“Yes, but the reward was unknown, and usually followed a torturous death.”
Antonino scratched his neck. “That is true.” He repositioned his legs. “Your glass is empty. I’ll pull you some more beer from the barrel.”
Serafim handed him his glass, dried froth cobwebbing the rim. “Please.”
That September, something happened that frightened Serafim no end. He received a letter from Álvaro stating that he’d heard back from his acquaintances in Oporto, and it was his duty to report that Inês was in perfect health, still married (to all appearances happily) to Gustavo Barbosa, who was still one of the most talented brokers at the Oporto stock exchange. What was more, they now had an infant, a son named Salvador, an apparently beautiful and animated baby.
Serafim was beside himself. None of this, nothing at all, added up. To make things even stranger, the day after he received the news, he woke up in the morning to find a cup of frigid tea on his tabletop. It crossed his mind to smash it in the sink. But in the end he didn’t, washing it instead, the way he always did, tenderly, cradling it in the basin, a deliberate hand scooping soapy water over its surface as if it were the skin of some wide-mouthed and brittle-boned creature who, if dropped, would shatter with surprise at such a breach of trust.
Soon after, the autumn trees ignited with colours. The wind blew them out, doused them in the storm drains. And winter, Serafim’s third, set in. Once every few moons, teapots continued to brew themselves in the dark of his kitchen. While about as often, Serafim would venture out on late night escapades to the Red Light district. He was once again caught in a police raid, but this time the prostitute he was with suggested he find the highest-ranking officer who was rounding everyone up and slip a handsome bill into his fingers, “in hopes of coming to some kind of understanding,” and hence spare himself the ordeal and humiliation of having to go downtown, forge his name, and pay his coffer-filling bail furnishing. He was nervous when he was actually bribing the man, but was instantly released from custody, a shooing hand sending him on his merry way quicker than you could utter the word “crooked.” On his way back to his apartment, Serafim smoked a thoughtful cigarette, his eyes perusing the deserted streets. He was astounded at how easy it had been, and by how unburdened he felt by that fact, less accountable, less confined. He stopped in front of his apartment before making his way up the icy staircase to his door, giving a mean flick to his cigarette butt, ignoring its bounce on a crusted ridge of snow.
A few months later, on a bright spring day, Serafim was walking along St. Catherine Street to a distributor to order some darkroom chemicals. He was thinking of nothing in particular when, out of nowhere, stepping from the sleepy fog, she was suddenly there, in the flesh, in front of him, and heading straight his way.
It was the woman who bore an uncanny likeness to Inês. She was dressed as a trendy flapper, with red lipstick, eyes lined with kohl, a loose mint green dress cut just below the knee, and a matching coat and cloche hat. Almost as soon as he spotted her, she stopped at a window to look at some hats on display. Serafim stopped on the sidewalk, peered round in disbelief, and began to approach her. He stood behind her, having unconsciously taken his Leica out of his pocket, hoping, reflexively, to snap a picture, to prove to himself that he wasn’t just imagining her.
Then, as if sensing that he was standing there, she turned and looked directly at him, as though she was waiting for him to speak. Serafim, however, could not breathe, much less talk. Eventually she turned and continued on her way down the bustling sidewalk, passing between shoppers and businessmen. Serafim followed, determined not to lose sight of her. It occurred to him that he hadn’t actually taken her picture when he was standing behind her, that he’d been too flustered when she’d turned round to face him. He adjusted his settings, guessed at her distance for focus, and managed to snap two shots of her looking back at him before she turned down Stanley Street and disappeared into an uptown cabaret.
Serafim, not having the courage to follow her inside, stationed himself on the opposite side of the street, intending to wait there until she came out again. Minutes later she did, and fixed her gaze on Serafim’s presence on the opposite sidewalk. She allowed some traffic to pass, then strode directly towards him.
Serafim was petrified, and hid behind his camera, snapping exposures, noting her likeness to Inês as she walked — the bone structure of her cheeks, her dark eyes, though her calves were more shapely than he would have imagined Inês’s to be, more athletic. She appeared just as self-confident, perhaps even more so, and was relishing the attention of his lens. He took pictures until she was standing right in front of him, her body taking up more than the viewfinder could contain. He kept the camera held up in front of his face for one uncomfortable moment longer before reluctantly lowering it. He took off his hat, inspected his shoes.
After a quick exchange to elicit that he spoke French, they agreed to meet later that evening, to discuss, she insisted, something very important. She pointed out a pub close by, a tavern on the corner, and mentioned the time she would be there, adding that she hoped he wasn’t the type to show up hours late with paltry excuses. Serafim shook his head no, nothing of the sort, eager to please, and with that, she returned into the dark of the cabaret that she’d emerged from.
Serafim was at the pub half an hour early, nervously nursing a pint of lager and watching the Monday evening flurry pass by on the other side of the window. Bootblacks, newsies, and organ grinders were the only points of stillness along St. Catherine Street, like river stones around which a froth of bodies streamed and eddied.
She entered the bar and walked up to his table. He hurriedly stood to greet her, though once on his feet he was speechless again. A clunking tram ratcheted past. She introduced herself. Claire Audette, a lovely name, thought Serafim. And in one graceful movement she kissed her hellos, called to the server to order a Coca-Cola, and sat on her wooden chair as if it were a pillow of down.
What shocked Serafim the most about their ensuing conversation was that she wanted, almost exclusively, to know about him: where he was from, why he’d decided to immigrate, his passions, his beliefs, his hardships. He found himself telling her the truth, albeit a highly selective version of it. He noticed that she seemed particularly interested — straightening up in her chair, cheeks and eyes lighting up — in his lack of success with candid photography, asking him if he’d given up on it yet, if he was ready to admit defeat. He wasn’t, he assured her, asserting that the industry would come round at some point, as a simple matter of course, and until then he had his own private darkroom where he continued his work in peace, away from critical guffaws and disparaging eyes.
Claire suddenly clapped her hands over her cola glass. “Your own personal darkroom,” she gasped. “Well, now that is something I have to see for myself. So, when is that possible? When can I come over to your place? Tomorrow? The next day? What day would work best for you?”
Serafim was reeling to keep up with how forthcoming she was. “Well, Wednesday,” he ventured, as if testing his own voice.
She slammed her hand onto the table. “Wednesday it is, then,” she said, suddenly spinning round to the bartender. “Excuse me, sir,” she called out, “would you happen to have a pencil and piece of paper? Just need something to scribble an address on is all. Thanks.”
As they parted ways, she gave Serafim a tender kiss goodbye on the cheek. Sensing how he was perplexed by, even suspicious of, the ease of her affections, she offered a cursory explanation. “You must think me very forward. But you will see there is a reason. I have something to ask of you, and I don’t yet know if I can trust you with it. But I have every intention of finding that out on Wednesday.” She pointed at Serafim’s address in her hand. “I will drop by around seven, then?”
Serafim managed to keep himself from stammering. “That would be fine, yes.”
He watched her stroll away, meld into th
e streetscape. Another drop in the river.
Before heading off himself, he looked back through the window to see if her soda glass was still there, as if to verify he hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. He then quickly took out his Leica, ensuring he had actually used up film taking pictures of her. Serafim, of all people, knew how a remnant drinking vessel could hardly stand as evidence for something real. Photographs, however, could.
Medium:Gelatin silver print
Description:Woman approaching
Location:Montreal, Quebec
Date:May 1929
A young woman is crossing a cobblestone lane; caught in mid-stride, at its centre. She is stylishly dressed, the greyscale variance of her outfit suggesting that her ensemble is well matched and well considered. Her cloche is banded with a thick ribbon, which is darker than the bell of felt beneath it, and is adorned with a burst of delicate feathers in the same shade. The brim of the hat presses the curls of her dark hair tightly against the white of her cheeks.
She is stepping with confidence, an arm swinging naturally out in front of her. Her knee is brushing against the hemline of her dress, the mould of its silhouette creasing into the fabric.
In the mid-ground on the right, the back end of an automobile can be seen, dragging its blur out of the frame. The thin spokes of a spare tire, mounted onto the rear, create lines of elongation; claw itself out beyond the moment.
The woman is looking directly into the lens, her expression one of fortitude. She is wearing a smile that is slight, wry, though also somehow profound, as if it were being conjured from some deeper, darker place. At the instant of the exposure’s capture, one can sense that this woman feels, unmistakably, beautiful. And one can sense her purpose woven even into that.
23
Claire rapped playfully on the door. She stood on the landing, surveying the neighbourhood, waiting for Serafim to answer. A cluster of newly returned songbirds huddled in a tree at the same height nearby, watching her silently. Evidence of the monumental moving day that always took place on the first of the month (the newspapers quoted it at fifty-two thousand families this year) could still be seen: a broken chair piled onto the skeleton of an armoire, splinters of wickerwork like spilled matches on the sidewalk.
The cluster of birds didn’t fly off as the door flung open. “Mademoiselle Audette. I am very pleased you could make it.”
“Call me Claire, please. Hope Serafim’s okay for you, too.” Claire peered around his body in the doorway. “Say, is that a last year’s Philco?” She edged past him and into his apartment, directly over to the deluxe cherrywood radio, ran a hand across its sleek contours, switched it on, adjusted the volume.
“Well, I am not sure how new the model is. My employer gave it to me at Christmas, as a bonus. He had just bought a new one, and so I guess had no use for the old one.”
Claire was listening more to the music than to what he was saying. She pointed at the speaker. “The Jack Denny Orchestra. Definitely. Sounds like a remote. On a Wednesday night, no less! Probably isn’t being broadcast from the Normandie Roof.”
Serafim gave a slow grimace, confused.
“Like on Saturdays,” she clarified.
He nodded tentatively. “Of course.”
“So! What does a girl have to do to get a drink in this place?”
Serafim faltered, appearing to give the question some serious deliberation. What did a girl have to do in order to get a drink in his place?
“A drink,” she repeated. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
He suddenly paled, mortified. “Oh. . . . . don’t have any alcohol, I’m afraid . . . in the house. Right now.”
Claire let him off with an easy laugh, removing her hat, shaking out her bob. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to go and get some, then.” She sat down in an armchair, crossed her legs. “What do you usually drink?”
“Uhm, normally beer, from the barrel, with a friend. Sometimes cognac. There is an épicerie on the corner where I can refill my bottles in the back. Bottles of cognac and molasses, I mean.”
“I know. So it’s settled, then. I’ll wait here.” She looked around the room. “Oh! Why don’t you show me your darkroom before you go.”
Serafim took a moment to steady his posture, drew in a deep breath. “Yes. I have prepared it for your arrival. I will ask you not to touch anything inside it. Please.”
Claire gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Of course, of course. So where is it?”
“Here.” He pointed at a closet door. “I have also set some photographs aside, of mine, for you to look at. If you would like.”
“I really just want to see the darkroom.” Claire stood and opened the door that he’d pointed at. Serafim stepped into the dark behind her to plug in an orange lamp. “So,” Claire ventured, “if I understand, you can take a picture anywhere, bring it here, and put it on a piece of paper, without anyone else ever seeing that picture throughout the process?”
He thought about the weightlessness of this question with considerable gravity. “Yes. That’s correct.” Serafim unplugged the light, escorted her out of the room, and closed the door. “I . . . should go and refill that cognac bottle. Please, excuse me.”
While he was gone, Claire wandered through his apartment, moving her body to the song on the radio. His apartment, she noted, was clean, tiny, arranged with modest furnishings; the only thing modern or of value was the Philco in his sitting room. She returned there, to wait on his outmoded sofa, in front of which was a small coffee table with a photo album placed evenly at its centre. She leafed through it, distractedly tapping her foot.
What she found in its pages surprised her. She’d never seen photographs like these before. He clearly had an eye for choosing moments and creating compositions whose movements continued on, the life of his subjects still breathing. Claire closed the album, sat back on the sofa, and contemplated his poverty, his defeat, his just-out-of-reach aspirations, even his talent. This man, Serafim Vieira, was going to suit her ends like a tailor.
Serafim soon returned with the cognac and they drank into the night, laughter flitting through the room. Serafim lit a paraffin lamp, and Claire danced to the radio alone, swaying over the hardwood floor. He watched her, his tie loosened, collar button undone, with a stupor grin and his eyelids half closed. When Claire finished, she sat down next to him on the sofa, seductively close, and topped up both their cognacs. She smiled. Suddenly feeling guarded, Serafim wanted to know once and for all what her visit was all about, what she’d wanted to ask of him, what she wanted him to do.
Claire eyed the photo album he’d set out for her to see. “Well,” she began, “sometimes people are born with a gift, a talent. They are designed to do something great. They have all the skill, determination, commitment — but something stands in their way. Something is blocking their path to greatness. Now, what they need is a little luck, but it isn’t there, it doesn’t come. This is the point where most people would give up, or wait for whatever that obstacle is to move. But what if there was another option? What if there was a way to jump over it? What if there was a way to help providence along, a way to create our own luck? Would that . . .” Claire reached a soft hand along the back of the sofa to touch Serafim’s shoulder. “Tell me, would that interest you?”
Serafim nodded deeply. “You cannot know how much that would interest me.”
“Good. Okay. Now. You know how corrupt the politicians are in this city. You know that they spend most of their time stealing, paying off the police, investing in the bootlegging over the border, all while employing people like us for pennies. And you know that, if they were made to hand over just a bit of their money, it would be a significant sum to us and an insignificant sum to them. Like the misplacement of one of their many fur coats. While for you and I, with but a trickle of their funds, just imagine the people we could convince to give us a
break. It just so happens that I have an incredibly simple way to get at those funds. But I need your help. I need a photographer. That is what I want of you. Would you like to hear more?”
Serafim did. He wanted to hear it all. Down to the finest detail. When Claire had finished, Serafim gave her a look that suggested he had been waiting for someone like her to come along for a long, long while.
Claire shuffled closer. “I knew I would be able to trust you.” She kissed him, slowly at first, but their breathing soon grew urgent and could be heard above the radio static. Buttons were unfastened, vests, shirts, dress removed. But before Claire took off her chemise, self-conscious of her scar, she blew out the lamp and led him to the bedroom. The sex was insistent, impatient, and afterwards he fell asleep on top of her, still inside, and only rolled off when she shifted his weight.
Claire had little rest. Serafim was a fretful sleeper, turning endlessly, stretching, plying his hands, muttering in Portuguese. Exhausted, she thought of leaving his apartment at one point, but in the end succeeded in calming him into stillness by lightly stroking the back of his neck for half an hour. There was something boyish about him, she thought. He was like a very serious child.
The twin bells of his alarm clock rang early — an untimely, unwelcome surprise. Claire rolled from the bed to find her chemise before he could see her. She put it on as he moaned, holding his head, hungover.
But the moment she’d left his bedroom, he called out at her in an assertive, almost angry tone. “Stop! Wait, please. I have to check the kitchen.” He hustled out of bed, threw some pants on, and craned his neck through the kitchen door, presumably, thought Claire, looking for rats. He was outwardly relieved to find nothing there.
Claire put on the rest of her clothes and headed for the front door. “I think we should go out on Friday to discuss the specifics.”
“Okay.”
Serafim and Claire Page 21