Cockpit (24 page)

I tapped the window gently. The girl raised her head and, uncertain, glanced in my direction. I ducked down. When I looked in again, she was absorbed in her reading. I thought of knocking at the window once more but I did not. Suddenly the drama of my jump seemed more immediate than the possibility of a relationship with the girl. I walked away.

Back in my room, I decided to forget about the contest; having accepted the challenge, it was out of my control. I went to sleep. I awoke later than I had planned, though still in time for the competition. The taxi driver recognized me as the night-skier, but seemed indifferent when I told him I was no longer skiing alone in the dark.

My opponents and our two judges had already gathered at the station. As I shook hands with the girl, I saw that her eyes were as unresponsive as ever. The challengers and I drew matches to determine the order of our jumps. One of the skiers drew first jump and was driven up the slope in a snowmobile. At the starting point he got off, positioned his goggles and waited for the signal. When the judges raised their hands, he started down the run with a confidence that initially misled me, but as soon as he had gained speed, I realized that by unfolding his body too soon, he was aiming too high. He landed near the outer edge of the balcony and slid off as smoothly as if he had planned to.

We heard his skis splinter as he fell. When he tried to get up but failed, two of his fellow challengers ran to him and carried him to a friend’s car, which immediately took off for town. In an unemotional tone, I asked the remaining challengers if they wanted to yield. They exchanged glances, and took a vote. Their decision was to continue, but it was not unanimous, and the one skier who disagreed was pale and uneasy.

I was second jumper; I put on my skis but left off my parka, so that I’d have as much freedom as possible. Instead of riding the snowmobile, I asked to be towed behind it up the run, hoping to loosen up and generate some warmth before making the leap. From the top, the staircase and the balcony looked absurdly small.

At the judges’ signal, I took off, my skis vibrating on the well-packed snow. Just before I aimed at the staircase, I glanced at the girl. She was looking at the balcony, not at me, as if only the moment of impact mattered. Countering a sudden tension, I pitched myself over the staircase, my feet underneath my hips, my hands dropping down, my body automatically flexing to the side. With my chest bent over my knees, my skis touched down on the balcony, then rasped along its icy surface. In a moment, I stopped. I took the skis off and calmly returned to my place. The girl’s eyes were still fixed on the balcony.

The next skier was halfway up the run in the snowmobile before I realized that it was the mechanic who had challenged me initially. When he took off, I did not want to watch him, yet I could not shut out the sound of his skis rattling on the snow. After a moment, I heard the crash, followed by a scream. Everyone watching raced toward the stairs. From a distance I saw the mechanic fall; his head smashed against the edge of the balcony, his skis lodged between the top two steps. He was unconscious. His companions lifted him gently and put him into a car, which slowly made its way down the road.

The girl and the other judge told me they had decided to end the jumps but that I would be paid what I had won. When I asked if the girl would walk back to the town with me, she looked at me coldly and refused.

For the last few years, I have frequented a bar in the theater district. Its barman is a retired police officer, and his bar is a quiet place without much late-night business. I often drop by twice the same evening and, while I sip my drink, I chat with the barman. He seems to enjoy my stories and I leave a big tip.

Whenever I assume a new disguise, I always test it on him. On one such occasion, I came in earlier than usual, disguised as a laborer. There were five or six men sitting at the bar and a few couples at tables in the rear. The barman came over but did not recognize me. I ordered a drink. When he brought it, I insisted the glass was dirty. He glared at me but took it back, spilled the contents into the sink, made a point of washing the glass and poured a fresh drink. As he pushed it toward me, I knocked it over with my elbow. Loudly blaming him for the accident, I demanded another replacement. After he ignored my request, I made fun of the photographs of him in his police uniform and insulted his medals and insignia, which hung on the wall above the bar.

Trying to contain his rage, he suggested I leave. I replied
that, until I was served the drink I had ordered, I would not go. He came out from behind the bar, and hissed that if I wouldn’t leave on my own he would be glad to help me.

I challenged him to do it. Prompted by the other customers, he grabbed me by the shoulders, dragged me to the door and propelled me onto the sidewalk. I hailed a taxi and went to my apartment. Three-quarters of an hour later I was back, this time without the disguise. The barman was pleased to see me and said he needed me to cheer him up because he’d just had a bad time with a customer. He insisted I have a drink on the house, and I amused him and the other patrons with a few anecdotes as I drank. When I finished, I tipped him heavily, bade them all good night and left.

I returned to the apartment and donned a second disguise. In half an hour, I was inside the bar again. It was late, and there were only four customers left. Once more, the barman did not know me. In a deep Southern accent, I ordered an imported beer. He told me he did not carry it, and I started swearing. Soon, he was fuming and gesturing toward the door.

On my way out, I heard him explaining to a customer who had witnessed the previous incident that this was the first time in his fifteen years behind the bar that he had had trouble twice in one night from perfect strangers. He blamed it on the fact that so many weirdos were coming to the city now to get drugs.

About that same time, I began to review the photos I have always kept of myself. There are snapshots of me with my parents, with the university ski team, with my army unit and with friends.

And there are shots of myself making love to various women. These photos were taken by cameras equipped with a delayed action mechanism. When I think about the energy expended during the past decades in picking up
these women, and in taking, developing and enlarging these photographs, I am overcome by its pointlessness.

All that time and trouble, and still the record is a superficial one: I see only how I looked in the fraction of a second when the shutter was open. But there’s no trace of the thoughts and emotions which surrounded that moment. When I die and my memories die with me, all that will remain will be thousands of yellowing photographs and 35 mm. negatives locked in my filing cabinets.

I spent an entire day sorting and enlarging negatives and didn’t go out until late that evening. On my way out, I saw an attractive young prostitute get out of a taxi and walk in a leisurely way past a corner bar. I accosted her and told her I wanted her to come with me. Her only reaction was to name a price. I hailed a taxi and gave the driver one of my addresses. During the ride the girl said nothing except that she had clients in my neighborhood.

As soon as we got to the apartment, I offered her a drink, which she refused. I paid her, then pointed out all the spotlights and the cameras attached to tripods. I told her I had picked her up, not only because she was attractive, but also because I was sure she would photograph well. I handed her an album of center-fold-size photographs of women, both clothed and nude. As she flipped through it, she mentioned that the only pictures she had of herself were a few Polaroid shots taken by her brother.

Among the subjects in the book, she recognized another prostitute, a girl she had met once in the city jail. She asked why I would choose a hooker over a professional model. I answered that prostitutes were much more at ease in front of a man than models were.

By this time, she appeared quite relaxed, and I suggested we begin our session. I assured her that she should not feel obliged to pose naked, as I was equally interested in photographing her clothed. She said she didn’t mind my taking pictures of her nude. If the photos turned out well, I said,
I would bring them by her beat the next night so she could look through them. I promised her that she could keep some if she liked. She went to freshen her make-up while I arranged the spotlights and prepared the cameras.

At first, she posed self-consciously, and I kept changing the lighting and the angle, attempting to capture her when she was least aware of it. I photographed her dressed and naked. I caught her unbuttoning her blouse, removing her bra, pulling her skirt down, peeling off her stockings. At the end of the session, she was astonished when I told her how many rolls of film I had used. I asked for her phone number or address, but she refused to give them to me. On her way out, she mentioned that, unless she got arrested, I could find her on the same beat every night.

As soon as she was gone, I began developing the negatives. I selected only the most glamorous poses, each of which revealed a startlingly different aspect of her beauty. By dawn, I had printed them to resemble professional fashion photographs and cropped them to tabloid size.

I waited impatiently for evening to come. At dusk, I carried a portfolio full of the photographs to the street corner where I had first met her. The other girls were already lined up along the block, but my model hadn’t arrived. I opened the portfolio, took out one of her photographs and showed it to another girl, asking if she knew where my model was. She told me I would have to be patient because my friend usually arrived last. The prostitute was very impressed with the photograph and asked if she could see the rest of them. I told her I never showed photos without the subject’s permission. She remarked that discretion was important in her line of work, too, and drifted off to talk to another man.

After waiting over two hours, I saw my model get out of a taxi. She had completely altered her hairstyle, dress style, and make-up, but was just as alluring as she had been the day before. Afraid I would lose her to another customer, I
dashed across the street. At first, she did not recognize me. But when she saw the portfolio, she smiled and asked if I had brought her pictures. I said they had turned out better than I’d hoped and invited her to have a drink while she looked at them.

We sat in a corner booth in a bar, and, once we’d ordered, I began pulling photos from the portfolio. The bartender, who must have seen her cruising many times, whispered something to his customers, who stared at us. I laid the photographs on the table, on the empty seats and on the floor around us. The girl was amazed. She said she had not really expected any pictures because she was used to clients photographing her, but they’d never show up with the pictures they promised. After hesitating for a moment, she asked if she could buy all the photographs I’d taken of her, and possibly commission more.

She could not afford my prices, I said. I was paid more for one photograph than she made in a week. I confessed that I had chosen to photograph her only because I wanted her, and suggested that she earn her pictures by making love to me. I promised that each time she brought me to a climax, I would pay her three photographs. I told her that even if she didn’t accept my offer she could keep any four shots.

She quickly gathered the pictures into a neat stack and flipped through them; then she went through them a second time, placing the pictures she liked in a pile. She re-examined the photos she preferred and eventually narrowed the stack down to four.

She was eager, she said, to work for more photographs. Her only stipulation was that she visit me in the late afternoons; since she worked all night, she had to sleep during the day.

The next afternoon, she arrived wearing a fashionable suede suit, and told me excitedly that she had shown the photographs to some of the other girls. They had urged
her to collect a portfolio for modeling or acting interviews. A legitimate job would offer protection when the cops tried to arrest her.

Accepting the drink I offered, she changed into the clothes she had brought for the session and I photographed her. After we made love, she chose nine more stills that I’d taken two days before.

She came to my apartment every day on her way to work, always wearing a different outfit, wig, shade of nail polish or lipstick. I was careful to compliment her looks because I could see how much it pleased her. She complained half-seriously that, not only did my spotlights tire her eyes, but the means I used to induce her orgasms exhausted her before she went to work at night. Only then did I remember that she would be spending her night embraced by one man after another.

One evening, after she had left, I was restless. I put on a disguise and walked to her beat, where I watched her from across the street. When a squad car approached, I saw her and the other girls scatter, and return after the police had driven off. Later, I watched her talking with a middle-aged man. His face remained rigid and expressionless, while his head shook constantly. His elbows and wrists flexed in regular, involuntary spasms and his right hand seemed paralyzed into a permanent, immobile claw.

I assumed the girl would reject this cripple, but she did not. The two of them got into a taxi and went off. I stood on the street, missing her, wondering what he would ask of her and how she would accommodate him.

During our next encounter, I asked her about the spastic man. At first, she admitted, the cripple had been repugnant to her. When I asked her to repeat with me exactly what she had done with him, she appeared shocked by my request.

Gradually, the more of my sexual demands she fulfilled without disgust, the more persistent became my fantasies of
what she must have done with other men. More and more often, she claimed, I involved her in things none of her other clients had even hinted at, yet she was willing to meet my every demand. When I asked her why she obeyed, she replied that thinking of the photographs I would take kept her going. My pictures, she said, proved that, regardless of how debased she was, I really saw her as clean and beautiful, and my demanding her return meant that I really wanted her.