conversation, I suggested doing what he wanted here and now. “If it’s all right, then, Dr. Block, I’ll go and put the photograph where you want it to be.”
He nodded. I was dismissed. I was already at the door when he called me back again. He did not meet my eyes as he said, “What we do not say, Christian,sometimes has more consequences than what we do say. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, I understand,” I said, and I made haste to put Stella’s photo where he wanted it.
Once again, Stella, I carried your photo under my sweater. On my way to the hall I didn’t speak to anyone I passed, I avoided bumping into anyone. The board wasn’t quite full; six photos of former teachers were up there, all of them old men. There was only one who looked as if he might have a sense of humor, a teacher in naval uniform with two crossed flags in front of his chest. He was said to have taught biology, long before my time. I put Stella’s photo between him and a man with a craggy face. I didn’t bother to assess the company she’d keep. You had your place, Stella, and that was enough for me just then.
Looking at you brought me back something I needed, or thought I needed: the sudden happiness of a touch, the joy that demanded a repeat performance. I was sure, at that moment, I had needed that photograph of you all for myself. The brightness on the beach, the dazzling brightness that Sunday when I was waiting for Stella in the Volkswagen Beetle that Claus Bultjohan had lent me. It was a cabriolet and belongedto his father, who was away in Scandinavia on a TV assignment, making a film about the culture of the Samis who, as nomads, astonishingly had the right to cross the Russian border.
After my visit to her home, I hadn’t even tried to make a date to meet Stella. Knowing that in this spell of fair weather she would come to the beach on her own to read or sunbathe, I decided to wait for her at a suitable distance from her house. I listened to Benny Goodman in the car. I drove very slowly after her as she walked along, wearing her brightly colored blue-and-yellow beach dress, with her beach bag hanging from a strap over her shoulder. She walked fast and confidently; I stopped suddenly beside her just before she reached the kiosk where she bought smoked fish and magazines. I saw the displeasure in her face, but that expression immediately gave way to surprise and amazement. “Oh, Christian,” was all she said. I opened the car door, and after a moment’s hesitation she got in.
She promptly sat down on my camera, which I had put on the passenger seat, “Good heavens, what’s that?”
“Won it in a competition,” I said. “I came in fifth.”
“Where are you taking it?” she asked, to which I replied, “Anywhere there’s something worth seeing.”
We stopped at the place where the navigation marks had been brought in for their new coat of paint, though they still had to be cleaned of rust first. How cheerfully you agreed to my idea of taking some photographs here, sitting on the navigation marks, riding on them, clutching them, you played along in almost exuberant spirits, and seemed to be caressing them. Only when I asked you be a car model did you dismiss the idea. I thought of you sitting on the hood, just like those pretty girls in car showrooms, when the breeze lifted your beach dress, and your pale blue panties showed. You quickly waved to me to stop and said, “Not that, Christian, let’s not go as far as that,” and then you asked where I was going to have the film developed. I promised to keep the photos to myself and not show them to anyone.
Stella photographed me just once that Sunday. We were sitting in the fish restaurant beside the casino; almost all the places on the terrace in the sun were taken. Stella read the menu several times, and her way of coming to a decision amused me: no sooner had she closed the leather-bound menu than she reached for itagain, read it, shook her head, and
He nodded. I was dismissed. I was already at the door when he called me back again. He did not meet my eyes as he said, “What we do not say, Christian,sometimes has more consequences than what we do say. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, I understand,” I said, and I made haste to put Stella’s photo where he wanted it.
Once again, Stella, I carried your photo under my sweater. On my way to the hall I didn’t speak to anyone I passed, I avoided bumping into anyone. The board wasn’t quite full; six photos of former teachers were up there, all of them old men. There was only one who looked as if he might have a sense of humor, a teacher in naval uniform with two crossed flags in front of his chest. He was said to have taught biology, long before my time. I put Stella’s photo between him and a man with a craggy face. I didn’t bother to assess the company she’d keep. You had your place, Stella, and that was enough for me just then.
Looking at you brought me back something I needed, or thought I needed: the sudden happiness of a touch, the joy that demanded a repeat performance. I was sure, at that moment, I had needed that photograph of you all for myself. The brightness on the beach, the dazzling brightness that Sunday when I was waiting for Stella in the Volkswagen Beetle that Claus Bultjohan had lent me. It was a cabriolet and belongedto his father, who was away in Scandinavia on a TV assignment, making a film about the culture of the Samis who, as nomads, astonishingly had the right to cross the Russian border.
After my visit to her home, I hadn’t even tried to make a date to meet Stella. Knowing that in this spell of fair weather she would come to the beach on her own to read or sunbathe, I decided to wait for her at a suitable distance from her house. I listened to Benny Goodman in the car. I drove very slowly after her as she walked along, wearing her brightly colored blue-and-yellow beach dress, with her beach bag hanging from a strap over her shoulder. She walked fast and confidently; I stopped suddenly beside her just before she reached the kiosk where she bought smoked fish and magazines. I saw the displeasure in her face, but that expression immediately gave way to surprise and amazement. “Oh, Christian,” was all she said. I opened the car door, and after a moment’s hesitation she got in.
She promptly sat down on my camera, which I had put on the passenger seat, “Good heavens, what’s that?”
“Won it in a competition,” I said. “I came in fifth.”
“Where are you taking it?” she asked, to which I replied, “Anywhere there’s something worth seeing.”
We stopped at the place where the navigation marks had been brought in for their new coat of paint, though they still had to be cleaned of rust first. How cheerfully you agreed to my idea of taking some photographs here, sitting on the navigation marks, riding on them, clutching them, you played along in almost exuberant spirits, and seemed to be caressing them. Only when I asked you be a car model did you dismiss the idea. I thought of you sitting on the hood, just like those pretty girls in car showrooms, when the breeze lifted your beach dress, and your pale blue panties showed. You quickly waved to me to stop and said, “Not that, Christian, let’s not go as far as that,” and then you asked where I was going to have the film developed. I promised to keep the photos to myself and not show them to anyone.
Stella photographed me just once that Sunday. We were sitting in the fish restaurant beside the casino; almost all the places on the terrace in the sun were taken. Stella read the menu several times, and her way of coming to a decision amused me: no sooner had she closed the leather-bound menu than she reached for itagain, read it, shook her head, and
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