bella hisses, elbowing me in the ribs. "Stage left!"
It's getting late, but Bella insisted on dragging me to the theater tonight so I could finally see her latest boyfriend in action. The play, The Devil's Touch, has been gaining decent reviews since it opened earlier in the year, and particular attention has been paid by many critics to the performance of Horatio Adaje, the seven-foot Haitian actor who wears a huge head-piece and appears in the background of many scenes until finally launching into a monologue during the final act.
A biological tour de force, one of the city's leading theatrical reviewers has called it, while another hailed Horatio's performance as being: Perhaps the finest display of masculinity that has ever been put on the New York stage. Needless to say, it's not Horatio's acting that has really caught the eye of the city, but at least the show is a sell-out every night.
"Look at that body," Bella continues, keeping her voice down but still sounding like an excited teenager. "Even from here, you can see what I mean, right?"
"He looks very fit," I reply, which is something of an understatement. Part of the controversy and fuss surrounding Horatio's performance is the fact that while his head is covered by a mask, the rest of his body is completely naked. Critics have argued over whether his regular erections are a key part of the narrative, timed to coincide with the important plot points, or just a series of random events that add nothing to the play's meaning. It has been kind of surreal to see such intimate and unusual arguments playing out in the broadsheets, while online writers have generally tended to favor Horatio and his 'performance'.
Whoever knew, I seem to recall one writer saying, that the Devil could be so hot?
"He's not hard yet," Bella adds, her eyes fixed on the distant figure, "but I guarantee, it'll happen at some point. He always gets stiff before the half-hour mark. Plus, you know, I told him I'd be in the audience again tonight, so he knows my eyes are fixed on him. He can probably feel my gaze boring into his crotch right now. Damn it, I bet he's having to fight so hard to avoid an erection right now. One night, I came to see him and he was aroused almost all the way through the performance. We had fun once the show was over, I can promise you!"
"What a lovely relationship," I mutter.
"Oh, hush!" she replies, elbowing me in the ribs again. "You know your problem, Kate? You take things too seriously. You're like those fuddy-duddy reviewers at the old newspapers, carping on about the sight of a hard cock in a play. You should read the reviews by bloggers, they get it! They understand that this is a once-in-a-lifetime cultural phenomenon! Do you realize that? I'm fucking a cultural phenomenon! There's -" She pauses to squint for a moment. "Hang on," she adds, sounding as if she's absolutely fascinated, "I think he might be getting hard, he's..." She pauses again, before letting out a sigh and turning to me. "No. I think it was the shadows. Just wait, though. It'll happen!"
"There's more to the play than an erection, right?" I ask, watching as a group of women dressed as angels continue some kind of interpretative dance, the meaning of which has completely eluded me. "I mean, what's actually happening right now?"
"They're angels," she replies.
"I guessed that from the wings and halos," I tell her. "But they've been running around like this for a while now -"
"They're tempting Satan," she continues. "They want to get him hard, but he's fighting back! It's a reversal of the usual depiction of sexuality and sin, with the Devil being the one who's trying to be pure while the angels spend all their time tempting him. There's a big orgy scene later that'll really make your eyes pop out on stalks. He needs to get hard first, so the scene can continue. Seriously, those angels won't stop dancing until they get what they want. It'll happen, though! Horatio's cock is vital to the whole play!"
I can't help but smile, even though something about this whole situation is vaguely pathetic. It's typical of Bella to start having an affair with a guy who's ten years younger than her, and whose claim to fame is that he gets very important erections eight times a week while packed audiences stare in awe. To his credit, the guy is fast making a name for himself as one of Broadway's biggest new stars, although right now it's not difficult to reach the conclusion that his talents might be somewhat one-dimensional.
"God," Bella continues, "I'm getting wet just waiting for it to happen. I swear, the anticipation of a great erection is sometimes greater than the feeling you get when the damn thing appears. I know it's basically just blood rushing into a sponge, but when you really think about it and apply, like, philosophical ideas to the whole thing, you really start to appreciate the way a good hard cock can say so much about the world."
"How's Dominic, by the way?" I ask, unable to hide a hint of sarcasm at the mention of her long-suffering husband.
"Huh?" She turns to me, as if she's genuinely a little confused by the question. "Oh, Dominic, yeah, he's fine... He's off in Asia or Africa, somewhere like that, sorting out a bunch of deals."
"What kind of deals?" I ask.
"Business," she replies flatly.
"What kind of business?" I continue, enjoying the fact that I'm distrac
ting her.
"Who gives a fuck?" she asks. "I sure as hell don't. Dominic just gets on with things and everything's fine."
"And he knows about all of this?" I ask, still finding it hard to get over the extremely open relationship that Bella and Dominic seem to enjoy.
"Not the details," she replies, squinting again as she returns her gaze to the stage. "I don't usually bother him with the ins and outs, although on this occasion I think he might find it funny. I think maybe I'll email him a review, but it has to be one that really highlights Horatio's -"
She pauses, and finally a broad smile spreads across her face.
"It's coming," she continues, with hushed tones that make her sound like someone in church who's about to witness a miracle. "Look, can you see? It's quivering!"
Figuring I should humor her, I watch as Horatio's penis does, indeed, start to rise. I want to look away, but something about the scene just grabs my attention and forces me to keep looking. Within half a minute, Horatio has a very large and very full erection, and everyone in the audience seems to be absolutely stunned; the dancers, meanwhile, finally bow down before him while light flute music plays over the scene. I honestly don't think I've ever seen a scene that's quite so unusual and memorable.
"Isn't it fantastic?" Bella whispers, perhaps to me or, equally likely, to herself. "To think, I get to climb on that thing later tonight..."
"We all have to keep ourselves entertained," I mutter, checking my watch and seeing that there's still another ninety minutes of this mess to endure. Fortunately, I've got a plan for the rest of the evening, and at least getting rid of Bella shouldn't be too difficult. It's been a while since I took a camera out on a night shoot, but I figure I need to get back to some of my old work. Deep down, I guess there's a part of me that still thinks the churches of New York are hiding a dark secret.