Chapter 14
Paul speaks about symmetry and the “rule of thirds,” gesturing animatedly, and I’m as rapt as a fangirl.
It may partly be my delight at being out of the house, away from lingering memories of the past few days, but Paul’s magnetism accounts for the rest. I encountered good teachers in high school, teachers I liked and admired, but Paul is something else: a showman, a magician.
But it isn’t just show; he’s brilliant and knowledgeable.
He says he’s had only modest success in the photography world—an exhibit here and there, his picture in Harper’s magazine once—but to me he sounds terrifically accomplished, and I suspect he’s downplaying it all out of modesty.
When I glance at the clock and see how close we are to the end of class, I start to envision the moment I’ll hand him my prints.
Not the forgettable ones from yesterday, but the earlier ones—including, this time, my cropped self-portraits.
My pulse races at the thought of Paul seeing those pictures—too soon, and not soon enough.
I want him to hurry and end this, I want the fangirls to leave quickly, with everyone else, and I want to share the silent room with Paul.
“So, when you’re out hunting for pictures—which is your only homework, by the way,” Paul concludes to light laughter, “look for patterns. Identify symmetry. Try not to make your pictures too perfect, but do strive for balance. Interesting, striking balance. That’s all for tonight.
Have a great evening, everyone.” He holds up his hand in a wave, and the noise of students packing bags and leaving fills the room.
I see the fangirls step into the aisle and think they’re leaving, too—but they walk toward Paul instead of up and out.
They’ve never done this before, approached him so directly; I grow agitated watching them cluster around him, monopolizing him and his time.
The dark-eyed, dark-haired one who’s the boldest of the three speaks while the other two nod and clasp their binders to their chests.
I can’t hear what she’s asking—the girl’s voice is low—but I see Paul smile as he answers.
It’s a different smile from the ones he gives in class—more intimate and even suggestive, maybe?
I begin to wonder if I’m a fool, a burden to Paul, waiting here, rushing him through this enticing flirtation with a gorgeous girl.
Here I am, tiresome old Judith, interfering with what he probably really wants.
He’s a relatively young man himself, after all. Not that age matters: he’s a man.
I stand abruptly, making more noise than I’d hoped to, and start to walk out.
“Judith, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Paul calls out.
“Charlie, does that cover it? Did I answer your question?” he asks kindly, but with a hint of impatience.
All three girls nod as if they were all named Charlie.
On their way out, they eye me with curiosity—especially the one I’m nearly certain is Charlie—but all I care about is the sound of their retreating boot heels and the door shutting firmly behind them.
Paul and I are alone now. I’m relieved and scared and ready as I walk down the steps—quietly, in my sensible flat shoes.
“Judith, what have you got for me tonight?” Paul asks, leaning back against the table where his papers and prints are piled in tidy stacks.
He has an eager look on his face as I pass him the envelope with a trembling hand.
I’m unreasonably nervous as Paul begins to flip through, drawing closer to my self-portraits in the back of the pack.
He keeps his eyes glued to the pictures, scanning every inch of them.
“I’ve said you have an uncanny eye, haven’t I?” Paul murmurs without looking up. “It’s really true. These are…incredible. You didn’t need my lecture on patterns and symmetry today, that’s for damn sure. I could have used these as examples.”
I murmur my thanks, but I don’t think he hears.
Finally, he reaches the first self-portrait, the one taken in the liquor store window.
He stares. Then bursts out laughing. He’s laughed in class before, but never like this—with unleashed glee.
I’m petrified, thinking he must be laughing at me, at the silliness of making myself the subject.
“Holy shit, Judith.” I find the curse word jarring, but I’m beginning to see that he likes what I’ve done—he’s staring down at it with that same look of love in his eyes I saw when he studied Parade Girl. Relief floods through me.
“This is gorgeous! Just look at this composition,” he says as if it weren’t my own picture.
He runs a hand through his hair and pulls at his short beard, moving on, flipping through the next ones.
My eyes dart to the corners, checking the spots where the figure once stood.
Nothing there, every time. Of course not.
When he finally looks up, he holds my gaze and speaks softly, urgently.
“I’ve never seen such inventive and formally just…wow self-portraits, Judith. I really haven’t. No one’s doing work like this—no one.” He drags his hand through his hair yet again. I see the bulge of his arm muscle beneath his shirt and feel as giddy as one of the fangirls.
“You know what I’m going to say now, don’t you?
” he asks, his eyebrows raised. I nod and shift my eyes away from his face.
“So I won’t say it. But you know, if you ever want to pursue that route, I’m here to help, in any way I can.
” He looks at the wall clock behind me as he hands me the pictures.
He’s already thinking of something else, a plan he has with friends or a girlfriend.
As much as he seems to love my pictures, they’re not a real part of his life—even though this time with Paul is a real part of mine.
I don’t want it to end. It wouldn’t have to if I simply said, Yes, please help me publish these.
We would stay longer, discussing and strategizing; he would put off his plans or ignore them.
But I can’t do it. I take the pictures back, thanking him.
It seems as if the lights have dimmed—but they’re always dim in this lecture hall.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks, and a new flutter goes through me.
I’m conscious of my body as I walk down the hall beside him, matching my stride to his, feeling his physical closeness. He’s talking fast, telling me about how he lucked into his cheap apartment in the East Village, and this leads him to urge me to visit the city.
“You really should, Judith. We’re going there later with the class, but you need to get there sooner.
I can’t imagine the pictures you’ll take there.
On the subway alone! You’ll be snapping shots left and right.
” I’m swept up in Paul’s enthusiasm, already envisioning myself there, catching the train tomorrow morning and coming back by late afternoon.
Tom won’t love the idea of me roaming around Manhattan alone.
In fact, he’ll loathe it. But Paul is right; there isn’t a place more filled with unusual, wondrous, disturbing sights: a photographer’s heaven.
That settles it. I’ll go.
Will the man find me there?
“Paul,” I say abruptly. We’re almost to the parking lot, almost out of time. “Is there ever an impurity that could cause a—a mark to appear on your photographs? But only on certain photographs?”
“Yes and no,” he says, thinking for a moment. “If it’s a film impurity, you’d see it in every photograph, not select ones. But I didn’t notice anything like that in the ones you showed me.”
I know this, of course, but my heart sinks anyway. I nod and say, “I was just wondering. It’s happened before—not with these latest ones, though.”
“You must have had a bad roll.” I lie and say yes, that must be it. It’s the closest I’ve come to telling anyone about the man in my pictures; now I feel as if I’ve stepped back from a cliff’s edge onto firm ground. Relieved but melancholy—alone with my secret again.
When we reach my car—our old family Buick—he hovers behind me as I unlock the door.
As soon as I’m safely in, he bids me good night.
I watch him walk toward his own car, noting his long, loping stride, and think what an excellent photo this would make—Paul striding across the heavily shadowed parking lot, moving through pools of light cast by the streetlamps.
Moody and striking, he’d say, when I showed it to him.
I love the deep contrast here—the man striding in and out of darkness and light.