Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  A shadow fell across my lap. I looked up. It was Roy.

  “I’ve finished those enlargements,” he said.

  “Which ones?”

  “The splotches. For that constable. I enlarged every last little splotch on those negatives.”

  “Anything, uh, interesting?”

  I hadn’t told Roy about the “fairies.”

  “Hardly. Chap’s bonkers, right?”

  “It’s his money,” I said, taking the prints.

  Roy went back down through the hatchway.

  I flipped through the enlargements. Isolated and blown up to eight by ten, the splotches were even less inspiring than before. Their edges were vague. Inside were only a few indistinct shadows.

  Not that I had expected anything. Nonetheless, I took it badly. The world seemed a little more barren than it had a few minutes before. Of course, there were no such things as fairies. But still . . .

  The hatchway popped open with a thud. Walsmear’s bowler-hatted head popped up. The rest of his body, wearing the same loud, checked jacket, followed. He appeared to take no interest in the spectacular view around him. He walked over to where I sat.

  “Phaugh,” he said.

  A cloud of smoke rolled over us from a nearby chimney.

  “Where are you?” he called out through the smoke.

  “Over here.”

  I crossed over to another part of the roof, but I couldn’t get away from the smoke. It seemed to follow me.

  “Come on over here,” I said, going back to where I originally sat. The wind changed, however, and the smoke followed again back to where I had come from.

  “Just a minute,” said Walsmear. He feinted a few steps toward the other side of the roof. The smoke started blowing that way.

  “Ha!” Walsmear turned around and trotted back to me. The smoke stayed where it was.

  I showed Walsmear the enlargements.

  “As you can see,” I said. “There’s nothing here. It’s just some everyday optical phenomena. Dust, grease, bits of pollen . . .”

  I parceled the prints out slowly. I wanted him to sense that he was getting something for his money.

  Walsmear studied each dim shadow on each print. I felt bad for him. From the look on his face, I’d just wiped out a big emotional investment.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. You know, you don’t have to pay me for these. I’ll give you your money back.”

  “Mr. Castle,” he said. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

  “I’m not treating you like a child.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I am not.”

  “Ain’t I good enough to pay your full fee?”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, it’s just that — that is — they came to nothing, didn’t they?”

  “And?”

  “And I’m sorry it didn’t work out. All right?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I don’t care. But see here, let’s not argue. I thought the whole thing was charming. Fairies and all that. Here, let me have another look at those prints.”

  Walsmear looked glum. He handed them over.

  “These enlargements,” I went on, “don’t prove anything. Not if you don’t want them to. You don’t have to accept them. Nor do the little girls. I mean in the larger sense. Of course the splotches are some kind of technical error. But who’s to say they aren’t really fairies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if you believe that these splotches are fairies, and the girls believe that these splotches are fairies, who’s to say that they are not? These or any other photographs. It’s all imagination, man. That’s how we interpret the world. And God bless it, eh? Do you think I want to crush anyone’s belief in fairies? Not a bit. Here, take a look at that cloud over there. By St. Paul’s dome.”

  “What about it?”

  “What does that cloud look like to you?”

  “A cloud.”

  “Now, now. You can do better than that. Here’s an example. When I look at that cloud I see — ummm — I see a white buffalo.”

  “You’re barmy.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are, too.”

  “If I believe something is so, then it’s as good as being so. In a certain sense, I mean. Now, look at this enlargement. There’s nothing here. But it isn’t exactly empty. Maybe it’s just some dust on the lens. But look here. If you turn it this way . . . and you sort of look over at the edge of this shadowy thing here . . . why, that, there — that could be an arm. Right? It’s an almost perfect outline of an arm. And if you follow the line down here, that looks just like a shoulder. Oh, look. And here’s the chin. Quite remarkable, really. Down here. Look where it swells. That could be a hip. And a knee. I studied anatomy, you know. In art school. Ah, and look right there. That’s the other leg. Just in the right place. . . . And what’s that you’re looking at there. Heavens to Betsy. Those fingers look just like — fingers. . . .”

  I chattered away like an idiot. My mind was a little late in catching up with my eyes. Not so the hairs on my neck. They stood up and leaned forward, stiff as ski jumpers.

  I was looking at what had previously appeared to be nothing more than a murky pattern of grays. Now I saw that the murk contained a human figure, or what appeared to be a human figure. It was hidden in the shadowy pattern the way objects are hidden in those illustrations for children; the ones that conceal spoons, frogs, and teacups in the hills and foliage of seemingly ordinary landscapes. The figure was there if you looked for it. But could anyone else see it?

  I glanced at Walsmear. His eyes were glittering.

  Still, I kept on babbling. It was too much to accept. What were we looking at? Just the edges of some vague shadows. Each edge was nothing by itself, but in relation to one another, the proportions were unmistakable. It was a human figure — a female figure.

  “It comes out at you,” said Walsmear, breathing with difficulty. “Like a deer out of the woods.”

  He was holding the enlargement by one corner. I was holding the other. Neither of us wanted to let go.

  “Now let’s just take a second here,” I said. “Let’s pause and make room for a little sanity to creep in. I’m going to look away from this thing. Now I’m looking away from it. I’m looking out at the city. It’s a beautiful day. It’s the 1920s. My name is Charles P. Castle. How do you do? Now. Let’s have another look at that enlargement.”

  I looked. The figure was gone. In its place were the same vague shadows I had seen the first time I looked; the same relationless chaos. What a relief. I exhaled. My mind relaxed. Suddenly, the figure popped back, clear as before; the way an optical illusion will when you stop searching for it.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  Walsmear laughed. He guffawed quite loudly. Then he snatched the print from me and held it to his chest.

  “Those dear girls,” he said, wiping a tear. “Those dear, dear girls.”

  I’d encouraged all this. Now I felt I should be the cold water bearer.

  “Oh, come now,” I said, “this proves nothing. You see a shape. It’s just a bunch of shadows. I might as well say I see Calvin Coolidge in the moon. You know, the craters and all.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” he said.

  “You don’t really believe — ”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Would you look any man in the eyes and say, ‘Yes. I believe in fairies’?”

  “I would.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  “Why not.”

  “You’re a policeman. You could lose the public’s confidence.”

  “Bah. Tell me, which one of the pictures does this come from?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t know. Let’s go downstairs and have a look.”

  I led the way down the hatch to the studio, with Walsmear’s feet above me, treading my fingers on the rungs of the ladder.

  Fortunately, Roy in his excellent way had numbered and cross-referenced the splotches with their enlargements. The splotch in question had come from the photo showing the taller of the two girls. There were flowers all around her, and that trunk of a great, gnarled tree in the background. The splotch which held the figure was at her feet — and judging from the girl’s size, the figure was less than ten inches tall!

  It was all too absurd. At first I was fancying the figure to amuse myself and — well, to patronize Walsmear. Now I really believed it. How could I not believe it? It was there! I thought to myself: If this is silliness, by God, let’s make the most of it.

  “Constable Walsmear,” I said.

  “Yah?”

  Walsmear had reverted to his usual tone of voice. Crude. Challenging. I paused. What sort of person was I getting involved with? You can never tell, I decided, and plunged ahead.

  “Constable Walsmear, I wonder if I might stand you lunch?”

  “Eat?”

  “That’s right. Yes. I’d like to take you out to eat. And talk. We ought to talk. Not that I think there’s anything to these pictures — ”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’d never tell anyone — ”

  Just then, Roy appeared at my elbow. He’d slid over from my desk, where he’d been doing some kind of work.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Castle.” Roy almost had to stand on tiptoe to talk in my ear. His face was its usual self: pink and shining with ambition. “I wonder if I could have an important word with you.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “I suppose it could.”

  “Good. Good man, Roy. It shall wait. So it shall. I’m leaving you in charge here while the constable and I go out to lunch. See that everything runs smoothly, would you? I know you will.”

  “Good man, that,” I said to Walsmear as we descended to the street not exactly arm in arm, but in a friendly sort of way.

  The next question was where we would have lunch. I had a few places in mind; modest establishments where the policeman would be comfortable — and where no one I knew would see me dining with a man in a loud, checked jacket.

  Walsmear, however, had his own ideas. We were barely around the corner when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I was thrust down into a shadowy doorway. A wave of heat slapped my face. I heard a roar of voices. The smell of old grease and stale gravy smacked my nostrils.

  “Beg your pardon. Excuse me, excuse me . . .”

  I felt myself rolled through a crush of bodies. By the time my eyes got used to the dim light, I was being pushed down into a chair.

  It appeared to be some kind of eating establishment. I’d never noticed it before, even though I’d lived around the corner for six years. If I had noticed it, I might have complained to the authorities. Not only the smell, but the din was terrific. The vocal intonations were Covent Gardens, blacksmith, and street tough all talking at the same time. Engineers with greasy arms gobbled meat pies and shouted in each other’s faces. Lean cobblers sipped beer, muttered, and eyed the crowd. Everybody knocked against my back as they walked by, shoving their way in and out.

  A waiter’s belly appeared over our table. Walsmear ordered every heavy, oily dish imaginable. I asked for beer and some bread.

  “That’s all?” asked Walsmear.

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “I am. I get hungry when I feel good. And today, I feel good.”

  He leaned back and stretched his legs expansively into the aisle. Someone tripped. Walsmear ignored the curses. I got a wedge of boiled potato thrown at me.

  Our beers arrived. Walsmear downed his in a gulp. I picked through the bread.

  “You want to talk?” Walsmear said. “Do it now. I’m off right after we eat.”

  “Back to wherever you — ?”

  Walsmear nodded. A shepherd’s pie was shoved under his face. He disappeared in the steam.

  “It’s about this fairy business, of course,” I said. “I was thinking I could help you.”

  “Don’t need help.”

  “You may. This discovery has to be properly handled if you want to make the most of it. Now, I’d suggest we first contact the British Museum. Get the science boys involved. Just to show we’re on the level. Then we start parceling out information to the newspapers. Not too much at first — ”

  “What — are — you — talking — about?” Walsmear uttered each word between forksful of food and sops of gravy.

  “I’m talking about the fairies,” I said. “Don’t you want to tell the world what you’ve found?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you did.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Isn’t that why you went to Sir Arthur?”

  “Bah. They told me he was an expert. That’s why I went to see that bloody high-and-mighty bastard. He was no help. Now you were help. I’ll grant you that. But I don’t need any more help. I’m letting the whole thing drop. I’m satisfied and that’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s the end of it?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You mean to tell me that you have what appear to be actual photographs of fairies in your possession and you’re just going to let the matter drop?”

  “Yup.”

  “And what are you going to do with the photos?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “What about the girls?”

  “What girls?”

  “The girls in the pictures. What about them?”

  “What about them?”

  “Don’t the pictures belong to them?”

  “They gave them to me.”

  “Did they give them to you officially? As a policeman?”

  “As a friend, Mr. Castle. As an old friend of the family.”

  “So you know the family?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For long?”

  “I’ve been a friend of their father for most of my life.”

  “What does he do? Are they wealthy?”

  “He has a private income. But they’re not wealthy.”

  “And the mother?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How did she die?”

  “I killed her.”

  Walsmear’s eyes stared at me coldly; his bushy brows lowered like storm clouds.

  The conversation pretty much stopped dead in its tracks.

  Several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence. When next Walsmear opened his mouth, it was to release an enormous belch.

  “Ah, that felt good,” he said. “You know, the Gypsies consider it good manners to belch after a meal.”

  “Do they now?”

  “That’s right. Say, what’s that behind your ear?”

  “What? Where?” I reached back with my fingers.

  “There.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here — ”

  Walsmear suddenly lunged over the table. I ducked in fear. His hand passed behind my ear. It came out with a coin in the fingers. Walsmear grinned and smacked the coin on the table.

  “And look, here’s another one.” He reached and pretended to grab another from behind my ear. He placed it next to the other. “For lunch.”

  He rose and stuck out his hand.

  “You’ve been kind, Mr. Castle,” he said. “But don’t press your luck.”

  Picking up his hat, he turned and walked out the door.

  I drank two more glasses of beer before I left. Outside, I felt light-headed. The fresh air contributed. Of course, I couldn’t go back to the studio in that sta
te. I had to wait a bit and clear my head. And, anyway, it was a perfect day for a walk.

  I strolled hither and yon, down thoroughfares wide and narrow. Passed parks, palaces, and hovels; plunged into the City. Around me, humanity surged like a pitching sea; black-frocked financiers muttered in doorways; peddlers howled; locomotives thundered. I saw a one-legged veteran begging in the Strand. I passed a jeweler’s where a turbaned Indian was buying a glittering brooch.

  “O London,” I apostrophized. “Thou . . .” something or other.

  There is certainly no place like London. Especially not New London, Connecticut, where I had an aunt. Or Boston, where I grew up, in the North End, in three rooms over my father’s paint store. Or New York, where there is sufficient noise and bustle, but where everything is new.

  But London, I stopped to reflect. Now here was history. Right where I stood. Who else might have stood here? Mysterious druids and blue painted savages. Julius Caesar. Arthur and the legendary kings and knights. Spenser. Shakespeare. Johnson. Reynolds. Van Dyke. Turner. Peter the Great. Sir Walter Ralegh. You could go on and on. Not to mention all the great chain of simple, anonymous humanity stretching from before history to this moment. London — England is an ancient place. Something old is built into the people. It’s a current. Subterranean. Supernatural. Prehistoric.

  Clearing my head with such reveries, I eventually steered my steps back toward the studio. I climbed the five flights that Mrs. Skorking had found so difficult. It was rather hard going. My next studio, I decided, would be in a skyscraper. With an elevator. High above it all. In the clear blue empyrean.

  Roy was just coming out of the darkroom. He wiped his hands on his apron as I came puffing through the door.

  “You missed Brewster,” he said. He undid the apron and carefully hung it on a peg on the wall. He removed his jacket from the peg next to that and put it on.

  “Brewster?”

  “Mr. Lucius Brewster?” he inquired liltingly. “M.P. The political chap? The campaign pictures? He was scheduled for two-thirty.”