Fair Play by Tove Jansson

“I’m tired of static pictures. I want to make pictures that are alive. I want motion, change. You know what I mean: everything happens just once and right now ... My film is my sketchbook. Look at that! There comes the commedia dell’arte!”
    And there they came, street performers with their plush rug, the child on the ball, the strong man who could swallow fire, the girl juggler. People stopped on the street and moved closer to the show. It was very hot. The light flickered and the shadows were a sharp dark blue.
    Mari stood close beside Jonna with an opened Kodak film in her hand. She was waiting for the camera’s steady whirring to change speed, at which point she had to have a new roll ready instantly. Another important job was keeping Jonna’s field of view open. Mari saw it as a point of honor to keep people from walking in front of the camera.
    â€œDon’t worry about them,” Jonna said. “They’re just extras. I’ll clip them out.”
    But Mari said, “Let me. It’s my job.”
    Equally important was finding Kodak film. And Mari searched. In the cities, the towns, at bus stops, she kept an eye out for the gold-and-red sign showing that here you could buy Kodak. Agfa seemed to be everywhere.
    â€œIt comes out blue-green,” Mari said. “Wait. I’ll find Kodak.” And she’d search on, all the while afraid that they’d encounter something fantastic—one of those never-to-be-repeated street events that would play out before their eyes just as the film ran out—and then have to wander on trying to forget what they’d lost.
    They traveled from city to city, Jonna, Mari, and Konica. Mari grew critical. She began giving instructions and advice and involved herself in questions of composition and lighting and bustled about looking for suitable subjects.
    They arrived at the Great Aquarium, at the dolphins’ turquoise tank, and Mari grabbed Jonna by the arm and yelled, “Wait, I’ll tell you when it’s going to jump. You’re wasting film ...” And the dolphin corkscrewed high out of the water, sparkling in the sun, and Jonna burst out, “Now I missed it! Let me decide for myself!”
    â€œBy all means!” Mari said. “You and your Konica.”
    It was inconceivably beautiful and mysterious down in the dark passages where the tank was lit underground. The whales were diving. Through the glass walls you could see the power of their dance as they plunged downward and turned and shot up into the light again. “It’s too dark,” Mari said. “You won’t get anything; the film will just be black ...”
    â€œQuiet!” Jonna said. “The shark’s coming.”
    People pushed forward to see the monster, and Mari threw her arms wide to stop them. The shark came; a slow, gray shadow swept past close to the glass and vanished.
    â€œGood,” said Jonna. “I got it. You’ve always wanted to see a real shark up close. Now you have.”
    Mari said, “I didn’t see it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, didn’t see it?”
    â€œI was only thinking of the Konica! I’m always thinking about the Konica and not about what I see! It just goes by.”
    â€œBut don’t be angry.” Jonna held out her camera in both hands. “Your shark is here, it’s in here! When we get home you can see it as many times as you want, whenever you want. And with music.”
    Nothing made Jonna happier than finding a circus, or maybe even better a Sunday carnival somewhere on a city’s outskirts. They searched one out with the Konica, heard at a distance the breathless staccato of the carousel. Jonna started her tape recorder. “We’ll start here,” she whispered. “We’ll get closer and closer, quite slowly—anticipation. And our footsteps. Then the visual.”
    They never rode the carousel.
    And later, a long time later, in