She knew about Magda. She knew the minute she met her. How he’d look at her as if his eyes were nibbling up her beauty as they roamed around her face.
It was the big show at the end of the year. She’d taken the train down from the city. He was living with Julian Ladd. Julian was a sort of nerd genius, strangely quiet, always watching them. To be fair, all the Brodsky people were a little odd. Photographers were their own special species, she often thought. When it came right down to it, they were unapologetic voyeurs. She remembered that night vividly—the gallery, the excitement in the room, a celebration of all that talent—and meeting Magda for the first time.
She was an unusual girl. Not the sort who had girlfriends. Tough. Competitive. Carnal. She had interesting looks, pale, Eastern Bloc, a sort of ravishing intelligence. Her ponderous gaze was difficult to interpret; Simone could tell she rarely shared her true feelings. She used her hands when she spoke, as if she hadn’t quite mastered the language, when in fact she spoke perfect English with the trace of a Polish accent. She was a little taller than Simone, and strong, she had a certain grace, a certain presence. She drew glances as she crossed the room, the tight black jeans, the pendulous breasts under a black ILFORD T-shirt, the black boots. Her wrists shackled with bracelets. She was purposeful, direct. She claimed the space around her like the beloved statue in a small town.
This is my fiancée, Rye told her. This is Simone.
It was only because she detected Magda’s attraction to him that Simone caught her reaction, like she’d been singed.
As she shook Simone’s hand with her damp fingertips, she tilted her head and sized up her competitor, instantly determining that Simone was not a threat. She had a cold vibe, Simone thought. Painfully ambitious.
Rye toured her around the gallery. Simone could remember thinking how incredible all the photographs were, how distinctly each photographer saw the world. Magda’s shots of the streets of her neighborhood, most of immigrant women and children, were at once edgy and poignant, very feminist, and Simone regretted her initial dislike of her. Magda did with housewives and teenage girls what Arbus had done with social outcasts.
She’s the Helen Levitt of our class, Rye said. Simone wasn’t sure if he meant it as a compliment—what she found out later about Rye was he didn’t give compliments. He never let on what he really thought about someone’s work. She once asked him why, and he said if he told people the truth, they’d never speak to him again. She quickly came to realize that when it came to photography, Rye Adler, with all his collegial modesty, was the most competitive person she’d ever known.
He took her hand and led her to the next series of prints. These are mine, he said.
There were early versions of the iconic images that would later make him famous, a waitress, a bank teller, a gravedigger, an EMT, a cop, shot in the rich, majestic colors of a Caravaggio painting, their faces, often lit from above, observed with a mesmerizing detachment that felt strangely intimate.
Oh, Rye. They’re beautiful.
Do you really think so?
Truly. They’re incredible.
The question is, do they make you feel something?
She studied the faces. I don’t know if I’d necessarily notice some of these people on the street. But here, you really see them. You see their humanity, their dignity.
He smiled and seemed satisfied with her analysis. The face is a map, he said. It can tell you everything. You just have to know how to read it.
She thought about those words for a long time, years. She often wondered what he saw in her face—how he read her. He rarely looked at her anymore.
It was noisy in the gallery that night, and people were drinking up the cheap wine, and a few important-looking people started talking to Rye about his work. She drifted away, drawn to some photographs across the gallery in a clearly less desirable location, and she had them to herself. They were pictures of lonesome places, empty city lots, boarded-up buildings. They had a certain poetic stillness, she thought, as if the places were waiting for something, she couldn’t say what. Just waiting.
Those are my roommate’s, Rye said, coming up behind her. Don’t try to psychoanalyze them. You won’t get very far.
I sort of like them, she said. They convey a kind of existential despair.
You’re reading too much into them.
I think they’re interesting.
Trust me, they’re not.
For the first time, she detected a rivalry between the two men. One she knew not to mention. Whenever she teased Rye about being competitive, he always supplied the same answer: He didn’t compete with anyone but himself. Moreover, he didn’t begrudge anyone’s success. But deep down she knew he had savage instincts when it came to his profession, whereby he’d push himself harder than his colleagues to get better results. But in this particular case, she doubted that Julian had anything over Rye. They had, it seemed, very different interests, at least when it came to photography. So if it wasn’t the work, what, then?
Okay, she said, I’ll trust you.
But he had already forgotten their conversation and was staring at something across the crowded room. She followed his gaze and saw Julian standing with Magda, conversing intently, his hand perched on her arm, his face alight with a shy, nearly desperate desire that, when she looked back at Rye, matched his own.
All these years later, Magda was still the proverbial thorn in her side. Simone would never forgive Rye for taking that photograph of her in her mother’s kitchen. How she’d studied it compulsively, comparing her body to Magda’s, her breasts, which were considerably larger than Simone’s and asserted a certain sexual heft.
She couldn’t reveal her feelings to him. She didn’t want to sound like a jealous wife. That was beneath her. And yet she was. She was seething with jealousy.
Five years into their marriage, when Rye was offered his first major exhibition, that photograph was the first one you saw when you entered the gallery. She’d asked him not to show it. You know how I feel about her, she’d admitted. Rye was indignant. The photograph was nothing more than an academic exercise, and its subject meant nothing to him. Nothing, he’d repeated with emphasis. But even then she knew.
Because Magda had meant something. And still did.
They’d argued. Simone refused to go to the opening.
This is my work, Simone. I can’t be worried about hurting your feelings every time I take a shot of a naked girl. It’s my work, he insisted. It has nothing to do with us!
It wasn’t true. She realized that now. It had everything to do with them.
Now that she thought of it, that shot of Magda had been personal. It hurt her feelings. She envied the rapt attention he’d given to her in those few hours—it seemed more potent somehow than her own time with him. And right or wrong, she’d never forgiven him.
In truth, from the very beginning, things hadn’t really been right, even though everything had appeared to be perfect—their wedding that summer on a flower farm up in Chatham, gerbera daisies big as pinwheels on all the white tablecloths, lanterns in the grass; they’d danced barefoot to the band as the dark blue sky filled with stars. But even then—even that night—he seemed distracted. Like in his mind he was somewhere else—with her.
He left a few days later, excited about his first real job. She’d gone back to the city, to their new place on Leroy Street. Rye was traversing the Horn of Africa when a certified letter was delivered to the apartment. My husband is out of the country, she told the letter carrier. I’m his wife.
That’ll do, he said, and handed her the pen.
It was an ecru envelope, expensive stationery. The return address bore the initials M.P. and a PO box in Port Richmond, PA. Simone carried it to the kitchen table. She brought it to her nostrils, imagining, perhaps, the scent of some exotic perfume, but the paper was odorless. She instinctively knew, as all women understand such things, that its contents had not been intended for her eyes and that there were laws and prot
ections in place to prevent people from opening mail that did not belong to them. Most people, anyway.
Not wives. Wives were immune from the law.
The eggnog was spiked, and she drank too much of it. Caspar offered to drive her home. She told him no, she would sleep on the couch in her office. Well, let me at least walk you there, he insisted, taking her arm, and they set out across the cold, wet campus, talking sporadically about the situation of poetry, how so few people were reading it these days, and although he knew it shouldn’t matter—it wasn’t why he was writing, it wasn’t the thing driving him—it somehow did matter, it was a commentary on the times, and he sometimes wondered why he continued, who he thought he was, putting these words down on the page when nobody really cared, he should have done something really useful and become a doctor like his wife, and she argued that people did care, and his poems mattered to them, and his words ran like water through their brains as they slept, like water over sand, over the shells and stones, and they thought about his poems the next day, even if they were doing something mundane, like shopping at the supermarket, his words were still in their head, and perhaps they even influenced how they thought and saw the world. That’s when he took her hand. The building was dark and silent. Inside her office, he turned on the small lamp on her desk, and a pleasing orange glow filled the room. The big square window was very black and put her in mind of death, and she told him so. He sat with her a moment on the brown couch, and she could smell his lovely aftershave, and their hands touched accidentally on the cushion, and then she did something she would regret in the morning: she kissed him. He handled it well—she imagined women were always throwing themselves at him—and said to her, gently, that as much as he admired her and indeed felt attracted, it would never occur to him to betray his wife. This alone was humiliating, for she had indulged in the probability of his desire and wrongly assumed that he would be willing to set aside his morals for the chance to—
Caspar, she said, utterly embarrassed. Forgive me. It’s just I’ve—
He favored her with compassion. No need to explain. And I am flattered.
She smiled. Thank you. And this is why you’re such a fine writer. You have empathy even for me, and I deserve none of it.
Oh, that’s not true, Simone. I see you as a very independent woman. But you are alone a lot, are you not? With your husband traveling so much. You have every right to be lonely.
He watched her with care and said, finally, I will pray for you. That you will come into some new and profound awareness.
She sat there, unmoving, with her hands clasped in her lap, projecting the timid grace of a condemned woman.
He rose. Good night, Simone.
Good night.
Her cheeks were very hot, her heart pumping, pumping the fresh new blood of longing.
It was dawn when she woke on the couch and slipped out of the building in her torn stockings and stupidly high heels and hurried across campus to her car. Even though nothing had happened, she felt tawdry and cheap. Luckily no one saw her. The dogs were waiting for her when she got home, and she fed them and exchanged her shoes, which had given her a blister, for her cold boots and pulled on one of Rye’s old coats that smelled like him and filled her with such a deep, lonesome hunger, and they went out into the field under the falling snow and slowly climbed the great hill, the dogs sensing, in the way dogs do, that they shouldn’t run off and leave her, that she needed them there, right by her side.
Rye
The girl was standing on the curb with her sign. The light was red. He was waiting behind two other cars, too far away to speak to her, and when the light finally changed, he rolled up to her and put his window down. Excuse me, he said, and the car behind him started honking.
Unperturbed, the girl looked at him, slouching, smoking.
I’ll pay you for your time. I just want to talk.
You a cop?
No, I’m not a cop.
The car behind him swerved around him, blaring its horn, the driver cursing out his window.
How much?
You tell me. Let me buy you breakfast, and we can figure it out. What do you say? Aren’t you hungry?
I guess.
Get on in.
Unhurriedly, she walked around the front of his truck and opened the door and climbed up onto the seat. She held her sign on her lap, her fingers curled tightly around the cardboard.
I’m Rye Adler. I’m not from around here. And I’m hungry. You know a good place we can get some breakfast?
Go up there and take a right, she said.
It was a diner on Central Avenue, across from the Golden Cue, a pool hall. Don’t see many of those anymore, he said.
Do you play?
Back in the day, he said.
They took a booth by the window. Order whatever you want, he said.
She stared at the menu.
A waitress came over to take their order. I’ll have the poached eggs, he told her, with whole wheat toast and home fries.
You can get bacon for an extra dollar.
All right.
You, ma’am?
Can I please have the special with the eggs and pancakes?
Of course you can. I’ll be right back with your coffee.
Up close she was very pale, her eyes like crushed glass. They were rimmed in black pencil, her lashes thick with mascara. What’s your name?
Enid’s my given name, she said.
That’s an old name, isn’t it?
Yes, sir. It was my grandma’s. But most people call me True.
Why’s that?
She shrugged. It just sort of stuck.
Where you from?
From right here. We moved upstate when I was thirteen. I came back five years ago.
She looked at him warily, and he could see in that moment the troubled history she’d left behind. It’s a big state, isn’t it?
Yes, sir.
Well, I’m a photographer. It’s what I do.
The girl gazed at him thoughtfully. What kinds of pictures do you take?
All kinds. I’d like to take yours if you’ll let me.
She frowned. Why would you want to do that?
Because you’re beautiful, he said.
She allowed herself to smile. I used to be prettier, she said.
The waitress brought over the coffee. They watched her pour it into their cups. Your food’ll be right out.
Thank you, he said.
He poured cream into his coffee. She drank hers black and added three sugars. Her fingers shook a little, and some of the sugar sprinkled onto the table. Using the wrapper, she swept it into a little pile, her fingernails grimy with dirt.
She glanced out a moment at the street. It was the morning rush hour, and you could see the cars reflected in the dark windows of the pool hall. The shades were pulled low now. It looked like an Edward Hopper painting.
She’d been in there one time, she told him, but they made her leave. Sometimes, when it wasn’t too cold, she’d stand at the window, big as a movie screen, watching the pool hustlers. She liked that sound when the balls hit. It was the sound of a yes.
The waitress brought over the food and set it carefully on the table. The girl sat there, looking at it. There were three pancakes stacked up and two fried eggs and bacon. The waitress set down two small plates of buttered toast. That should do it, she said.
Thank you, ma’am, the girl said.
You’re welcome, hon.
Carefully, she took her napkin and set it on her lap. Then she doused her pancakes with syrup. She picked up her silverware and carefully cut a pancake into pieces, then forked a bite into her mouth. It’s good, she said.
Mine too, he said.
They ate. He pushed his toast into his eggs and scooped them into his mouth. When his plate was clean, he sat back and watched her eat. She ate slowly, like she was savoring every bite. She had good manners; he could tell someone had raised her right. I wasn’t always like this, she told
him.
You got family around here?
My mother. She’s up near Seneca Lake. But we’re— She shook her head. We’re not on speaking terms.
You got a father?
Gone. Left when I was little. Savore was his name. He sold things out of his suitcase. I can remember this old brown case sitting there in the hall. One time he gave me a bar of soap and told me it was lavender. I used to keep it under my pillow. He said it would make me sleepy.
Did it?
What?
Make you sleepy?
She smiled. I don’t remember. Maybe.
Can I ask your age?
Twenty.
That’s not very old.
I’ve lived a hundred years, she told him.
I believe you have, he said.
She smiled a little. I can’t stay here too long.
We can go whenever you say.
The waitress came around and refilled their coffee cups. I’ll be right back with your check.
This is really good, the girl told her.
I’m glad you’re enjoying it, hon.
The girl sat back. Well, I’m full.
Can I ask you something?
Sure.
How much you make out there in a day?
On the ramp? Sometimes fifteen dollars.
I’m looking for somebody, he said. He’s been out on that ramp.
She sat up a little taller and pushed her hair back over her ears. Who is it?
He took out his phone and showed her the photo of her and Theo.
She blinked, surprised. When did you take that?
I didn’t. Somebody else did.
Her eyes glittered, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
I know it must be weird to see yourself on a stranger’s phone, he said.
Yeah, it is. She looked at him hard. I have no idea where he is.
The Vanishing Point Page 20