hill, it was back east. In the no-man’s-land between Manhattan and the Maritime annex. There was a tree on the hill, and a fence behind it where he lived with the others. The branches of the tree curved into the sky like roads, and the leaves were intricate and patterned like subdivisions of houses and buildings. The bark was white. His hair mixed with the leaves perfectly in the wind. The hills in back were very white and the edge of their tops was only a line. It ran into the profile of his brow as though his face was the horizon.
I took his picture, she said, one day when he didn’t know I was there or who I was. Actually I had seen him many times before, from the other side of the fence of course, when I went to shoot the tree. He just blended the way some people blend. But I lost the picture. I don’t know how, it was just gone one morning. I went to see him the next day during visiting hours to tell him I had taken his picture and now it was gone. He came into the visitors’ room and sat behind this glass that divided us. Everything was dark and his face was like the white shadows of men’s faces you see in limousines with black windows. He kept saying Who are you, over and over, even when I’d told him. I don’t know you, he kept saying. You do now, I said. He jumped up behind the glass and ran through the door in back, and the guard looked at me. When I tried to see him again they told me he’d been transferred to another place, but that was a lie. I waited for him to get out.
He’s coming soon, she said to me, turning from the black pictures. When I hear the sound from the ground, I know he’s already here.
The thing about him, she said, raising a finger intently, was that when I took his picture that afternoon on the hill by the prison, it was without a flash in the very late afternoon. I knew I didn’t need a flash, the light was in his face. And I’ve been looking ever since for the picture that doesn’t need a flash and that has its own light. I know if I keep taking pictures in the night, his face will show up like a fire.
I crossed the three feet between us and I took her by her wrist: she jerked in my grasp. You’re lying, I said. She looked up at me frightened, and when I pressed her against the wall she seemed to sink into it. Her face was inches from mine and she was watching the hollow of my neck, not my eyes. You’re lying, I said again. Are you trying to tell me you took all these pictures without a flash? What about the pictures in that back room of the library, what about that night with all the cops and all the blood? Are you trying to tell me you took all those pictures in the dark? She shook her head a little, then nodded a little. I shook her by her wrist and behind her on the wall some pictures loosened and fell; she stepped on them, trying to move with me when I turned her by the wrist. If, standing this close to her, I should close my eyes, I wondered if she could speak Spanish, I wondered if her hair would tum black; now she wasn’t looking at the hollow of my neck but at my eyes. With her free hand she fingered the top button of her dress. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, I said, that you took all those pictures in the dark? But I saw you that night, remember. I saw you because the flash of your camera kept going off in my face and it was driving me crazy. l kept thinking it was a storm, I kept thinking there was lightning in the room. It was that kind of light, like the sort you see only in the night, and I know that sort of light, I’ve had many nights without any light, and when you’ve had those nights you don’t forget when you’ve seen such a light—
And then I stopped. Not because I was babbling but because of the nights and the lights forgotten. And I saw it again, right then, that light, not in that room but in my head.
In my head, I was standing on the boat. In my head, the girl with the black hair was standing on the beach. The man was kneeling
I took his picture, she said, one day when he didn’t know I was there or who I was. Actually I had seen him many times before, from the other side of the fence of course, when I went to shoot the tree. He just blended the way some people blend. But I lost the picture. I don’t know how, it was just gone one morning. I went to see him the next day during visiting hours to tell him I had taken his picture and now it was gone. He came into the visitors’ room and sat behind this glass that divided us. Everything was dark and his face was like the white shadows of men’s faces you see in limousines with black windows. He kept saying Who are you, over and over, even when I’d told him. I don’t know you, he kept saying. You do now, I said. He jumped up behind the glass and ran through the door in back, and the guard looked at me. When I tried to see him again they told me he’d been transferred to another place, but that was a lie. I waited for him to get out.
He’s coming soon, she said to me, turning from the black pictures. When I hear the sound from the ground, I know he’s already here.
The thing about him, she said, raising a finger intently, was that when I took his picture that afternoon on the hill by the prison, it was without a flash in the very late afternoon. I knew I didn’t need a flash, the light was in his face. And I’ve been looking ever since for the picture that doesn’t need a flash and that has its own light. I know if I keep taking pictures in the night, his face will show up like a fire.
I crossed the three feet between us and I took her by her wrist: she jerked in my grasp. You’re lying, I said. She looked up at me frightened, and when I pressed her against the wall she seemed to sink into it. Her face was inches from mine and she was watching the hollow of my neck, not my eyes. You’re lying, I said again. Are you trying to tell me you took all these pictures without a flash? What about the pictures in that back room of the library, what about that night with all the cops and all the blood? Are you trying to tell me you took all those pictures in the dark? She shook her head a little, then nodded a little. I shook her by her wrist and behind her on the wall some pictures loosened and fell; she stepped on them, trying to move with me when I turned her by the wrist. If, standing this close to her, I should close my eyes, I wondered if she could speak Spanish, I wondered if her hair would tum black; now she wasn’t looking at the hollow of my neck but at my eyes. With her free hand she fingered the top button of her dress. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, I said, that you took all those pictures in the dark? But I saw you that night, remember. I saw you because the flash of your camera kept going off in my face and it was driving me crazy. l kept thinking it was a storm, I kept thinking there was lightning in the room. It was that kind of light, like the sort you see only in the night, and I know that sort of light, I’ve had many nights without any light, and when you’ve had those nights you don’t forget when you’ve seen such a light—
And then I stopped. Not because I was babbling but because of the nights and the lights forgotten. And I saw it again, right then, that light, not in that room but in my head.
In my head, I was standing on the boat. In my head, the girl with the black hair was standing on the beach. The man was kneeling
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