Generation Loss (17 page)

It
was black and white, Tri-X. I caught its familiar sweetish odor, somewhere
between latex and lactose. The negs were overexposed, maybe deliberately. They
showed a naked man lying on his back, the image cropped so the head was out of
frame, his torso a surreal contortion of erect cock and hands. All the
highlights and shadows were reversed, of course, so that his cock became a
luminous wand surrounded by radiant fingers. There were dark shapes in the
background that might have been faces, or masks.

Or
they might have just been shadows. I continued to thread the negs through my
fingers, frowning as I examined each one.

"...
great. See you then."

In
the next room, Gryffin's voice abruptly fell silent. I curled the film back
into a tight spool, replaced it in the container, and shoved it into my pocket
just as Gryffin entered the kitchen.

"I'm
heading out." He crossed to the sink to dump his coffee mug. "I'll be
back in a couple of hours."

He
started to go, then leaned against the sink and stared at me. I could see the
little wheels turning behind those wire-rimmed glasses. Was I a safe bet to
leave alone for the evening? Or would I rob his mother blind?

I
stared back at him, thinking
And where the fuck would I go then?

He
must have gotten the message. "Anything edible you can find, help
yourself. Or Suze down at the Island Store stays open till six or seven."

"I'll
manage," I said.

He
studied me again, then beckoned me to the woodstove. "Here. Watch."

He
loaded the firebox with wood, adjusted the damper, pointed to more wood in a
box by the door. "If I'm not back in a couple of hours, throw some of that
on, okay?"

He
left. When he was out of sight, I scanned the living room for any sign of
Aphrodite then headed into the basement.

The
steps were half rotted, and a naked hundred-watt bulb made ominous spitting
sounds when I switched it on. Plaster flaked from the walls, exposing wooden
lathes and clumps of horsehair. I heard scrabbling in the shadows as I walked
around. Dirt floor, stone foundation; exposed beams curlicued with wormholes.
Cobwebs covered shelves of old bottles and rusted tools. An oil drum served as
a trash bin.

But
nothing that resembled a darkroom setup. I was starting to wonder if Gryffin
had lied to me when I spotted a door in the far corner. It was set into a floor-to-ceiling
cubicle not much bigger than a closet, made of drywall and two-by-fours. I
hurried over and tried the knob.

Gryffin
was right. The door was locked.

I
tried to jimmie it open. No luck.

I
retraced my steps and returned to my bedroom. For a few minutes I sat and
watched the sky fade from lavender-gray to indigo to dead black. I didn't put
the light on. Instead I drank Jack Daniel's until the darkness no longer seemed
ominous but soft, diffuse, as though a heavy black curtain had been replaced with
gray gauze. A few stars showed through the trees then disappeared. The fog was
coming in.

Finally
I got up. I found my wallet and retrieved my credit card and started back
downstairs.

The
hallway was dark. But at the far end, light spilled from an open door. I walked
quietly as I could, until I was close enough to see that the light came from a
bedroom. Inside was a TV with the sound turned off. I cleared my throat and
took another step, waiting for someone to call out.

No
one did. I stuck my head inside.

The
place was a mess. Heaps of clothes on the floor, books and papers piled on top
of a woodstove that obviously hadn't been used in a while. A space heater
hummed noisily. Black-and-white prints hung everywhere, and a double bed was
pushed against the far wall. It seemed to be covered with big fur throws—the
three deerhounds. I could just make out a small black figure in the middle of
the bed,.

Aphrodite.
She lay on her stomach, silver hair tied back with a black ribbon. Several
opened photo books were strewn around her. Her skinny legs in their black
tights stuck out from beneath one of the dogs, as though the geisha doll had
been tossed in with a bunch of stuffed animals.

I
couldn't believe I'd left my camera behind.

I
knew better than to go back for it.
The Decisive Moment
—that was the
English title for Cartier-Bresson's most famous book. And I'd missed my
chance—already one of the dogs was stirring. I went back down to the basement.

In a
few seconds I'd sprung the lock with my credit card. I entered and
instinctively reached for the safelight switch.

Red
light surrounded me, along with the dank smell of mildew and the sour-wine
stink of acetic acid. As my eyes adjusted to the faint crimson glow, I felt my
neck prickle.

It
had been twenty years since I'd been inside a darkroom. I steadied myself
against a counter and took stock of what surrounded me.

A
plywood table with plastic trays for developer and stop bath, fixer and holding
bath; shelves made of cinder blocks; a stainless steel sink. Boxes of
photographic paper bleached with mold. Jars of developer. A metal cabinet
scattered with curled, moisture-damaged prints so blackened with mildew they
resembled fungi. Plastic sleeves for holding negatives, all empty. An enlarger.
Above the table, a sagging clothesline for drying prints. A pair of heavy
rubber gloves hung from the clothesline. I put them on, grateful to have
something between me and the foul air. When I picked up a jar of developer, a
bloom of spores rose from it like smoke.

Even
thirty years ago, this darkroom hadn't been state-of-the-art. But I didn't need
high-tech equipment to do what I'd come down here for. I flipped on the
overhead light. The bulb had blown. I'd have to do my prep work under the
safelight. It was dim, 15 watts, but I'd manage.

I
opened the tap, hoping the pipes hadn't frozen. The faucet gurgled and coughed
and finally spat a thin stream of brownish water. I waited till it ran clear,
rinsed out the plastic processing trays, then set about mixing the developer,
the stop bath, the print fixer. I had no idea if the chemicals would still be
lively, but it was worth a shot. I mixed each batch directly in its tray and
lined them up on the plywood table. Then I looked for tongs.

No
tongs. I'd have to agitate the paper by hand, shaking each tray. Messy but
feasible. I did find scissors, and the heavy piece of glass I'd need to flatten
the negs. I cleaned and dried it on my T-shirt then dug out the roll of film. I
uncoiled the long spool and gingerly cut it into four pieces, careful not to
damage any individual frame. The plastic envelopes for holding negs were too
filthy to use. Again, I'd make do. I turned to examine the enlarger.

It
was a Blumfield, circa 1974 by my guess, British made. An expensive piece of
equipment, with a flat easel surface and an upright pillar holding the enlarger
itself. It seemed dusty but otherwise in working order. I cleaned off the
surface where the negs would go, blew dust from the enlarger lens, then
switched on the tungsten diffuser bulb, praying it hadn't blown too.

It
hadn't. I switched off the diffuser and searched until I found a sealed box of
Kodak paper. The cardboard was buckled and smeared with mold,
but
inside
its foil wrapper the paper was undamaged. I grabbed a sheet and went to work.

I
moved fast. I set the negs on the enlarger's easel, covered them with the glass
plate, and exposed them for eight seconds. I slid the sheet into the stop bath,
shook it and counted to thirty, then transferred it to the rapid fixer and did
the same thing again.

Even
with the rubber gloves, my fingers were numb when I finally rinsed the sheet
under running water. I didn't care. I'd already seen the ghostly images
bleeding through, each one an eye opening slowly, irrevocably, onto another
world. When I turned the water off my hands shook with cold and excitement. The
safelight was so dim I could barely see what I'd just printed on the contact
sheet. I needed a loupe.

I
found one in the rusted cabinet. The round eyepiece was badly scratched. It was
like looking through a submarine porthole, but I needed to see if any of the
images warranted an enlargement. If so, I might have something to bring back to
Phil, or just keep for myself—my own little souvenir of Bad Vacationland. I squinted
at the contacts, and swore in exasperation.

This
wasn't
Blow-Up.
There was no body; no dead body, anyway. The nude
pictures were lousy, not to mention overexposed and out of focus. A dick is a
dick is a dick, and no one was going to be interested in this one.

But
three images were different. They showed a young woman, also nude, with light
brown hair, head tipped to smile at the camera. She had a hand cupped over each
breast, and her hands were holding something, coconuts maybe, or balloons.

Technically,
these images were slightly better than the others. They were in focus, and the
exposure seemed right. But there was something about the girl's expression that
held my eye. She looked innocent and sexy and slightly daft, Betty Boop recast
as a long-haired hippie chick.

I
spent another minute trying to decide which of the three was best. Finally I
chose one, found the matching neg, and made a hasty 8x10 enlargement. Then,
just for the hell of it, I picked one of the other negs at random and pulled a
print of it too.

Both
were sloppy. My buzz was wearing off. I was exhausted. My initial excitement
now turned to fear of getting caught. I hung the contact sheet and the two
prints on the line to dry, dumped the processing chemicals down the sink, and
did my best to clean the place up. The negs went back into the canister in my
pocket. I peeled off the gloves and flung them onto the cabinet, grabbed the
still-damp prints and contact sheet, switched off the enlarger and safelight. I
split, locking the door behind me.

The
basement was cold and empty. I waved the prints back and forth for a few
seconds.
When they seemed dry, I rolled them into three narrow tubes and stuck them down
the front of my jacket. I made sure I still had the loupe and went upstairs.

After
the basement, the kitchen felt like a sauna. The only sounds were the crackle
of wood in the stove and the slap of waves on the shingle outside. I pulled a
chair in front of the woodstove, looked around for any sign of Aphrodite or her
dogs. All seemed down for the count.

I
was starting to feel the same way. I yawned. When my stomach growled, I decided
against another shot of bourbon and stumbled over to the fridge.

The
pickings, as noted, were slim. I grabbed two eggs and the V-8 juice. I rinsed
out a coffee mug and cracked the eggs into it, filled the mug with V-8 and
downed it in one long swallow. Then I dragged myself to my room and collapsed
into bed.

13

I
woke from a dream of a cold finger touching my forehead, pressing until it felt
as though someone were driving a nail into my skull. I groaned and opened my
eyes, recoiling when I saw an enormous brown eye staring at me.

I
shot upright as the eye resolved into a grizzled head and cursed as the
deerhound backed away. Pale light flooded through the window. The dog sat and
cocked its head, staring at me. I stared back then started to get up.

My
stomach churned; I doubled over and was sick on the floor. I sat shivering on
the edge of the bed until I summoned the strength to stagger to the bathroom.
By the time I'd showered and stumbled back, the dog had cleaned up for me.

"Nice
work." I pushed it from the room.

I
dressed, opened the window, and leaned out so the icy wind could scour my
cheeks. I shut my eyes and remained there until I felt my hair freeze.

I
had no idea what time it was. Mid-morning, maybe. I felt lightheaded, with that
deceptive lucidity you get from a world-class hangover, the feeling that you've
finally purged yourself of everything that made you drink in the first place.

Another
spasm of nausea cured me of that. I stayed on the bed until it passed then
remembered the prints I'd made yesterday.

They
were still tucked into my jacket. I took them out and smoothed them on my
knees: the contact sheet and two 8x10s.

In
the darkroom, I'd assumed all the photos had been taken by Aphrodite. The first
picture—that close-up of a cock surrounded by waving hands, as though
it
were
a Theremin—it definitely had the hallmarks of Aphrodite's work. The uneasy
juxtaposition of the familiar and the strange had been reduced to a banal
attempt at 1960s hardcore, but the same eye had been behind the camera. I
recognized it the way you recognize someone in a bad Halloween costume.

Like
I said, it was out of focus and the lighting was all wrong. The depth of field
was off. But even if it could have been improved by more time in the darkroom,
what would be the point? It was crude and banal.

What
a waste.

I
examined the other photo. This one should have been cheesy, with its wide-eyed
subject mugging for the camera, long hair tossed back from her face, hands
covering bare breasts.