Serafim and Claire (22 page)

SERAFIM AND CLAIRE

Paris, França; 22 de abril de 1928

Adorado Serafim,

I must confess my complete astonishment at the inquiry in your last letter, of Inês Barbosa and the state of her health. Serafim, you are the closest that I have to a brother in this world, so I am confident you will forgive me for suggesting that, after a full two years have passed since her marriage to Gustavo Barbosa, perhaps it is time to banish her from your thoughts and compulsions. I will of course not let you down, and have already sent the requested inquiries, and upon their reply will duly pass on news of her well-being. Though I worry of your overlooking opportunities in Montreal in favour of that which is categorically unattainable elsewhere.

I have been desperately trying to break into the illustrated magazines that are commissioning candid photography, and have met with some, but mostly limited, success. It's often said at the
Café du Dôme
that in photography right now it isn't enough to be a genius, you also have to be Hungarian. And it's true. All the names making headway in avant-garde photography are from Hungary: Stefan Lorant, László Moholy-Nagy, Kertész, Aigner, Brassaï. This doesn't leave much room for the rest of us, having to fit ourselves into our chosen medium's minuscule niche.

This doesn't mean I'm not content. I have more than enough work on my hands, and plenty of time for private pursuits as well. Perhaps it is worthwhile to remind oneself that, no matter how devoted one is, there are some obstacles that one will never be able to surmount.

Os meus sinceros cumprimentos,

Álvaro

As the winter
tarried, Serafim became accustomed to waking in the morning to find a cold cup of tea on his table, waiting for him in front of his usual seat. It didn't happen often (once every two months at most) and he was gradually becoming less alarmed by the phenomenon. He was no longer scared to be in the darkroom the following day, shivers climbing his back as he watched photographic paper in the pan of developer, portrait faces emerging like sceptres from a fog bank. He rounded the corner to his kitchen every morning, paused at the threshold, and sometimes even felt a pang of regret when he was greeted by an empty table. When he did see a cup of tea there, he would find himself carefully inspecting every artifact in the room with scientific scrutiny, as if looking for clues; though he didn't want so much to solve the mystery as simply to verify that he already held the solution.

He wanted to tell Antonino about the tea, but he was sure he wouldn't believe him. Besides, Antonino had his own issues to deal with. The Italian community was so industriously dedicated to silencing his anti-fascist views that they'd managed to wheedle and pull their strings all the way to the Canadian immigration office, which had put Antonino under investigation for staying in the country on a student visa while having apparently ceased his studies altogether. At the same time, Antonino had just managed to convince an attractive young woman he'd known in his native Sicilian city to marry him and join him in the hinterlands. He had barely scraped together the funds for her steamship ticket (Serafim was proud to be able to reciprocate the favour and lend him some money to do so), and she would be setting sail in a few months. He'd lied through his teeth about the weather.

Considering Antonino's plight — as well as that of Álvaro, who, like Serafim, hadn't exactly met with great success while following his passion — Serafim decided to ask Antonino's opinion on what he thought God wanted from people. (This was his way of touching on the topic of the ethereal, of the hereafter and providence.)

As they were sitting on the stoop sipping beer, Serafim finished his glass and placed it gently on the concrete between them. “Antonino, I wonder what you think of God's plans. When I hear of your visa story, of these powerful influences pitting themselves against you — and against anyone who marches out of line — at times it makes me wonder if God is taming us, if He would rather we be docile, like sheep. Maybe He flogs the ones who are more wild or inspired than the others, in the same way man does with a horse, who, after it's broken, is left without a will, surrendering his resolve and spirit entirely to his master. Isn't it possible that that is what God is trying to do with us, what He wants of us?”

Antonino squinted. “For starters, I don't believe in God. Instead, I think it is the complexity of the world, of man, that unthinkingly forces us, not in the direction of submission, but of modesty. All deities aside, the way people act on their own is more than enough to drive us towards humility. Couldn't one also see these endless defeats from the opposite side, as events that actually serve us? What if chaos is constantly pushing us into corners that somehow result in our betterment, oblige us to demonstrate the stuff we are made of? However, if you really must think of it as God, then why not take comfort in the fact that the Messiah, the saints, martyrs, they were all, every one of them, eccentrics, fanatics, revolutionaries. All of them were, as you say, marching out of line. Yet they were all eventually rewarded for it.”

“Yes, but the reward was unknown, and usually followed a torturous death.”

Antonino scratched his neck. “That is true.” He repositioned his legs. “Your glass is empty. I'll pull you some more beer from the barrel.”

Serafim handed him his glass, dried froth cobwebbing the rim. “Please.”

That September, something happened that frightened Serafim no end. He received a letter from Álvaro stating that he'd heard back from his acquaintances in Oporto, and it was his duty to report that Inês was in perfect health, still married (to all appearances happily) to Gustavo Barbosa, who was still one of the most talented brokers at the Oporto stock exchange. What was more, they now had an infant, a son named Salvador, an apparently beautiful and animated baby.

Serafim was beside himself. None of this, nothing at all, added up. To make things even stranger, the day after he received the news, he woke up in the morning to find a cup of frigid tea on his tabletop. It crossed his mind to smash it in the sink. But in the end he didn't, washing it instead, the way he always did, tenderly, cradling it in the basin, a deliberate hand scooping soapy water over its surface as if it were the skin of some wide-mouthed and brittle-boned creature who, if dropped, would shatter with surprise at such a breach of trust.

Soon after, the autumn trees ignited with colours. The wind blew them out, doused them in the storm drains. And winter, Serafim's third, set in. Once every few moons, teapots continued to brew themselves in the dark of his kitchen. While about as often, Serafim would venture out on late night escapades to the Red Light district. He was once again caught in a police raid, but this time the prostitute he was with suggested he find the highest-ranking officer who was rounding everyone up and slip a handsome bill into his fingers, “in hopes of coming to some kind of understanding,” and hence spare himself the ordeal and humiliation of having to go downtown, forge his name, and pay his coffer-filling bail furnishing. He was nervous when he was actually bribing the man, but was instantly released from custody, a shooing hand sending him on his merry way quicker than you could utter the word “crooked.” On his way back to his apartment, Serafim smoked a thoughtful cigarette, his eyes perusing the deserted streets. He was astounded at how easy it had been, and by how unburdened he felt by that fact, less accountable, less confined. He stopped in front of his apartment before making his way up the icy staircase to his door, giving a mean flick to his cigarette butt, ignoring its bounce on a crusted ridge of snow.

A few months later, on a bright spring day, Serafim was walking along St. Catherine Street to a distributor to order some darkroom chemicals. He was thinking of nothing in particular when, out of nowhere, stepping from the sleepy fog, she was suddenly there, in the flesh, in front of him, and heading straight his way.

It was the woman who bore an uncanny likeness to Inês. She was dressed as a trendy flapper, with red lipstick, eyes lined with kohl, a loose mint green dress cut just below the knee, and a matching coat and cloche hat. Almost as soon as he spotted her, she stopped at a window to look at some hats on display. Serafim stopped on the sidewalk, peered round in disbelief, and began to approach her. He stood behind her, having unconsciously taken his Leica out of his pocket, hoping, reflexively, to snap a picture, to prove to himself that he wasn't just imagining her.

Then, as if sensing that he was standing there, she turned and looked directly at him, as though she was waiting for him to speak. Serafim, however, could not breathe, much less talk. Eventually she turned and continued on her way down the bustling sidewalk, passing between shoppers and businessmen. Serafim followed, determined not to lose sight of her. It occurred to him that he hadn't actually taken her picture when he was standing behind her, that he'd been too flustered when she'd turned round to face him. He adjusted his settings, guessed at her distance for focus, and managed to snap two shots of her looking back at him before she turned down Stanley Street and disappeared into an uptown cabaret.

Serafim, not having the courage to follow her inside, stationed himself on the opposite side of the street, intending to wait there until she came out again. Minutes later she did, and fixed her gaze on Serafim's presence on the opposite sidewalk. She allowed some traffic to pass, then strode directly towards him.

Serafim was petrified, and hid behind his camera, snapping exposures, noting her likeness to Inês as she walked — the bone structure of her cheeks, her dark eyes, though her calves were more shapely than he would have imagined Inês's to be, more athletic. She appeared just as self-confident, perhaps even more so, and was relishing the attention of his lens. He took pictures until she was standing right in front of him, her body taking up more than the viewfinder could contain. He kept the camera held up in front of his face for one uncomfortable moment longer before reluctantly lowering it. He took off his hat, inspected his shoes.

After a quick exchange to elicit that he spoke French, they agreed to meet later that evening, to discuss, she insisted, something very important. She pointed out a pub close by, a tavern on the corner, and mentioned the time she would be there, adding that she hoped he wasn't the type to show up hours late with paltry excuses. Serafim shook his head no, nothing of the sort, eager to please, and with that, she returned into the dark of the cabaret that she'd emerged from.

Serafim was at the pub half an hour early, nervously nursing a pint of lager and watching the Monday evening flurry pass by on the other side of the window. Bootblacks, newsies, and organ grinders were the only points of stillness along St. Catherine Street, like river stones around which a froth of bodies streamed and eddied.

She entered the bar and walked up to his table. He hurriedly stood to greet her, though once on his feet he was speechless again. A clunking tram ratcheted past. She introduced herself. Claire Audette, a lovely name, thought Serafim. And in one graceful movement she kissed her hellos, called to the server to order a Coca-Cola, and sat on her wooden chair as if it were a pillow of down.

What shocked Serafim the most about their ensuing conversation was that she wanted, almost exclusively, to know about him: where he was from, why he'd decided to immigrate, his passions, his beliefs, his hardships. He found himself telling her the truth, albeit a highly selective version of it. He noticed that she seemed particularly interested — straightening up in her chair, cheeks and eyes lighting up — in his
lack
of success with candid photography, asking him if he'd given up on it yet, if he was ready to admit defeat. He wasn't, he assured her, asserting that the industry would come round at some point, as a simple matter of course, and until then he had his own private darkroom where he continued his work in peace, away from critical guffaws and disparaging eyes.

Claire suddenly clapped her hands over her cola glass. “Your own personal darkroom,” she gasped. “Well, now that is something I have to see for myself. So, when is that possible? When can I come over to your place? Tomorrow? The next day? What day would work best for you?”

Serafim was reeling to keep up with how forthcoming she was. “Well, Wednesday,” he ventured, as if testing his own voice.

She slammed her hand onto the table. “Wednesday it is, then,” she said, suddenly spinning round to the bartender. “Excuse me, sir,” she called out, “would you happen to have a pencil and piece of paper? Just need something to scribble an address on is all. Thanks.”

As they parted ways, she gave Serafim a tender kiss goodbye on the cheek. Sensing how he was perplexed by, even suspicious of, the ease of her affections, she offered a cursory explanation. “You must think me very forward. But you will see there is a reason. I have something to ask of you, and I don't yet know if I can trust you with it. But I have every intention of finding that out on Wednesday.” She pointed at Serafim's address in her hand. “I will drop by around seven, then?”

Serafim managed to keep himself from stammering. “That would be fine, yes.”

He watched her stroll away, meld into the streetscape. Another drop in the river.

Before heading off himself, he looked back through the window to see if her soda glass was still there, as if to verify he hadn't just imagined the whole thing. He then quickly took out his Leica, ensuring he had actually used up film taking pictures of her. Serafim, of all people, knew how a remnant drinking vessel could hardly stand as evidence for something real. Photographs, however, could.

Medium:
Gelatin silver print

Description:
Woman approaching

Location:
Montreal, Quebec

Date:
May 1929

A young woman is crossing a cobblestone lane; caught in mid-stride, at its centre. She is stylishly dressed, the greyscale variance of her outfit suggesting that her ensemble is well matched and well considered. Her cloche is banded with a thick ribbon, which is darker than the bell of felt beneath it, and is adorned with a burst of delicate feathers in the same shade. The brim of the hat presses the curls of her dark hair tightly against the white of her cheeks.

She is stepping with confidence, an arm swinging naturally out in front of her. Her knee is brushing against the hemline of her dress, the mould of its silhouette creasing into the fabric.

In the mid-ground on the right, the back end of an automobile can be seen, dragging its blur out of the frame. The thin spokes of a spare tire, mounted onto the rear, create lines of elongation; claw itself out beyond the moment.

The woman is looking directly into the lens, her expression one of fortitude. She is wearing a smile that is slight, wry, though also somehow profound, as if it were being conjured from some deeper, darker place. At the instant of the exposure's capture, one can sense that this woman feels, unmistakably, beautiful. And one can sense her purpose woven even into that.