Read Online The Girl Who Wasn't There by Ferdinand von Schirach - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ferdinand von Schirach
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in Goya’s paintings. In the first picture Sofia was naked. Sixteen men in suits were standing round her, staring at her. Sofia lay in the same position as Goya’s Maja, and was made up in the same way. The camera also saw her from Goya’s viewpoint.
In the second picture, Sofia was dressed like
The Clothed Maja
. The men stood in exactly the same way as in the first picture, but now they were naked. They stared at Sofia with their heads in the same attitude as before, their pricks were erect, and pointing to Sofia’s face and body. Two of the men had sprayed their sperm on her blouse.
The men were the amateurs used by the porn producer for his films. They were of different sizes; several had paunches, one had a plaster on his forearm, five were bearded, four wore glasses. The camera showed every slight reddening of their skin and every hair in ultra-sharp dimensions.
Eschburg had taken the photographs in the porn producer’s studio, using a Hasselblad 503 CW and a 39 megapixels digital scan back. They had been exposed by Grieger in Düsseldorf on a LightJet 500 XL in the 1.80 x 3.00 metre format, and printed on acrylic plates.
The two plates hung one behind the other. At first you saw only the photograph of Sofia naked and the men clothed. Then, at two-minute intervals, an electric motor pushed the front plate up over hinges, to reveal the picture with Sofia clothed and the men naked. After that the first photo slid back to its original position.
When the electric motor had been installed, Eschburg climbed up the external metal staircase to the roof of the factory building. That first summer after moving into Linienstrasse four years earlier, he had sometimes spent the night up there. The two chestnut trees in the yard reminded him of home. Later, he often wondered why he had climbed to the roof that day. Perhaps it was the heat, or weariness, or something else for which he had no explanation.
A woman was lying on the Hollywood swing seat that had always stood on the roof. She was wearing espadrilles and a silk kimono that looked old and grubby. Eschburg was about to go away again.
‘You’re welcome to stay,’ said the woman.
The tar on the roof was soft from the heat. The woman had a pale scar on her forehead.
‘We met a few years ago when I was moving in,’ said Eschburg.
‘Senja Finks,’ the woman introduced herself. ‘I won’t shake hands; it’s too hot.’
She was in her mid-thirties. She had a scarf over her hair and was wearing large-framed sunglasses. She looked rather unkempt.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
The upholstery of the swing was stained and torn, with yellow foam stuffing coming out of it.
‘Would you like a beer?’ asked Senja Finks. ‘It’s chilled.’
‘Do you have anything else?’
‘Only beer.’
‘Then yes, I’ll have one,’ said Eschburg.
Senja Finks opened a coolbox, took out a bottle and opened it with a plastic cigarette lighter. The swing moved slowly back and forth. Her perfume smelled of cedars and earth.
‘You take photographs, don’t you?’ asked Senja Finks.
‘Yes,’ said Eschburg.
She took another beer out of the coolbox for herself. As she opened it, it foamed over on the kimono, her bare knee and the rooftop. The foam was quick to dry on the hot roof, leaving a white outline.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Eschburg, feeling that he ought to ask some kind of question. ‘I mean, what is your accent?’
‘I’m from Odessa on the Black Sea. I’ve been here for over ten years.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Eschburg.
‘Nothing,’ she said. After a while she added, ‘I’ve done everything already.’
Eschburg considered that last remark, and no longer felt awkward about remaining silent. They drank the beer; Senja Finks rolled herself cigarettes of dark tobacco and smoked. After a while Eschburg nodded off to sleep.
When he woke up again, he didn’t know how much time had passed.
In the second picture, Sofia was dressed like
The Clothed Maja
. The men stood in exactly the same way as in the first picture, but now they were naked. They stared at Sofia with their heads in the same attitude as before, their pricks were erect, and pointing to Sofia’s face and body. Two of the men had sprayed their sperm on her blouse.
The men were the amateurs used by the porn producer for his films. They were of different sizes; several had paunches, one had a plaster on his forearm, five were bearded, four wore glasses. The camera showed every slight reddening of their skin and every hair in ultra-sharp dimensions.
Eschburg had taken the photographs in the porn producer’s studio, using a Hasselblad 503 CW and a 39 megapixels digital scan back. They had been exposed by Grieger in Düsseldorf on a LightJet 500 XL in the 1.80 x 3.00 metre format, and printed on acrylic plates.
The two plates hung one behind the other. At first you saw only the photograph of Sofia naked and the men clothed. Then, at two-minute intervals, an electric motor pushed the front plate up over hinges, to reveal the picture with Sofia clothed and the men naked. After that the first photo slid back to its original position.
When the electric motor had been installed, Eschburg climbed up the external metal staircase to the roof of the factory building. That first summer after moving into Linienstrasse four years earlier, he had sometimes spent the night up there. The two chestnut trees in the yard reminded him of home. Later, he often wondered why he had climbed to the roof that day. Perhaps it was the heat, or weariness, or something else for which he had no explanation.
A woman was lying on the Hollywood swing seat that had always stood on the roof. She was wearing espadrilles and a silk kimono that looked old and grubby. Eschburg was about to go away again.
‘You’re welcome to stay,’ said the woman.
The tar on the roof was soft from the heat. The woman had a pale scar on her forehead.
‘We met a few years ago when I was moving in,’ said Eschburg.
‘Senja Finks,’ the woman introduced herself. ‘I won’t shake hands; it’s too hot.’
She was in her mid-thirties. She had a scarf over her hair and was wearing large-framed sunglasses. She looked rather unkempt.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
The upholstery of the swing was stained and torn, with yellow foam stuffing coming out of it.
‘Would you like a beer?’ asked Senja Finks. ‘It’s chilled.’
‘Do you have anything else?’
‘Only beer.’
‘Then yes, I’ll have one,’ said Eschburg.
Senja Finks opened a coolbox, took out a bottle and opened it with a plastic cigarette lighter. The swing moved slowly back and forth. Her perfume smelled of cedars and earth.
‘You take photographs, don’t you?’ asked Senja Finks.
‘Yes,’ said Eschburg.
She took another beer out of the coolbox for herself. As she opened it, it foamed over on the kimono, her bare knee and the rooftop. The foam was quick to dry on the hot roof, leaving a white outline.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Eschburg, feeling that he ought to ask some kind of question. ‘I mean, what is your accent?’
‘I’m from Odessa on the Black Sea. I’ve been here for over ten years.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Eschburg.
‘Nothing,’ she said. After a while she added, ‘I’ve done everything already.’
Eschburg considered that last remark, and no longer felt awkward about remaining silent. They drank the beer; Senja Finks rolled herself cigarettes of dark tobacco and smoked. After a while Eschburg nodded off to sleep.
When he woke up again, he didn’t know how much time had passed.
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