"I realized they were people too, and that it was the war, not the people, that was bad. I lost my friend on account of that. She'd been hurt too badly. She couldn't change. But I could. So I'm grateful to you. to my teacher too, of course. But especially to you, for taking that incredible photograph."
She asked me about the circumstances that had led up to my taking it. I told her the story, and even as I did I was amazed. I was exposing myself to a girl I didn't even know, some kid who'd wandered in, said a few sensitive things, and was now soliciting my intimate thoughts. it was a fine moment. Ugly. Brutal. In its way even superb. And I was there and lucky enough to have the right tool in my hands. Sol trapped it. Click!"
"Then?"
"A couple of days later it hit. Seen around the world. That's every photojournalist's dream. Made me famous for a while."
"And now?"
"I don't shoot events. It's light that moves me, Captured in long exposures."
" 'Chunks of time."
I nodded.
"Now I'm looking at the silent undercurrents, not the violent waves."
"How about people?"
"Don't shoot them much."
"Why not?" I shrugged.
"Too difficult, I guess."
"Too much trouble-isn't that what you mean?"
I glanced at her.
"Maybe something like that." I felt uneasy. Our conversation was taking an awkward turn.
"So what do you shoot these days?"
"Streets. Buildings. Walls. Night stuff mostly. Anything that's-"
"Still?" she asked.
"Yeah-still. But that wasn't what I was going to say." ':What were you going to say?" , Quiet," I said.
"Anything that's quiet."
"Right… She nodded, stood up, and began to scan the walls.
"You were very good with people. I can see you were. Know something?
I've seen your stuff before."
"The PietA."
"Not just that. Other stuff too."
"Like what?"
"Portraits. Actors, writers, athletes. In magazines. Maybe three, four years ago, when I first came to New York. I saw them." She turned and faced me.
"I thought they were pretty great."
I thought they were pretty great too. Unfortunately I couldn't shoot them anymore.
"Well," I said, "like I told you when you called, I no longer do that kind of work."
"Maybe you should start again."
"Think so?"
She nodded.
"See, I think maybe if you started shooting people, you wouldn't sound so sour the way you do."
I stood up. She was right, of course. But still I wanted her to leave.
"Do I really sound sour, Kim? I'm sorry. I wish I didn't."
"Maybe if you went back to shooting people," she said, "you'd give up all this… boring malaise." She waved her hand at my most recent prints.
I stared at her. She stared straight back. I expected her to apologize, but she stood her ground, and that made me mad.
"Now, that's a clever little speech," I said.
"And you're a clever little girl. Sashay your way in here, toss a few compliments, fake up a little profound analysis. Then, when you see that's not going to get you what you want, try some rude insults to see if maybe that'll turn me around."
"What is it you think I want from you anyway?"
"You want glamour head shots, right?"
"It would be a privilege to have my portrait taken by you. But that wasn't why I said it."
"So why did you say it?"
"Because I felt it. I think it's true, and I think you need to hear the truth."
Christ, I thought, just what I don't need: a girl who wants to level with me, straighten out my life.
"Okay," I said. "You're very nice. You want to help. You're full of good advice. You'd even rechannel my career if I'd let you, steer me in the right direction, help me fulfill the promise of my talent. I really appreciate your sincerity, Kimberly." I paused, and then I lied.
"Trouble is I like what I do. Believe it or not, I even like myself."
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Doesn't matter. I think now it's time for you to go." She stared at me, eyes perplexed.
"The door's over there," I said.
She stared awhile longer, then I saw her anger rise. I could actually see it come, roll slowly up her face, the way it sometimes does in a great actor at a crucial juncture in a play.
"I know where the goddamn door is." She started toward it.
"I don't know why I came down here anyway. After the way you talked to me yesterday, like you thought I was some kind of dumb club slut or something. But still I liked you. Thought we could be friends. I see now that was a mistake." She paused.
"You really are a nasty jerk, you know. So-best of luck, Barnett, with all your turgid photographs of empty streets."
She had the door open, was about to step out, when suddenly I changed my mind.
"Shut it."
"Don't worry. I don't slam doors."
"Come back inside and shut it. Please."
She glared at me, stepped back in, then stood with her back against the door@ "Okay," she said, "what do you want?"
"You still want a portrait?"
"Damn straight I do."
"Then maybe I'll shoot one for you," I said.
"Maybe then we'll find out who you really are."
"I know who I am."
"Do you? You're an actress, right?" She nodded.
"That's why you want the head shots. Tell you something-I don't think much of actress photographs."
"Neither do I," she said.
"That's why I came to you."
"So tell me-how you feel about acting?"
She thought a moment.
"It's the only thing on earth I really care about."
"Gee whiz," I said, "I think I've heard that corny line before."
She laughed.
"Guess I deserve that. After what I said to you. "
"Your manipulations were too transparent. But your angry moment at the door-I believed in that. The thing is, Kimberly, when I take a portrait, I don't let the person act, "
"How do you stop them?"
"There are ways."
She smiled.
"I know what you're trying to do."
"What am I trying to do?"
"Skate me off."
She was right, but I wouldn't admit it.
"Now, why would I want to do a thing like that?"
"Maybe because you're afraid yourself,"
"Of what "Taking my picture." And then, when I scoffed: "Well..
There was something taunting in her expression then, as if she were daring me to show her she was wrong. What she didn't know was that she was the second person in twenty four hours to accuse me of my- photographic cowardice, and I was getting pretty sick of hearing that and knowing it was true.
"Come back this afternoon at three o'clock," I said, "But I warn you-it's no picnic modeling for me."
"I'm willing to work for it."
"You'll work, all right."
"Anything special you want me to wear?"
I shook my head.
"No makeup either. Show up on time, bring your face and call if you change your mind.
"A portrait session with The Great Photographer!" She smirked.
"I wouldn't cancel that in a million years." it was after eleven when she finally left, which meant I had less than four hours to psych myself up One solution would be to shoot her without loading in any film. I could lie to her later, tell her the rolls got ruined at the lab.
But that was too easy. The real answer, I knew, was to actually take her portrait. My ability to do that, however, was dependent on whether she was the angel I'd been waiting for-the saving angel with the secret key who could unlock the blocking door.
I hoped desperately that she was, but I had little faith.
At two-thirty my hands began to shake. By a quarter to three I started to shiver. Then I looked out the window at the public thermometer across the street and discovered to my shame that it was 82 degrees.