The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  “I don’t want the party,” he said. “I don’t like anyone who’s coming.”

  I turned the package over in my hands, noticing for the first time that my green blouse matched the wrapping paper. “Not even me?” I smiled at him.

  He studied the camera around my neck and wrinkled his nose. “Especially not you.”

  I stepped away from Boris, determined to try again in a few minutes.

  Across the room, in the kitchen, I recognized Chef Simone, preparing pigs in blankets and goat cheese canapés. “Hi, Delta,” she said to me as I approached, and then quietly, with a nod toward Boris: “Little brat.”

  Over the years, I’d perfected an inscrutable expression on my face that was neither agreement nor disagreement. And that was the expression I offered Simone. I refused to be seen gossiping. Quite frankly, she was underestimating our clients. That energy gets out there and I know for a fact that the clients can smell it. Many of my clients were vulgar, shallow, arrogant, and/or insolent. But they were not stupid. They expected the people in their employ to feign respect, whether or not it was genuinely felt. I’d learned that lesson early on from socialite-turned–event planner Emily Miller when I was assisting on her weddings. If a client had the vaguest notion that you didn’t think highly of her, you’d never get hired again.

  Boris’s friends arrived, followed by Mack the Magician. I’d known Mack for years, since I’d started shooting Emily’s clients and their kids. He laid claim to performing at large venues and implied he did parties on rare occasions as a special favor to the parents. But we all knew that wasn’t true. He had the identical act every time and the same tired jokes. He didn’t even bother to rotate his show.

  Most of the children crowded Mack during the knife-juggling segment of his show, causing my stomach to drop more than once, though I’d seen his show at least twenty times, and no one had ever died. Boris’s parents, who were sipping Veuve Clicquot in the kitchen, didn’t notice the knives.

  Boris was the only child who derived no pleasure from the performance, or any other aspect of the party. I stayed for three hours, hoping that his frame of mind would shift, but nothing, not even the Avengers cupcakes, could shake him out of his mood. Since the raw material from the party was unusable in its present form, I resigned myself to creating photos out of whole cloth.

  I made it a rule not to drink while working, and not unless the hosts specifically offered me a drink. But on my way out, when the hosts were otherwise occupied, I drank half a glass of champagne. My nerves were on fire and I needed it.

  * * *

  As I was waiting for my car, Amelia’s name came up on my phone. I felt a rush of exhilaration until I read the entire text. She explained that they were leaving town for two weeks. It was Natalie’s winter break. She’d forgotten to mention it.

  A heaviness settled into my arms and legs.

  I spent several minutes composing a response in my mind. I didn’t want to appear too eager, but I needed to hold on to the Straubs. My body craved our connection.

  Finally I landed on a solution and wrote: I could look after itzhak and water ur plants. it wouldn’t be trouble. Let me know!

  OMG delta ur the best. itzhak is at a doggie hotel, but please water the plants! So amazing if you would.

  Her message was an enormous consolation. There was terrific value for me in spending time in their home.

  Another text from Amelia: remember I told you about ian walker? he’s a doll. i gave him your number!

  I resented Amelia pawning me off on Ian. It was mildly disrespectful. How did she even know whether I was single? After mulling it over, I decided that I’d go out with him anyway. I saw it as an opportunity to garner information on the Straubs.

  Back at my apartment, I settled in and turned on my computer. Boris’s party was going to require many hours of editing. Essentially, I would have to create a birthday party that had never happened, in order to showcase a delightful and affectionate child who did not exist. When I needed a break, I turned to the pictures from Natalie’s birthday. In each and every image from her party, I saw opportunities to photoshop—ways for me to spend time with the Straubs. My interactions with them, even if only in photos, were a balm to my spirits.

  * * *

  Two days later Ian and I had dinner at a loud and crowded Italian restaurant in the West Village. When I arrived, I spotted him across the room. I recognized him as the man talking to Fritz at Natalie’s party—early forties, dark brown hair, heavy eyebrows. No one would have called him out for being good-looking or bad-looking. He was wearing a tie, unlike the rest of the men in the restaurant. His hair was extremely short, as if he’d had a haircut earlier that day, and it appeared he’d cut his chin shaving.

  Ian seemed surprised by me. Or maybe taken aback by my appearance. I gathered he wasn’t used to dating women who were as pretty as I was.

  I started by asking him questions about himself. I always preferred to do the asking. The person asking has more power. The person answering is more vulnerable. Among other things, I learned that he grew up in New Jersey and attended Rice University for his master’s. He spoke of his father, who’d passed away the previous year, and his mother’s subsequent loneliness. I was bored by the subject of other people’s loneliness, but Ian would have had no way of knowing that.

  He’d just come from helping his mother clean her apartment, in preparation for trying to sell it, because she had bad arthritis in her hips and it wasn’t easy for her to get around. She was so stingy, he said, she’d photographed the apartment herself, refusing to spend the money on a professional interiors photographer.

  Some people consider themselves photographers because they’ve taken a few decent pictures on their iPhones. An infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters and an infinite amount of time could write The Complete Works of Shakespeare. That’s called the infinite monkey theorem, and it applies to cameras and photographs too. I didn’t tell Ian about the infinite monkey theorem.

  “The photos can make a big difference,” I said.

  “I know.” He shook his head in disgust. “Her lousy photos are probably costing her forty percent of the sale price.”

  After a couple of martinis, Ian loosened up a bit. “Delta Dawn. Isn’t that a song?”

  I smiled. “Mm-hmm.”

  “It’s a beautiful name.”

  “I’ve never liked it,” I said.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It tells people I don’t belong.”

  “Don’t belong … where?”

  “Anywhere, actually.” The words fell out of my mouth.

  I could see that Ian found the comment troubling.

  “I’m kidding!” I laughed.

  He smiled awkwardly and ordered another martini.

  Once the topic of conversation shifted to the Straubs, the evening flew, because it was a subject we both thoroughly enjoyed. He told me stories about residential and commercial projects they’d worked on together over the years. He’d been with the firm for ten years and had been promoted to associate three years earlier. One day he planned to start his own firm, but he said it was too challenging in the current climate.

  Ian provided more direct information about the Straubs than I would ever be able to glean from perusing their house. For example, I grew to understand aspects of Amelia and Fritz’s relationship—both personal and business. Fritz had been a wunderkind who’d started his own firm in his late twenties. Early on he offered Amelia a job at his firm, and eventually made her his business partner. Somewhere along the way, they got married. Meanwhile, though Ian didn’t say it directly, I gathered that Amelia had risen quickly in terms of the demand for her work, and at this point she was the breadwinner, responsible for bringing most of the clients in. A reversal of power.

  Ian was a veritable fount of information, and also mildly charming.

  “I’m grateful for Amelia’s friendship,” I said. I’d finished a third glass of wine and
a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. “She’s inspiring.” I had to raise my voice because the small restaurant had grown more crowded over the last hour.

  I brought up the subject of babysitting Natalie and told him about the diorama contest for her school.

  “Natalie’s a sweet girl,” he said. “But I worry about her. Sort of lonely.”

  The comment sounded vaguely disloyal to Amelia and Fritz. Fortunately, our waiter delivered our cappuccinos and I didn’t have to agree or disagree with the notion that Natalie was lonely. Ian sipped his coffee.

  “Maybe there’ll be another little Straub on the scene soon,” I suggested.

  He cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

  “It seems like something Amelia really wants. Don’t you think so?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Well, they’re not secretive about it, but they’ve been trying to have a baby for a few years.”

  “I had no idea.” I wanted Ian to believe that I was a trustworthy friend. Not someone who was fishing for information.

  We didn’t order dessert, but our waiter forced a platter of petit fours on us.

  I sipped my cappuccino in silence. “I wish I could help Amelia,” I said. “I wish I could do something for her.”

  He studied the plate of petit fours and then took one of them. Apparently, his mind had wandered away from the subject of Amelia’s infertility. He inched the plate in my direction and pointed to one of the mini tarts. “This one’s really good.”

  I took the mini tart to satisfy him, though I didn’t want it.

  He cleared his throat again. “Amelia said you have a son.” He smiled at me, like he wanted to make sure I knew he was pleased.

  “Yes. Jasper.” I pulled out my phone and looked up the picture of Jasper on the beach, playing in the ocean with a surfboard. I showed it to Ian. The photo was one of my best creations. “He’s in California with his dad.”

  He smiled. “Beautiful picture. Is your ex-husband a photographer too?”

  “No.” I tried to laugh. “Not professional, anyway. Jasper’s started surfing. Isn’t that crazy? He’s only five.”

  “Adorable,” he said.

  I put the phone away, and Ian paid for dinner.

  Afterward, I wanted to walk a fine line in how I parted with him. Friends for now, but give him hope for the future.

  We made our way to the coat check at the front of the restaurant, squeezing between tables and past waiters. “Listen, Ian,” I said, while we were waiting in line, “if you want me to photograph your mother’s apartment before she puts it on the market, I’d do it for free.” He clearly wanted to say yes but was too polite to show it.

  He looked down. “I don’t want to take advantage of your time.”

  I handed my tag to the scrawny coat-check woman behind the counter. “I could add your mom’s apartment to my portfolio.”

  “I don’t want to impose.” He blushed but appeared pleased by the offer.

  “When would be a good time?”

  He paused. “Actually, she was going to put it on the market on Monday, but—”

  “So, how about tomorrow morning?” I had a job the following day, but since it wasn’t a party, I was pretty certain I could push it back a couple of hours. I might not have another opportunity to ingratiate myself with Ian.

  “It’s really kind of you.” Ian helped me with my heavy down coat. And then his own. Outside on the sidewalk, he leaned in toward me to say goodbye, but I shifted my weight and turned, as though I wasn’t aware of his intention.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I said.

  He smiled, and I noticed dimples in his cheeks. “Thank you, Delta.”

  * * *

  Ian’s mother’s apartment had large windows and good light. I used my wide-angle lens. In the darker rooms, such as the master bedroom, which looked out on a brick wall, I compensated with Elinchrom strobes. In the living room, I ruthlessly cleared out all personal belongings if they didn’t materially contribute to the beauty of the image—removing 90 percent of the vases, trays, boxes, plates, baskets, and other knickknacks from the frame. Clutter inhibits lines and light. Years ago I’d learned not to ask permission in situations like this. As long as I was doing a “favor,” I intended to produce photos that would sell the apartment.

  Once you see a photograph of an apartment, that image becomes the reality—like the pictures of my clients’ children. It’s actually more important than the reality of what you see when you walk in the door. Viewing an apartment in person is similar to looking at your own reflection in the mirror. The information your brain takes in is malleable. Whereas pictures are fixed. They don’t shift as easily, because it’s one point of view. One moment in time. We tend to trust pictures.

  Ian and his mother, Paula, followed me around, observing my work. Occasionally I allowed them to look through the viewfinder. Paula asked me questions as we went along. I explained how to create more space, higher ceilings, a sense of grandeur. It’s about the angle and the light. I was shooting from a kneeling position, corner to corner. And almost every shot included one of the mirrors hanging on the walls. “If you shoot a mirror from the right angle,” I said, “you can create another window, or a painting, or a room that looks twice as large.”

  That evening, I sent Ian and Paula a few of the best shots. I had taken an attractive but drab apartment and turned it into a showpiece. My photographs could have appeared in any shelter magazine, and I say that with no hyperbole. With my lighting, that apartment transcended its limitations in terms of its size, scale, and design. I had created art. I had created an illusion.

  * * *

  On Friday evening I descended the exterior steps of the Straubs’ brownstone. Amelia had given me the combination to a small lockbox, which was mounted behind a hedge near the entrance to the garden apartment. Their front door key happened to be on a key chain with two other unmarked keys. I surmised one of the extra keys might unlock the garden apartment. I paused to see if I could detect any activity through the windows, but the lights were out and the shades were down. I had yet to ask the Straubs if anyone was living there.

  I walked up the main steps and unlocked the Straubs’ front door. “Hello!” I called out. I was carrying two bags of groceries, which I brought to the kitchen and unpacked. I planned to make chicken Parmesan. The most mundane tasks, when performed in the Straubs’ kitchen, took on a magical quality.

  Since the Straubs were out of town for two weeks, I’d planned four visits to their house, thinking I could safely spend a few hours each time. More than that might raise questions. I felt certain that Amelia and Fritz would be pleased for me to spend any amount of time in the house, but even so, it would be best to steer clear of gossip.

  I noticed an open bottle of pinot grigio in the door of the refrigerator that had barely been touched. Since I knew it would spoil by the time the Straubs returned home, I poured a glass for myself and drank it. With my second glass of wine, I walked from one room to the next. Up the stairs and back down, absorbing every detail. Each and every vantage point built upon the last, so that the cumulative effect was a transcendent experience. The transitions between spaces, like the sculptural staircase, were isolated but spiritual, and the spaces themselves were earthbound and communal. An interplay between isolation and community.

  I set my glass of wine down on a brass end table in the great room. I had yet to pay close enough attention to the silk rugs they’d chosen. I’d seen them in a magazine, listed at thirty grand each. They began as watercolors, painted by Brooklyn artists, and then were woven in Nepal. The Straubs owned four of them. I sat on the floor next to the most beautiful one and ran my hand across the smooth gray surface. It was softer than most sheets and pillowcases were. I put my cheek down on the rug, just to feel the silk against my face. It would be easy to fall asleep here.

  I took off all my clothes, including my bra and underwear, and lay facedown on the rug. I felt myself to be fully inhabiting the home of Amelia and
Fritz, in the deep recesses of their life. In spite of the many hours I’d spent in clients’ homes, I always hit walls blocking me from entering all the way. I couldn’t see the walls; I could only feel them when I came too close. I was forever hovering on the edge of something.

  Early on in my career, I’d sometimes made mistakes, such as resting on the sofa in a client’s study or snacking from their refrigerator. When a client saw me, their reaction was clear. I’d invaded, crossed a line, trespassed, taken liberties.

  With my body spread naked on the rug, I felt a sensation of entitlement and power. I had penetrated the walls. I had pierced the barrier. I was claiming the territory as mine. The opposite of the deference and the hesitation that restricted me so often. No one could stop me.

  I stood up. Still naked, I found Amelia’s watering can in the kitchen and filled it up. I watered the ficus in the great room and the rubber tree in the front library. My nudity made me feel close to the Straubs—at the very core and center of their lives. I passed by the full-length hall mirror and stopped to observe myself. I posed my figure facing forward, and then in profile. My image, watering can in hand, resembled that of a Greek goddess.

  After I dressed, I poured another glass of wine and set to work on the chicken Parmesan—pounded the chicken breasts, coated them with flour, eggs, and bread crumbs, before adding tomato sauce and cheese. The woman who cooked in this kitchen was a remarkable person. If she wasn’t remarkable to start off with, the time spent in this particular setting would alter her intrinsically. We humans evolve to fit our surroundings.