Authors: Isabel Wolff
I shook my head. ‘We got on incredibly well.’
‘So what was the problem—if you don’t mind my asking—which you probably do.’
I looked at him. ‘He…behaved badly towards me.’
‘Was he aggressive?’
‘Aggressive?’ I smiled. ‘Oh no. He just…did something that I couldn’t forgive. But I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind, because I don’t even like thinking about it.’
‘Of course. I understand. It’s a recent hurt. Maybe that’s why I found you a little strained when I first met you on Tuesday.’
No—it’s got nothing to do with it
. I fiddled with my pudding fork. ‘Yes. Maybe.’
‘Now,’ David said as the waiter appeared again. ‘Would you like a dessert?’
‘I don’t think I could. But I don’t suppose they do petits fours with the coffee, do they?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. But I tell you what—I’ve got some Belgian chocolates at home, so if you felt brave enough to come back with me, we could have coffee there. It’s only two minutes away and I promise you I’m
not
going to show you my portfolio!’ I smiled. Coffee and chocolates? In his flat? Yes. Then maybe I could say what I needed to say. I glanced at the other diners, chatting in low tones. It would certainly be much easier than doing it here. ‘Would you like to do that?’
I nodded. David paid the bill, then we walked out into the warm night air. We crossed over St John Street, then turned right into Benjamin Street where there was a row of brown-brick warehouses.
‘It’s in an old jam factory,’ he explained. ‘I bought it last year, after I got divorced. I’m on the top floor.’ We ascended in the dimly lit lift, then he unlocked his front door. I was expecting to find a vast open space, like an art gallery, with
exposed iron girders and frosted glass bricks, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was spacious, but properly partitioned, the rooms pleasantly proportioned. There was pale wooden flooring throughout.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said. On the wall next to me was a black and white photo of two tiny boys working on a banana plantation. Something about the composition, and the expression of tragic resignation in their eyes, drew me into it. I found it hard to look away. ‘Is this one of yours, David?’
‘Yes. Have a seat while I fix the coffee.’
I sat in his large sitting room, which seemed to double as a study. The shelves behind me groaned with the weight of photography books. I turned and looked at the names. Robert Capa, Sebastiao Salgado, Cartier-Bresson, and Irving Penn. Martha Gellhorn, Ansel Adams, Inge Morath and Man Ray. On the table was a Magnum compilation, a biography of Lee Miller, and a box file marked ‘Colour Negs’. On a side table was a framed Press Photographers’ Award and a photo of a blonde woman in her late twenties, smiling seductively. Then David reappeared with a tray.
‘Is this your wife?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Ex-wife.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ I said.
‘She is. She’s Polish. Though that had nothing to do with our communication problems as she’s totally bilingual. Anyway, shall we have the coffee outside?’
‘Outside? Is there a balcony?’
‘No. I’ll show you. Come with me.’ I followed him down the hallway to the back of the flat and up a white spiral staircase, at the top of which was a hyacinth-blue door. He pushed on it, and, as we stepped outside, low spotlights came on, illuminating a huge roof terrace.
‘Come into my garden,’ he said.
It was elegantly decked, and as flower-filled as a nursery in springtime. Several varieties of clematis wound their way through and over the railings. Geraniums sprouted from every pot. There were petunias spilling from troughs and baskets, and fuchsias dripping their pink and red ballerina buds. There was even a summer jasmine-smothered trellis. The scent was heavenly.
‘
Wow
. You did all this?’
‘I wish. I inherited it when I bought the flat. I keep it going as well as I can, but I’m not exactly green-fingered. I just water everything and hope for the best. Don’t trip over the hose, by the way.’ We made our way to the edge of the terrace, where there was a wrought-iron table and four chairs. We sat there, looking out over the lights of London, spotting landmarks.
‘That’s the Barbican, just there,’ David said, twisting in his chair, ‘and there’s the Nat West tower; to the left of it is the Gherkin, with those green lights; and then, over there, the OXO tower, and along a bit you can
just
see the Eye.’ As we sat there, sipping our coffee, I was aware of the nocturnal cacophony of the capital: the distant roar of cars, the swish of tyres on the road, the insistent wailing of sirens and car alarms. Then we heard a nearby church clock strike ten.
‘That’s St John’s, just down the road. And there, that one, just starting, that’s St Paul’s. This is nice, isn’t it?’ he said happily. ‘I’m enjoying myself. The view’s so much nicer when shared.’ There was silence between us for a moment, and I wanted to tell David what I knew I had to tell him—but the words seemed to be jammed in my throat. Then he started telling me about his latest documentary project, in Indonesia, photographing illegal logging for an environmental agency. Child labour was also a concern of his.
‘I’ve photographed four-year-olds in Guatemala, cutting
sugar,’ he said. ‘Their machetes were bigger than they were. They should be in school, not slaving in the heat.’
‘You must have seen terrible things,’ I said.
‘Yes. I have. Terrible. And at the same time strangely fascinating. The vile things that we humans are capable of doing to one another.’
I felt a wave of shame. ‘What was the worst thing?’ I said. ‘I know it’s a crass question, but I can’t help wondering.’
‘It’s okay, I’m often asked that. I’d say the retreat from Basra in 1991. The aftermath of Omagh. And Kosovo was pretty disgusting, as you can imagine—I was there for a year. I still have recurring nightmares from Rwanda. Then last year I went to Israel. And that’s what finally did it for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’d been a suicide bomb in this café in Jerusalem, and I went over there and began taking pictures. And there was this woman, on the other side of the street, just screaming with grief. And I began photographing her, and she suddenly saw me. And she ran right up to me and she hit me. Hard. She really walloped me. And she was right to. And I knew then that it was time to stop. That’s the worst of it,’ he went on, as he looked out over the city. ‘The way the camera distances you and numbs you emotionally. So there can be people lying there with terrible injuries, or even being shot right in front of your eyes—yet your own human sympathy is temporarily suspended. You’re just thinking “that’s a great shot…there…that one…and
that
one”. You’re framing and focussing and clicking, because in that moment that’s
all
you care about. The picture—not the people. But, later, you’re filled with self-disgust.’
‘But the pictures are very important.’
‘Of course they are. And that’s what you’re trying to get—an
important
picture. One which transcends its context to
become a profound metaphor. But photographers pay a high price for that. Many suffer from depression. A few commit suicide. I’d been doing it for ten years and needed to quit.’
‘And that’s why you switched to documentary work?’
‘Yes. Also, so that I could choose my own subjects—rather than just having to rush to where the dead bodies are.’
‘Do you enjoy it more?’
‘I do. But it’s not as lucrative, so I do some commercial stuff as well to pay the bills. Company reports for example—as long as they’re kosher—and recently I’ve been doing a few magazine shoots. I did a couple of development stories for
Marie Claire
, and then I got that call from Lily Jago.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I
still
don’t understand why she thought of me to take your pictures.’
‘Well… I think…she thought it would give it a bit of an edge. That’s what she said actually. That it would make it “edgy”.’
‘Well, my photos do have a certain look. There’s a lot of movement in them, so maybe she just fancied a bit of that. How did you meet her then?’ I told him. He laughed. ‘I can imagine. She’s an animal nut.’
‘She said she’d met you once or twice.’
He nodded. ‘She’s
so
over the top. I find women like that really hard work.’
‘So will I look “edgy” then?’ I asked.
‘You’ll look lovely. I’ll print them tomorrow.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. I’ve got my own dark room. They won’t take long.’
‘So how do you do it? I’ve never seen it.’
‘Really? Well, first you select the negs you want to develop out of all the shots that you took, and then what you do is—’ He suddenly put down his cup. ‘Do you want to see it?’ he said. ‘I could show you.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. I could print your photos while you’re here. Would you like that?’ he added.
‘Well, yes. Yes… I would. But how long will it take?’
‘About forty-five minutes. I’ll book a cab for eleven fifteen. Is that okay?’ I nodded. ‘All right then—come with me.’ He picked up the tray and we went back in. He phoned the cab company, and as he did so I peeped into his bedroom through the half-open door. He was fairly tidy; the white duvet was pulled neatly up, and there were no clothes lying around. I saw a hockey stick leaning in one corner.
‘Okay,’ he said ‘that’s all booked.’ He took off his jacket, threw it on a chair, and pushed on a door next to the kitchen. ‘It’s in here.’ As we entered the dark room, an alkaline smell filled my nostrils. ‘I love doing this,’ he said. ‘I love the development process.’ There were shiny strips of negatives hanging up, and four or five photos pegged on the line. There were bottles and boxes marked Ilford and Kodak. David topped up one of the trays, then fiddled with what looked like a big microscope. ‘This is the enlarger. I’ve just got to…that’s it. Okay. Right. Ready?’ He leaned across me, pulled the light cord, and we were suddenly plunged into dark.
‘You’ll be able to see in a moment,’ I heard him say softly. And sure enough, dim outlines now began to loom out of the velvety black, as a faint coral glow filled the room. I looked at David and saw his features materialize. ‘That’s the safe light we’re seeing by,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got the three negs I like best in this.’ In his hand I could just make out a slim black box, like a CD holder. He flipped it open, took out the first negative, blew on it with a can of compressed air, then he put it in the enlarger, and a small light came on.
‘There’s a safe filter,’ he explained. ‘To protect the paper
from the light while you’re still focussing.’ As he did so, I recognized my own projected features, blurred, but becoming clearer now. ‘That’s it. I’m going to expose it… Okay.’ He pulled out the filter and looked at the clock on the shelf in front of us. We both remained silent as the luminous second hand ticked round twenty seconds. Then he turned the enlarger off, removed the paper and slid it into the developing tray. Now he was tipping the tray backwards and forwards, gently rocking it. I could hear the liquid slap against the sides.
‘This’ll take about three minutes or so.’ He put his hands in, and gently moved the paper about by its corners as grey smudges began to appear. ‘You’re supposed to use tongs,’ he said. ‘But I like to get my hands in. It’s a tactile thing with me. It’s not good for your skin but in my case that doesn’t really matter.’
There was another silence. ‘David.’ My heart was banging against my ribs.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s something I want to tell you…’
‘Really? What?’ I took a deep breath. He glanced sideways at me, then looked down at the tray again, rocking it. ‘What is it? You look so serious.’
‘Well…at dinner, I said that you’d told me that you were thirty-six. But you didn’t tell me that.’
‘No. I didn’t think I had.’
‘That’s not how I knew.’
‘So how did you know?’
‘Because…’ I looked at his profile as he tipped the tray this way and that. ‘Because…’
‘… I look thirty-six, I suppose.’
‘No, that’s not the reason. It’s because… I…’ My heart was
pounding. ‘I…saw it on your website. It said that you were born in 1967. So…so that’s how I knew.’
‘Oh!’ he laughed. ‘I thought you were going to say something absolutely
terrible
! Is that all it is—that you looked at my website?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well,’ he laughed again. ‘I’m glad. In fact, I feel rather flattered. So is that the end of your “confession” then?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Oh look,’ he said. ‘Here you come…’ I stared at the paper as it began to darken and pigment. There was the outline of my hair and my jaw, my lips and now my nose. ‘I love this part,’ he said. ‘The way the image fades up, from invisibility, in front of your eyes. It’s like turning up the radio and hearing music.’ It was one of the photos he’d taken in the house. I certainly did look ‘edgy’. Uncomfortable. Distracted. You could see it. In my eyes. You could see the guilt that I’d carried for so long. I felt as though I certainly
had
been—yes—exposed.
‘David—’
‘You look beautiful,’ he said suddenly. ‘And your expression’s fascinating. You look slightly troubled. As though there’s something rather complex going on in your head. Or maybe that’s still the aftermath of your break-up,’ he added softly. I didn’t reply. Then he lifted the photograph, as it now was, out of the developer, and slid it into the adjacent tray. ‘This is the stop bath,’ he explained, as he gently rocked it again. Then he lifted it out and slid it into the next one. ‘And this one’s the fix. I’ll leave it in here while I develop the second negative.’ He repeated the process, talking softly all the time, and now I saw myself emerge again, this time with Herman, walking down Primrose Hill; with kites high in the sky behind us, and, in the foreground, a dog just running
out of shot. There was so much movement in the image, as though it was a moment frozen from some ongoing drama. ‘You look lovely,’ he said. ‘You look preoccupied,’ he added. ‘But that only makes it more interesting.’ Suddenly we heard the buzz of his door.