Caraliza

by Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick

  The last day he was known to speak with a clear mind, Papa left the back of the studio and was gone the entire afternoon. His family was frantic; he was unable, for weeks before, to walk about and would be lost in his own neighborhood. They searched without luck, and they were again talking to police in the front of the store, when Papa suddenly came in from the cold. He walked passed his teary wife and went to the divan to fall asleep. It was never explained where he had gone, none of the other shops or neighbors glimpsed him out on his strange walk. It would be his last moments of control; within another year, Menashe Reisman died in the studio on his divan, unhealed grief in his heart.

  The shop was closed but a day when he died. They spent all their grief long before his passing, and it was no slight upon the memory of the old man, no one thought ill that his family paused so brief a moment. After he passed, the neighborhood blessed the family for their love and their care, he could rest and they could hold up his good name.

  The holding of his name became the greatest burden to the eldest son of Menashe and Sarah Reisman, for as it was first hinted, they never knew Yousep kept a girl in that shop, and, Papa had other secrets. The Reisman Portraits might live into many generations beyond him, but Papa’s oldest son would wonder at times, should he burn it to the ground…and forget the ash that it made?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Reisman family still owned the lovely little building, the slums driven out by new hands and convenience; the decades changed the slums from squalor to quaint comfort for its residents. A few buildings on the street utterly changed, but the end of the street near the Reisman Portraits, they did not. The shop waited as nearly no other building waited; it just sat looking for someone to give it a new purpose. That purpose was found; it would become a restaurant. No cleverer a name than The Studio, the intent was to restore the beauty which once graced it, when people sat in the back rooms in the morning sun, and had portraits made by Menashe Reisman.

  No person ever sat to have their portrait in the afternoons; no person could. A tragedy had prevented that use, as it had been so lovingly planned in 1919. The family said it was a haunted place, and through those passing years, few Reismans would find courage enough to spend even a long day in there; but it was hoped that would be The Studio’s charm. A haunted bistro, which looked much the same as it did, when two lovers parted this world, if those stories were to be believed.

  The elder Reismans of the old clan believed it still. Papa Reisman himself died in the back studio, after two years of talking to people who were never there. His mind left him before he died quietly in the back, as his son and daughter sold cameras in the front, near the large window. He never quite returned to work, and he would never hold a camera again. It was quaint legend now, he suffered horrible torments, from the youths who were murdered, in the attic room of his shop.

  After his death, his son and daughter kept the shop and it thrived well enough to see all the glass plate instruments become antiques. They sold cameras there for nearly another twenty years after Papa left them. When his children grew weary, and no other family desired to keep it open, the stock was mostly auctioned. There had never been any talk of selling the fine old building; if any Reisman desired to be rid of it they never found the courage to bring it up.

  The building would remain in the family and only the old merchandise would be sold, but the furnishings were taken, and traded over the years, always remaining in family hands, as time changed everything else about the slums. The unsold antique plate cameras became the most prized items offered in the auction, but not all of them were sold, some dozen or so remained. The family cherished those, as keepsakes of their past, in particular, a Waterbury, which was of such fine quality, even as a family heirloom it was worth thousands to collectors who sought them.

  But that camera would not be sold.

  Papa’s children refused all offers for it and loved to see it, and the small chest he built to safe keep it. It was not Papa’s only treasure in that chest, and he defended it so well in his failing years none in the family would dream of seeing it sold, or the camera, which was hidden inside. The camera became the standard of the old family, the crest of their history. It represented who they became in New York as the city changed and their family legend grew. The Reisman’s were photographers, and not simply put either. Among their fame and prizes were Pulitzers and Life Magazine, and more than one Reisman, descendant from Menashe, made their sole living from the focus of their lens, and the artistry of their eyes.

  As Life Magazine fell away and National Geographic sought their work, the little shop would wait, to be used or disused, as the Reisman family aged and expanded, never releasing the building, but never really using it either. Passed through loving, if otherwise too busy hands, it seemed to know a Reisman would one day enter the front and see sunlight dapple the boards in those back rooms, and that person would step backward in time to come home. That Reisman would hear the spirits inside, as Papa heard and talked with them, so the spirits waited while the shop waited.

  Three generations lived after Papa passed into heaven in the studio. Three generations moved, shuffled, and relocated belongings in and out of the place, but the storeroom upstairs, where the loss had been too dear to survive, that room was left almost untouched, for the entire sixty or seventy years. The old plates were still stacked, the boxes of unsold films still unpacked, jars of developing chemicals withering away through loose lids. In the darkest corner of the small room now sat the chest, which Papa so loved, and the contents of which would move him to tears when he opened it, and remembered. The chest was abandoned there by some relation and nearly forgotten, but the camera was removed and the family lovingly passed it from hand to hand over the years. Papa never owned that Waterbury, which the case sometimes protected, or the two plates, which that camera exposed, but not a single Reisman alive still knew those secrets.

  Two generations back some knew of the images which the chest safe kept, but there were no elder Reismans still breathing who knew of the notebook and the pencil Papa secreted inside, or the story those writings could tell when they spoke. The chest and the spirits, and the shop waited for the Reisman who would come home. Her name happened to be Shelly.

  Shelly loved the old building dearly. Her favorite outings would be those which took her and her kin to the shop, and she would play unafraid in every corner she could get into. Several times a year the building would be opened, and the warehoused items exchanged, or traded, as quickly as tastes and décor might be changed. Almost a storehouse now, it was crowded with family belongings and castoffs, but the big studio was still unused and lovely to her to sit in. Shelly could always be found there, spinning on the polished boards in her bare feet, her arms reaching to embrace the air, imagining the place nearly a hundred years ago. She knew which divan Papa Reisman used, the one where he died, and it was her favorite item in the entire place. She never shared it; no other Reisman would join her there, and were amazed she sought it out most of all. She would explain, she just felt such love when she sat there; it never crossed her thoughts to be afraid.

  As she matured, so did her desire to do something with the building, which would bring her there every day, and she began to express the desire to any who would listen. For several years, it was amusing to the family, but she persisted until Shelly Reisman convinced them she was born too late in time. She should have lived when the building was in use those years ago, and her dreams could be practical. Now it did not seem possible the place could be used in any meaningful way, and she found few in the family who would agree something should be tried.

  Her desires were so strong she had long since moved beyond amusing, to desperately relentless. She petitioned the family elders so long, and with such passion, they finally relented when she turned twenty; her father and grandmother would fund her renovation. Shelly took the keys on that magical day, and rushed directly to the studio, to lie on Papa’s divan and weep with joy; she told the building, an
d its spirits, she was coming home.

  The Reisman clan could not imagine how Shelly would use the shop, the neighborhood might be friendly, but it was mostly restored apartments and condominiums. Many guessed she wanted a gift shop, others guessed a bookstore. They warned her, she could not just redecorate to live there, city zoning would not allow it, and neither would the clan. Her elders thought perhaps she would tire of her efforts, after a time, and the building would again just sit and wait, for another Reisman to find a practical use. But this was not an ordinary Reisman, this Shelly. She believed the shop was haunted, almost as much as Papa believed, and her desire was to know its secrets.

  It took her a year to prepare the place to her liking. It would be an upsetting year for the clan, and it would be a revealing year for the neighborhood, for it kept a horrid secret as well, the shop was about to tell it. Shelly would find the clues, which kept everything hidden since a sad, horrible night in 1919.

  Shelly alerted the family she had her plan, soon as permission was granted and the old keys handed over. She needed all the heirlooms returned that could be found, the place was to be restored of all its furnishings, but to what use, she only hinted this much, and for the year would reveal nothing more. Many relations began their complaints soon as this request was made, but to the elders it signaled Shelly was not renovating for herself alone, but for the family, and she would honor its history. Opposition melted away. For the first time anyone could remember, the great window was papered up; she was going to work her magic out of the sight of prying eyes, and nosey family.

  The neighbors noticed, that same morning the paper went up, and the talk soon became questions of what would appear when the paper came down. Within a week, there were inspections and workers crawling the place, on the outside. To the surprise of more than just a few, the Reisman Portraits sign was freshly painted and the bricks all around were pointed up. The beautiful entry door was freshly painted as well and the glass re-glazed. The lovely old storefront was not changing at all; it was being restored to its glory. On the facade, in three places, were the scars of the old gaslights, which lit the front during the past winter afternoons. She found a creative electrician, who likely for the sum of a few kisses, snaked some new wires through the old pipes and thrilled her by installing some new lighting that very nearly looked original.

  The building received a perfect inspection report that busy week; it was sound all around and underneath. There was plenty of room under the boards to install plumbing where needed. If carefully done, a small basement could be safely dug in the unused garden, and an equipment room installed, so the interior would not be used up. The vacant lot in the back would allow access for the equipment needed. The inspectors knew the future use, but there was no reason for them to tell anyone.

  She even petitioned the city to move an ugly, huge light pole it installed ages before, directly in the storefront, and was nearly a Christmas tree of hideous street signs and other crud. The city allowed her to have it moved to the very edge of the property, and with that success, the beautiful building looked fully out to the world and across the street as it has always done. On the day the pole was pulled away, Shelly would remember a feeling, much like a very contented sigh, tickling through the rooms, and through her bare feet, as she stood in the great room, dancing.

  With the repainting of the sign and removal of the pole, speculation soared. It was going to be an interesting renovation. The family was again curious when she asked that all valuables in the shop be removed unless they were remnants of its glorious history. Complaints again arose, there were unused rooms enough; the items could be kept there. She simply said it was unfair she would have to clear it herself, and find other storage, for items that seemed to be utterly useless anyway. With amusement, for a few weeks after, she met far-flung relations, to happily let them and their muscle into the front door, and the neighborhood watched as the building seemed to be emptied.

  The great old place was clearing, and she began to see the outlines on the floor, of the cases, and cabinets, and was for the first time able to get a feeling for how it was arranged in its prime. Seeing so much of the beautiful floor uncovered again, Shelly moved her spinning dance from the warm studio, to the deeply toned boards in the middle of the great room. The darkest wood in the place, this floor was in perfect condition, not a stick would have to be replaced and Shelly would almost never let her shoes offend it. She would walk barefoot on those boards as if to kiss them with every step.

  She soon found she wanted to paper up the front door as well, because folk who happened by would stop, and peer in, to determine what was taking place in the beautiful old Reisman Portraits. With each new task completed, Shelly would say she was bringing the place back to life; that was a bit of an untruth, she never believed it lacked any life in the first place. The room she touched the least, for now, was the studio itself. That room was perfect as it was, and to her became the heart of the building. She would spend hours there making her plans. She made a simple office with no more than a coffee table and a coffee pot, and would sit on the divan and design, plan, and make endless phone calls.

  Then to her delight, the heirlooms began to appear. Photographs, cameras and fixtures, and portraits, which were known to hang inside when Menashe came to work every day. Among those items, which she swore an oath only to borrow, was a surprise, which took her breath in a gasp. It was a simple photo, likely a test exposure with a new camera, of the interior, with Papa Menashe in front of the counter. He was handsome and dark, and his eyes laughed in a way older photographs never seemed to capture, but then, he always knew the best pose to strike.

  Behind her great-grandfather was the doorway to the studio, and the morning light was flooding the room, almost too much for the rest of the photo. She looked back and mourned the loss of the light, the old tenement still stood and the alley seemed always dark. The beautiful, useless windows on the east wall, the entire length, were for the light itself. How simple. Shelly thought it sad those windows would be robbed of their beauty, as waterfalls of light in a portrait studio.

  Shelly never felt the urges to follow the family name and become a photographer. In her heart, art seemed dead in photography, too much commerce in images now, which was why she did not take it up as a youth. But the shop was kindling a curiosity in her, which would become almost the passion her new plans for the building became. She wanted to play with the light in the place, and capture images within that light, as Papa Reisman had. Shelly decided, as she restored and renovated the place to her use, she would let it fire her imagination, and teach her the arts once practiced within. She would give as much back to the spirits as she took, or changed, and they would be pleased with her.

  She would start her education, in the storeroom, up the narrow stairs. She knew, all the old materials for glass plate photography could still be found in the forgotten attic space. She would only need to learn their use, replace the decayed items, and she could be another Reisman photographer. Selecting one of the cameras to use was not necessary. She would learn the art with Papa’s Waterbury, which all Reismans held dear as the crown jewels were to the Windsors.

  The Waterbury was still held by the eldest of the Reisman clan, Grandma Beth, but the fabled case was rumored to be in the storeroom at the top of the stair. Shelly planned only one task for the entire day, and it would take her up there to that room. She was aware she traveled back in time again, when she opened the door. She went up to that room often, and each time it seemed others were afraid to follow her, but she could never tell what the reason might be. She never remembered seeing Papa’s fabled box.

  The stair to the storeroom was of the same dark wood as the great floor, and, without light on the walls, it was quite dark. Shelly climbed into the gloom and put on her shoes at the top, knowing the floor would likely be rough and very dirty. The door wore a lock but she did not need her key, it never had been locked. She opened the dark door, and warm, red sunlight greeted her.<
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  The storage space was roomy enough, only shelves on all but the very back wall and the window. A single great shelf occupied the middle and ran to the back, but it did not seem to darken the room. The lovely large window on the west wall reflected the morning sun off the bricks next door, and then would lose the light when the afternoon sun hid behind the bulk of the building. Obviously, the Reisman Portraits was the oldest building among the three on this side of the street. Shelly was glad it survived, and had been kept unchanged, she instantly imagined this room as her office. It was certainly quiet enough, no noise from the street, no sounds from below. She loved this silence.

  Around her in the upper room lay dusty items she did not understand. Shelves of camera parts, lenses, covers, and slides. Jars and jars of developing powders and a few liquids, brown and sludge like. A few of the jars seeped their contents from the tops and washed down the sides in replica of the rust rivers that were discovered on the metal of the Titanic, at the bottom of the ocean. As she took notes about her discoveries, she wandered the room looking at every shelf and into every box. She was back in the darkest corner when she spied the handmade box, which surely must have been Papa Reisman's treasure.

  It was certainly the correct size to accommodate the Waterbury, deep beautiful carvings of branches, leaves and roses. The color was dark cherry, the same as she remembered on the legendary camera. The chest carried a delicate lock, yet it was nothing that could keep her out if she used a good screwdriver to pry it. But she would not do that. Her task was not to learn those secrets yet, but to inventory the room and determine what was truly junk after all the years of disuse and waiting. She giggled, and told herself what she really needed, was a boyfriend who loved glass plate photography, and her lessons would be learned as pillow talk. The giggles did not last and she felt the very first twinge of unease she ever felt in the building before.