Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  Linda laughed. “I’ve swept up enough rooms,” she said, “to know that you can’t keep all the dust down. Dust will fall from the ceiling. Bits of lint will fall off your clothes.”

  “Oh, you take off your clothes,” I said, realizing as the words left my mouth how odd this sounded.

  “All of them?”

  “Well — ”

  “Don’t you get cold?”

  “I’ve never done it before, as I’ve said.”

  “Sounds Greek.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “All oiled up and naked. Sounds like ancient Greek sportsmen, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is rather Greek, now that you mention it. Sort of like being in some kind of aesthetic Olympiad.”

  “What a striking thought,” said Linda.

  She was still musing as I parted from her in front of the church.

  Once inside, I made straight for the altar. Again I met the simple handyman, Dennis.

  It was a pleasure to see this innocent soul. He expressed such uncomplicated joy in meeting. He asked nothing, required no acknowledgment, but simply beamed and uttered a loud syllable before moving on. When we were running the electricity and water down into the cellar, I had had the opportunity to admire his overall handiness and the clever way he solved small problems. It struck me as tragic that this cleverness did not go hand in hand with conventionally recognizable verbal and social skills.

  The setting sun shone gold through the church windows. Magnificent buttresses of light angled down onto the pews. I paused to admire the scene before lifting the stone and descending the ladder into the cellar. At the bottom, I struck my toe on something hard and wooden with sharp corners. Holding the lantern, I could see that it was Dennis’s box of tools. The fellow was obviously forgetful as well as simple-minded. I made a note to tell him about the tools the next day as I set down the lantern and began removing my clothes.

  Standing naked in the nickering light of the lantern, I felt cool and unfettered. As I rubbed the mineral oil over my whole body, I watched my shadow on the wall. I fancied myself a Red Indian warrior preparing for battle. I imagined that the lamp burned buffalo oil and the wall was reindeer skin. Outdoors was the wild darkness, alive with bears, cougars, and furtive enemies. Turning out the lantern, I went happily to work, diverting my mind with imaginary wilderness adventures.

  About a half hour into the work, I heard a noise upstairs in the church. I swore angrily to myself. It is probably Dennis, I thought. He is returning to get his tools.

  As usual when interruptions occur, I was at a particularly sensitive stage of the developing process. I had to keep the chemical bath in continual agitation over the film and couldn’t leave the side of the tub. Stuck there, I hoped I could stop him before he lit a lantern and ruined everything. As I heard the heavy stone scraping away from the floor overhead I shouted, “Dennis!”

  No answer. I heard the ladder creak.

  “Hello? Dennis?”

  I heard the stone being slowly pushed back into place.

  “I say,” I shouted. “This is Charles Castle. I’m developing pictures down here. So for God’s sake, don’t light any lights for a moment, will you?”

  I heard whoever it was leap down from the ladder onto the bare earth.

  At first, I was frightened that whoever it was would bring a light and ruin my pictures. Now I feared for my own safety.

  “Who is it?” I cried, seized by a paroxysm of terror.

  After all, I was naked, defenseless, and alone in the darkness. I could not light a light or stop agitating the chemicals without ruining my work. And for all I knew that work was the priceless fairy photographs I had been seeking.

  My mind filled with pictures of Paolo and Shorty. It was they! Come to get me!

  “That’s enough now,” I cried. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Oh dear,” came a voice from the darkness. “Have I frightened you?”

  “Linda?” I said. “Linda Drain? Is it you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is. I’m so sorry. I’d really rather creep back up the ladder now. I’m so ashamed of myself.”

  “Ashamed? What for?”

  “For frightening — I mean — startling you.”

  “I wasn’t frightened. I was just thinking of those two — Paolo and Shorty — who attacked us on the train. And then you came down.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I really just came down to see if I could help.”

  “Help?”

  “I’d told you I’d been reading up on photography.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much — you aren’t planning to light a light, are you?”

  “No. I didn’t bring one.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Would it ruin the pictures?”

  “Yes. That. And, you see, I — well — remember that precaution I told you about? The thing I needed the mineral oil for? To protect against dust? Well, I’m taking that precaution right now.”

  “Are you afraid that I’ve brought dust into the room?”

  “It’s not your fault. But you probably have. Unless — ”

  “Yes?”

  “Unless you’ve taken off your clothes and covered yourself with mineral oil. Ha ha.”

  “But I have.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. I did it upstairs. Before I came down.”

  My head swam in the darkness. Massive quantities of blood were either rushing to my brain or departing from it.

  “You know, Linda, I appreciate that you . . . What I mean to say is . . . this might not look good if anyone should — ”

  “No one will know. And anyway, it’s all scientific, or artistic, what have you. I mean, it’s like a doctor and patient, artist and model. And we don’t even have to see each other if we don’t turn on a light.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Now — is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I suppose there is.”

  I decided to let her agitate the chemical bath while I prepared a water bath in another tub. Handing the tray to her proved difficult. It is hard to judge distances in complete darkness without touching the thing you are trying to reach. And I was sedulously trying to avoid touching flesh.

  As the minutes passed, however, I found I could sense where she was by the smell of the oil on her body, the warmth of her breath, and the sound of her voice. Handing things back and forth got easier. But having Linda “help” me was making the work far more difficult than it might have otherwise been. Still, I enjoyed her conversation, and it was not long before we were preparing the final bath.

  “Almost finished,” I said.

  “And then?”

  “We’ll be able to turn the lights on.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “So maybe you ought to go up and get dressed.”

  “I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m covered with this oil. Can you imagine putting a dress on over that?”

  “Well, here. Here’s a towel. Towel yourself off.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “Think nothing — Now where is that? I think I’ve dropped it.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “No, I — ”

  As we groped on the floor in the darkness, my hand brushed against some part of her body. It was smooth, warm, and oily.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m — ”

  From the sound of her voice, I could tell her back was now turned toward me. The next thing my hand brushed against was smooth and giving.

  “Dear me,” she said.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  My hea
rt was pounding. A delightful tension filled every part of my body. I knew quite well just where my blood was going at that moment. As one part of my mind told me the hundred and one correct, respectable, and decent things I should say and do next, another part of my mind said “Oh hell — ” and I reached my hand out in the darkness.

  The first thing I grabbed was Linda’s elbow. She reacted instantly, coiling her arm up around mine. Then the rest of her body followed. In a second we were belly to belly, slap close in the darkness.

  The floor was hard and gritty; but Linda had the towel in hand and we parted long enough to allow her to spread it on the floor before slithering back around one another. I recall great waves of perfect sensation (working in the dark wonderfully sharpens the senses); kisses were more profound than any I had ever felt; the essence of kisses. We lost ourselves in each other. Such sliding, rolling, perfect disembodied pleasure I have never known. For life is hard. It is cruel and there is no justice. We are born, we suffer, and we die. But it may all be worthwhile, if only for moments such as those I enjoyed with Linda Drain in the basement of that church.

  For Linda’s part, she expressed her enjoyment loudly. This is a type of vocalization I ordinarily relish, and this occasion was no exception — but, unfortunately, it covered the sound of someone walking around upstairs. We did not hear the stone being pulled away from the floor. Nor did we hear the footsteps on the ladder. In fact, we didn’t know we had company at all until the intruder was already in the room and blinding us with a lantern.

  “Dennis!” I shouted, as my eyes adjusted to the light.

  The handyman stood before us, toolbox in hand. His face was a picture of wonder and confusion. He watched with frank curiosity as Linda scrambled up the ladder, trying to cover herself with the towel. Then he stared at me as I clumsily got into my pants.

  “Looking for something?” I asked bitterly.

  He held up the box of tools.

  “Found them.” A great idiot grin spread over his face.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  How I Concocted a Useful Experiment

  Putting on clothes over oily skin is a distinctly unpleasant experience. I no sooner had begun to do so when I thought better of it. That is how I came to be removing my pants and toweling myself down as I gave Dennis a short course on how pictures are developed.

  “And so,” I concluded, “the photographer has one great enemy which must be suppressed at all costs. Do you remember what that enemy is?”

  “Uh — ” Dennis worked at bringing the idea forward.

  “Dust!” I said. “Don’t you remember? Dust. That’s why we develop pictures without clothes on. All photographers do that.”

  “You and Mrs. Drain,” Dennis giggled in his deep, incongruous baritone. “You were naked.”

  “Well, of course. But it’s nothing to laugh about. It’s a serious, scientific matter. Only a child would laugh about something like that. And you’re a grown-up, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a grown-up,” Dennis said seriously. “I’m twenty.” (Actually, he was forty.)

  “Twenty? Well, well, well. You know better, then, right? I hope you won’t make a joke about what you’ve seen here this evening. I hope you won’t do anything childish.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t want people to laugh at you, do you?”

  “No!”

  “Then be sure not to tell anybody about what you saw down here this evening. If you do, people will laugh at you. They’ll say you’re childish. Because what we were doing down here was a perfectly ordinary thing. It’s like when you take your clothes off for the doctor. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Dennis nodded.

  “Good. So, since we’re both adults, we’ll never mention the whole thing again. To anybody. Especially to Rev. Drain. I mean, he already knows about it anyway. So he would think you were very childish for bringing it up.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you understand?” I said, toweling off my feet and putting my trousers back on.

  Dennis nodded.

  “You’re a good helper, Dennis.”

  “I know. I’m a good one.”

  “Good-bye, now.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Hm?”

  “I’m staying down here in the darkroom. You’re going.”

  “I’m going? Yes. Oh, yes. I’m going.”

  Was Dennis — as simpleminded as he was — convinced of what I was telling him? I thought so. It was not as if I was talking to an ordinary person, who had the ordinary person’s arsenal of conversational dissimulations — poker faces, nods of agreement, sympathetic smiles, frowns, sad eyes, and furrowed brows — to deflect attention from what they were really thinking, hearing, or understanding. Dennis never learned any of these subtle tricks. Everything he thought showed up on his face. So I knew that what I had said had struck home. Especially the part about being laughed at. I saw his face register a distinct bull’s eye at that one.

  I waited until he had climbed the ladder. Then I collapsed onto my trunk, the only place to sit down there.

  It had been the most unusual carnal situation I had ever found myself in. But what did it mean for my future relations with Linda? Our affair was not proceeding in an orderly way. We had not advanced by small steps but had plunged straightaway into hot, slippery passion. I had no desire to carry on behind Rev. Drain’s back. There would be much to talk about when Linda and I next saw each other. Perhaps, I thought, it was time to tell Linda about the fairies. Explaining the whole thing would be much easier if I had some fairy photographs to show her.

  Hoping that that was what I had, I got up and rushed over to the developing table. I lifted the negatives from the bath and held them up to the light. I held my breath. I saw spots.

  Success! The spots were on the negatives, of course. They were the same kind of spots that were on the photos Walsmear had brought me in London. Admittedly, I had hoped that with a better camera, I might have gotten something clearer. But here, at last, was something to work with. And what might I find when I enlarged these spots? There would certainly be something to show Linda.

  Slipping the negatives under the enlarger, I saw that they were not really any different from the Walsmear photos. The spots were still only a blur. And it was only by enlarging and studying each and every one that I might be able to find one that showed the shadow of a fairy figure. If only I could get a clear image. If only they weren’t so washed out by the light.

  Of course. It suddenly occurred to me. When had I myself seen the fairies? At night, of course. So why was I shooting pictures during the day? Who needed daylight? The fairies generated their own light. The thing to do was to get out there in the dark. That would do it.

  Or would it? There were some technical problems. Yes, the fairies provided their own source of illumination; but their very brightness combined with their quickness of movement meant that I would have to use a very short exposure. The result, I feared, would be like a photograph of a candle taken in a dark room. The flame would show up, but the rest of the room would not. And so, if I took a picture of a fairy in the dark garden, the fairy herself might show up, but the figure would stand against a black background. There would be nothing to measure the figure against. It could be a naked figure of any size standing anyplace. All the indicators of her “fairyness” would be invisible.

  Rather than do any further work on the negatives I had on hand, I rushed back to the Starry Night to conduct some experiments. It was late. I had to tiptoe past the remnants of Esmirelda’s engagement party snoring in the barroom. I stopped Cole, ready for bed in an old-fashioned nightshirt, on his way back from the privy. He grumblingly lent me what I needed: a candle, a lantern, an electric torch, and a light bulb. I took them all back to my room. There, I set up my field camera and photographed
these various light sources at every imaginable camera setting. I buried them in sheets, blankets, and Esmirelda’s cast-off apron to simulate possible intensities of brightness, and noted everything I did in a notebook whose pages were soon black with markings. My goal was to find the settings that would give me a clear picture of both the light source and the flowered wallpaper behind. Those would be the settings I could use to shoot the elves and fairies at night and show not only their bare little behinds, but the garden as well.

  By the time I had exhausted all the possible combinations of light and setting, it was almost dawn. Nonetheless, I slept only a few hours. I was up early, and full of plans. My first task of the day would be to develop my test pictures. In between the stages of development, and after I was finished, I planned to hunt for wildflowers — in particular the little flower that allowed one to see the fairies. I would divide the neighborhood of Burkinwell up into sectors and scour each one until I’d found another patch of the magic blossoms. If necessary, I would do the same for the whole island of Britain.

  Toting a sackful of film, I hurried to the church. Inside, however, I found Rev. Drain pacing the ground between the door and the altar. He was dressed in black and wearing his clerical collar, and had his hands folded tightly at chest level. He did not see me come through the door.

  I knew I would have to face Drain at some point after having committed adultery with his wife.

  I can’t say that my conscience bothered me. At one time, it might have tortured me. But not now. For one thing, I was aware of Rev. Drain’s own specialized brand of sexual activity outside the marriage bed. And more importantly, I was very much aware of being The Man Who Had Seen the Fairies. To me, the world had suddenly burst open with potential. Anything was possible. Maybe anything was permitted. One thing I knew for certain was that everything we knew about science, religion, and philosophy would have to be thrown out once the world had acknowledged the existence of the fairies. Of what importance was an ethical bagatelle like adultery in a situation like that? How could anyone expect me to respect the bonds of matrimony at a time when I was coming to question the very bonds of the material world? Were not all things suddenly permeable?