Chapter 9 #2
“That’s him!” Maher can’t hide the excitement in his voice. I’d been viewing this as a necessary part of our jobs, but Maher is a photographer. An artist, when we’re not asking him to be an investigator, and he’s thrilled to meet such a famous innovator.
I set my face in a demure smile and allow Dávid to lead us to the table. After a disastrous blowup with a detective in Turin two years ago, we agreed to imply Dávid is in charge whenever we’re meeting men whose temperaments and attitudes toward women we aren’t sure of.
“Monsieur Lumière?” Dávid asks, as though we’re not certain who he is.
“Oui,” he answers, looking up from his newspaper with a frown that shifts to curiosity when he sees the odd assortment of people at his table.
French, then. It’s one of Maher’s best languages and one of Dávid’s weakest. “Too many vowels,” he always complains.
I glance at Maher, but he looks the same way sweet Berend in Amsterdam always looks when I visit police headquarters to meet with Joren or de Haas.
Wide-eyed and awestruck. I need to take the lead.
“What good fortune!” I clasp my hands in delight.
“We’ve come to Brussels to visit your moving picture theater, and here you are in our same hotel!
I’m sorry to disrupt your coffee. It’s just that our cousin Maher here is a photographer, and he’s told us so much about you.
I feel as though I’m your greatest admirer.
Well, second greatest, after Maher.” I laugh prettily.
Louis smiles and gestures to the free seats. “Please, join me.”
Dávid presses his fingers against the small of my back.
I can feel the I told you so in the gesture.
Sometimes being an attractive woman works in my favor.
It was no accident that I referred to Maher as “our” cousin, implying that Dávid and I are siblings and I’m a single woman.
Nothing about Louis Lumière feels predatory, but most men would rather speak with a beautiful, unmarried woman.
A waiter instantly appears to take our drink orders as we sit. Maher, finding his voice at last, asks Louis about how he came up with some new process for developing film. I do my best to seem engaged. The technicalities of processing photographs are outside my realm of expertise.
Once they’ve finished, I lean in. “We were astonished by the cinematograph. How did you come up with a device that can film and project all in one?”
“I bested Edison,” Louis says with a sly smile. “Not many men can say that.”
“No, indeed.” I laugh delightedly. His boast feels more playful than arrogant, and I appreciate it.
He moves on with a surprisingly disinterested shrug.
“I don’t see how much further the technology can go, though.
I’m more interested in the future. I want to capture images in color.
Imagine: I take your photo here.” He holds up his hands, framing me in an imaginary shot.
“And it comes out true to life. Your shining hair, your pale blue eyes, that blush to your cheeks. No need to hire someone to paint it on afterward.”
“How would you do it, though?” Maher leans forward intently. I kick him beneath the table. We need to keep Louis on track.
“Will you abandon the cinematographs, then?” I ask. “Or sell the technology to someone else?”
Louis tilts his head, twitching his mustache thoughtfully. “The technology is already replicable.”
“Kazimierz Prószyński, in Poland, has done something similar,” Maher says.
Louis’s smile turns wry. “Thank you for not mentioning that he did it before we did. But ours was better. I took Edison’s design and improved upon it.
Someone will take mine and improve upon it, too.
It’s what is done. But I don’t see the point of it.
Who wants to watch the same sixty seconds over and over again? ”
Someone obsessed with the moment of death, I think. A shadow must pass over my face, because he looks worried.
“What’s wrong, my dear?”
“Oh, I’m just—it felt so special to watch, I suppose I’m a little sad that you won’t continue with it.”
He waves away my concern with a smile. “We already have other moving picture theaters. All over Europe. We’ve sent men out with our cinematographs so they can capture life sixty seconds at a time. You’ll be able to see them for years to come.”
“How did you choose the men?” Maher asks. “Did they have to study under you before you allowed them to take the cameras? Do you keep track of all of them?”
“Are you asking for a job?” Louis raises an eyebrow.
Maher laughs. “Maybe.”
“We have two dozen cameras across Europe. None free at the moment, I’m afraid, and I’m too focused on my other work to make more.”
“And you employ only men?” I ask.
“Yes. Are you also asking for a job?” He seems more intrigued by that.
It’s my turn to laugh as I try to cover my frustration.
He knows how many cameras he has and where they are.
None are unaccounted for, and they’re all with men.
This is a dead end. Perhaps Diavola has one of the Polish inventor’s cameras, or maybe she’s only ever taken still images and I’m chasing this theory for nothing.
But I’m still a detective, and I’ll turn over every stone. Not because my heart is in it anymore, but because Inge will be disappointed in me if I don’t do a thorough job.
“No,” I say. “I’d much rather enjoy looking at beautiful, interesting moments than try to capture them forever. But have there been any problems? Cameras stolen? I’d imagine your rivals are desperate to study the mechanisms.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Besides, our projectionists would be more than happy to show anyone how it all works. As I said, I don’t think it’s the future. Just a novelty.”
I share a glance with Maher and Dávid. That’s it, then. The Lumière trail is a dead end. Maher steps in and peppers Louis with questions about trying to print color photographs.
I’m fully disengaged from the conversation when two things happen at once.
Inge rushes in, eyes wild, expression frantic.
I stand, furious, certain that the projectionist tried to hurt her.
But at that same moment, the waiter stops and sets a familiar creamy envelope down by my plate.
“This was left at the front desk for you, madame.”
Diavola is here.