Photographing Fairies: A Novel Read online

  Photographing Fairies

  A Novel

  Steve Szilagyi

  To Jodi

  Contents

  Book One

  Chapter One

  How I Met the Policeman

  Chapter Two

  How I Was Shaken by Some Photographs

  Chapter Three

  How I Came to Be a Photographer

  Chapter Four

  How I Struck a Deal with the Policeman

  Chapter Five

  How I Was Late for an Appointment

  Chapter Six

  How I Vexed a Great Author

  Chapter Seven

  How I Lost My Valise

  Chapter Eight

  How I Was Given a Ride

  Chapter Nine

  How I First Saw the Garden

  Chapter Ten

  How I Met Esmirelda

  Chapter Eleven

  How I Went to Church

  Chapter Twelve

  How I Got a New Darkroom

  Chapter Thirteen

  How I Photographed the Innkeeper

  Chapter Fourteen

  How I Met a Fierce Dog

  Chapter Fifteen

  How I Fell Down the Hole

  Chapter Sixteen

  How I Was Roughly Treated

  Book Two

  Chapter Seventeen

  How I Awoke

  Chapter Eighteen

  How I Photographed the Garden

  Chapter Nineteen

  How I Scared Myself

  Chapter Twenty

  How I Discovered the Minister’s Strange Secret

  Chapter Twenty-one

  How I Discovered the Policeman’s Strange Secret

  Chapter Twenty-two

  How I Learned the Girls’ Strange Secret

  Chapter Twenty-three

  How I Met the Fairies

  Chapter Twenty-four

  How I Met the Little Men

  Chapter Twenty-five

  How I Returned to the Garden

  Chapter Twenty-six

  How I Almost Got Arrested

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  How I Concocted a Useful Experiment

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  How I Saved the Templetons from Burglars

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  How I Am Spending the Last Night of My Life

  There is some question here. It rages in the council of my solitary consciousness. One party of thought says “Yea.” The other says “Nay.” A vexing dispute. But one, you would think, it would be easy to bring to final resolution. After all, I could come forth and testify as my own expert eyewitness. But while so much remains incised with perfect clarity in my memory, this one detail resists the still camera of my brain. And so the embattled query shall echo forever; its answer guessed at, but unknown. That is the question: Do the fairies have wings?

  How much easier to ask: Do they have eyes?

  The answer: Yes.

  Do they have lips?

  Yes.

  Do they have arms, legs, pert bottoms, and tiny feet? Do they have knees, chins, bare pudenda, flowing hair, and bright nipples, red as rubies?

  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and decidedly yes.

  But do the fairies have wings?

  Silence.

  I shut my eyes and visualize the place where wings might be expected to sprout. On the upper back, just below the cervical vertebrae, where the scapulae and trapezius glide silkily past one another. And what do I see there? Nothing. Not even the expected anatomical landmarks. Just a blur.

  Now, this blur could be evidence of wings that move so quickly, they are invisible to the naked eye — like an airplane propeller, or the wings of a hummingbird. Or it could indicate something else. A point of contact, a kind of spiritual umbilicus connecting the fairies with another plane. It could be the vibrating nexus between two worlds, the natural and the ecstatic. If so, the link would be logically located. Do not our deepest aesthetic experiences signal themselves with a thrill up the spine? Does not beauty lodge like a cool, tense bubble between the shoulder blades?

  I think it does; though I could not prove it. And so this whole wings business refuses to come into focus. I cannot resolve the issue. But it does lay to rest one of the world’s best known saws. How does it go? That wise old chuckle that says, “Being hanged on the morrow concentrates a man’s mind wonderfully”?

  Well, let us see . . .

  Book One

  Chapter One

  How I Met the Policeman

  Yes, tomorrow I am scheduled to die. But as I contemplate this incipient event, I am troubled by the thought that I leave nothing behind. Oh, of course, there are hundreds of undistinguished photographs and some sketches and studies that might have amounted to something if I had worked them up; but for the most part, after thirty-two years of life, I leave a barren legacy. No children to mourn me. No widow in weeds. And, as the only child of now-deceased parents, no family or relations to shame by the manner of my death.

  I have been sentenced to hang for the crime of murder. I crouch now in a small, dark cell, with a metal cot, and a smelly little hole in the corner. High above me, to my right, a tiny, barred window admits a trace of dim starlight. To my left is an iron door, with thick, dollopy bolts and a sliding peephole. Behind my cot, the wall is scratched with names and curses, a Psalm, and a home-made calendar. A previous tenant has even charcoal-sketched the familiar stick figure from the game “Hangman,” which another has smeared to near obliteration with what appears to be spittle. Beyond the walls of my cell, I know (though I cannot see them) are the grim guard towers, the dusty exercise yard, and the prison garden, its meager blossoms lovingly tended by some of the older inmates. If I close my eyes, it is easy for me to imagine that I am not here — That it is four months ago, and I am in another small, dark room. . . .

  * * *

  It is London. In this nervous, third decade of the twentieth century. These giddy years after the Great War. I was up to my bare elbows in chemicals, developing group photos of the Kennel Hill Cricket Club. The pictures were routine: a score of white-garbed goops standing in ranks, staring out over each other’s shoulders; crossed bats; one wag waving a whiskey bottle . . . But wait. Here is a bit of advice for young photographers: Never miss the chance to do this type of mass photograph. Team pictures can be a short road to big business for the commercial photographer. Each head in those serried rows will someday get married or have children, or know someone who intends to do one or the other, and that wedding, christening, and anniversary business can be yours if you are willing to hustle for it. All you have to do is bring a generous supply of your business cards and scatter them among the assembled multitude, making sure that no member of the team, squadron, or enlightened society leaves without your name stuck in his pocket, breeches, or waistcoat.

  I, for my part, had forgotten to bring a single one of my expensively embossed business cards to the Kennel Hill shoot, and I was cursing my own stupid forgetfulness as I lifted one of the crowded negatives from its chemical bath.

  Suddenly, I was startled by a report and ricochet from without. It was the door to my studio slamming open and hitting the wall.

  I couldn’t leave the darkroom to see what was going on. So I shouted, “Hello?”

  There was no answer. The floor of the studio trembled as footsteps crashed over the boards. Out of the confused noises, two voices rose in loud argument. I recognized the officious tenor of my assistant, Roy. The other was a voice I had not heard before. It was deep, th
ick, and rough. Its accent was rural, and as redolent of England’s farms and fields as Roy’s chirp was of its centrifugal capital.

  The thick, rough voice was demanding to see me. Roy informed its owner that I could not be disturbed.

  “And why bloody not?” demanded the stranger.

  “Because Mr. Castle is in the darkroom,” said Roy.

  “Where is the dark room?”

  “Right over there.”

  I heard footsteps crossing the floor. They stopped right outside.

  “Behind this wall?”

  “Yes.”

  I was startled by a scraping sound not far from my head. It was the stranger’s hand, probing the wall. I felt strange, vulnerable, removed from it all, floating blindly in a lightless pool.

  “What’s he doing in there?” the stranger asked.

  “He’s developing pictures.”

  “In a dark room?”

  “That’s right,” said Roy.

  There was a moment of silence as the stranger seemed to meditate. Finally, he observed, “Well, maybe Mr. Castle could use some light — ”

  Car-pock! The darkroom wall seemed to explode. A shaft of daylight shot past me. Along with it came a cloud of plaster dust, bits of lathing, shreds of wall-paper, and a large fist. The fist wriggled free, leaving behind a ragged hole, gushing brightness.

  My first thought was for the negatives. There was a demure ping from the egg timer, a sigh of relief from me. The period of sensitivity was over: The light would not damage. Wiping my hands, I reached for the door and threw it open.

  Daylight dazzled. Restless clouds paced across the bright blue in the skylight; a silvery airplane cut a trim diagonal across the glassy grid. Beneath it, Roy stood in the rolling shadows assuming a boxer’s stance before a stranger wearing a loud brown-and-mustard-checked jacket.

  Roy was much smaller than his adversary; the battle was over as quickly as it began. With surprising gentleness, the stranger parried Roy’s fistic attack and flipped him to the ground. Once Roy was subdued, the stranger sat on his head. From this low perch, he scowled up at me.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Charles P. Castle,” he said.

  “I am he,” I said.

  “The photography expert?”

  “I suppose I’m some sort of expert, yes.”

  Roy was struggling beneath the stranger’s posterior.

  “Can he breathe?” I asked.

  “What?” the stranger said, as if he’d forgotten all about where he sat. “Oh,” he said, looking down, and lifted his rear end enough to allow Roy to slip out.

  Roy gasped and rolled across the floor. “I’m calling a policeman,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said the stranger, dusting his own behind.

  “And why not?” asked Roy.

  “I’m a policeman,” said the stranger.

  He was a tall man, sun-browned, with bushy brows and a thick, rubbery scowl. Aside from his checked jacket, he wore a tight bowler hat, ill-fitting green trousers, and bullnose shoes. Noticing that I was studying him, he removed his hat, revealing a low forehead creased with a pink line from the sweatband.

  “If you are a policeman,” Roy challenged him, “where is your uniform?”

  “I don’t wear it on holiday,” he said.

  “Is this some kind of official business?” I asked.

  “No, sir,” he said. “It’s personal.”

  “Then you have no right to come in here smashing through our walls,” said Roy. “It’s outrageous. This isn’t Russia. What’s your name?”

  “Please, please, please, Roy,” I said. “Let me handle this.”

  I turned to the stranger.

  “I don’t believe we are acquainted,” I said, trying to put the exchange on some kind of civil basis.

  The visitor smirked in Roy’s direction. “Walsmear,” he said. “Constable Michael Walsmear.”

  He put his hat up under his arm and offered me his hand. The trip through the wall had made the knuckles look as if they had been passed over a cheese grater. After I shook the proffered appendage, Roy tried to give me his handkerchief. I waved it away.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked our visitor.

  “I want to know what you think about some pictures,” he said.

  “What pictures?”

  “Some pictures I have here in my pocket.”

  “What would you like to know about them?”

  Constable Walsmear looked over at Roy. Then he looked at me. “It’s private,” he said.

  I could see that he was worried about Roy.

  “Roy is perfectly trustworthy,” I assured him. “He’s my Dr. Watson. Anything you say to me, you can say to him.”

  “Doesn’t look like a doctor to me.”

  “I didn’t say he was a doctor. I meant he was like a doctor — Watson, that is.”

  “Get him out of here.”

  Roy laughed and straightened his tie. “I hardly think,” huffed he, “that Mr. Castle would take the chance of being left alone with you — whatever you claim you are.”

  I looked from Roy to the visitor and mused inwardly. Roy was correct inasmuch as I was in no hurry to tête-a-tête with this large, violent individual. On the other hand, Walsmear was refreshingly different from my usual clients; and his mysterious “private” mission seemed like the beginning of an adventure — something I fancied, in my exquisite insanity, I wanted just then.

  Recklessly, perhaps, I told Roy not to judge too hastily. “I think I’d like to see what the constable has to show me,” I said.

  “Do you mean you want me to step outside?” Roy said.

  “Not step outside. Nothing like that. I have it. You can go to lunch. It is almost noon. I’ll talk to Constable Walsmear here, and when you come back, it will be all over.”

  Roy stared in disbelief. “He could kill you,” he said.

  I told him that I doubted that would happen. And after giving the loyal and able Roy a great many assurances that I would take every care for my safety, I was able to get him to agree to leave me alone with our visitor.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, plucking his hat from the rack and giving Walsmear a warning look. “I may just come popping back a bit early, too.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I said, patting his head. “I appreciate your concern, Roy.”

  He stepped out the door, then pushed his way back in for a moment. “Don’t forget,” he said. “You have an appointment at one-thirty. Mrs. Skorking.”

  “I’ll remember,” I said. “Now go off and enjoy your lunch. And don’t worry about me.”

  Roy started down the five flights from my studio to the street. The stranger did not move until the sound of Roy’s footsteps had narrowed to a point and disappeared.

  Then he visibly relaxed, and smiled.

  Chapter Two

  How I Was Shaken by Some Photographs

  The studio was set up from my session of the day before, when my clients had been a violin duo. Let me note here that the ambitious young photographer would do well to cultivate his contacts among the theatrical and musical professions and among those who aspire to them. Actors and musicians are in constant need of photos and prints to promote their shows and concerts; and many a professional photographer has built an entire career entirely on this trade. In this case, the musicians had wanted a “salon” look for the background of their picture. To please them, I had dug a couple of overstuffed chairs out of my prop room. Behind the chairs, I crossed a pair of ostrich-feather fans over an oriental vase big enough to hide a body in. Then I dusted off a bouquet of fabric roses and scattered the false blossoms around the set to look as if they had been hurled there by an ecstatic audience.

  The fiddlers thought it was just the thing.

  Now I motion
ed for Walsmear to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. He tested both chairs with his fingers. Then, throwing up the short tails of his coat, he spun around and dropped heavily into the softest one. Reaching down, he picked up one of the fabric roses still on the floor. He sniffed.

  “A fake,” he pronounced.

  I nodded, asked if he was comfortable; and, with heavy sarcasm, regretted that I couldn’t offer him a cigar.

  Walsmear said he had a cigar of his own.

  This, half-smoked and crushed like a tent peg, he removed from his breast pocket. Lighting it, he puffed expansively. A yellow cloud enveloped the chair. From within the billows, I heard him smacking his lips.

  “Comfortable?” I asked.

  “Quite.”

  “Good.”

  After a few minutes of silent puffing, Walsmear asked, “You’re not English, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Australian?”

  “No.”

  “Canada?”

  “American. From Boston. Though I’ve lived here in London for eight years.”

  “I met some Americans in France. Didn’t think much of them. That was in the war. Were you in the war?”

  “Too young,” I said.

  The smoke was making my head ache. I walked over and opened a window. Fresh air rushed in along with the noise of the street.

  “Didn’t think much of them at all,” Walsmear reiterated.

  “Yes, well . . .” My voice must have sounded testy.

  “But I appreciate you,” Walsmear said, flicking ash into the oriental vase. “You’re civil. For a Londoner.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve been in London for two days now. And you may be the first civil bloke I’ve met.”

  “You may bear some of the blame for that,” I said. “I mean, you’ve got a distinctive way of entering a room. Do you punch holes in walls everywhere you go?”

  “I’d apologize for that. Only I make it my business never to apologize. Let me just say I was angry. At your friend.”

  “My friend? Oh, you mean Roy. Roy’s not a friend. We’re friendly, of course, but he’s mostly my assistant — ”