then breaks. Through a yellow membrane, Frank sees the camera float in slow motion toward the ground, hears the delicate crunch of the lens being crushed. He shuts his eyes and hugs the branch. Tears rise up and force themselves out through his tightly closed lids.
No, no, no, no, no…it isn’t fair.
He weeps, curled up. Tears follow the path of the camera through the air, landing in the dry grass. He is at rock bottom. He twists this knowledge around inside, again and again, and continues to cry. In the end it becomes a form of pleasure. He opens his eyes and sees the pool through his tears, a billowing rectangle.
The reflections of sunlight detach from the surface of the water and become stars that dance toward him. He waves his hand weakly to fend them off but they bore straight into his head like glowing needles.
“Aaaaaahhhhh…”
He punches the air around his head with his hand but the needles are in there, darting around as if searching for something. They puncture his brain, tearing and cutting and he feels sick to his stomach. He is being dissected alive.
The sunlight rest on the surface of the water. His back throbs with pain. Gently, one branch at a time, he climbs down out of the tree and crouches beside his camera like a boy grieving for a dead pet. He removes the lens, then shakes it. Something is irretrievably broken inside.
You have taken your last picture, my friend.
Fifteen years together. He carries the lens back to the house, places it in his bag and takes out the Sigma lens. Not the same thing at all.
The camera body appears to have survived, so he screws on the Sigma and attaches the strap from the reserve camera. Then he refills his water bottle and takes a couple of bites of cold pizza. His jaws work mechanically up and down. His head is empty. He looks around the elegantly appointed room and his gaze is caught by the Bruno Liljefors piece above the fireplace. It depicts a sea.
I thought he only painted foxes.
Frank lets himself fall back into the sofa, closes his eyes and falls asleep.
He is in a deep sea darkness, sinking. A light goes on far away. He swims toward it. When he reaches it, everything will be fine. If he doesn’t get there, he will continue to sink. He swims. His strokes are slow, thick, as if the water were syrup.
The point of light does not get larger.
And yet he reaches it. It hovers in front of his eyes. He reaches out for it, to touch it.
That’s when he sees the maw that opens behind the light. It’s one of those fish. He’s read about them. They live in the depths where the sun’s rays never reach. They lure smaller fish with the help of a little lantern. When the fish swim up to it…
A door slams shut and Frank is wide awake. Marcus is standing in front of him, grinning.
“Hi there, Frankie boy. How is it going in the bushes?”
“Well…” Frank blinks a couple of times, reemerging from the darkness. “…not so good.”
“Why not?”
“They’re not coming out.”
Marcus widens his eyes with an exaggerated expression of surprise. His eyes are red and he seems under the influence of something. Maybe large gestures are the only ones he can manage. He slumps down into an armchair and points to the pieces of pizza that remain. “Do you mind…?”
“Go ahead.”
Frank gets up and gathers his things. When he reaches the door, Marcus clears his throat.
“You know, Frankie boy, there’s been some complications.” Frank waits, does not turn around. “That is…the financial part of this rental contract doesn’t feel completely satisfactory.”
“Rental contract?”
“Yes, that’s what it’s called. The rent, for god’s sake.”
Now Frank turns around and looks at Marcus who is sitting up in the armchair, licking pizza grease from his fingers. He is dressed in turned-up linen pants, loafers, and an untucked white shirt. A rich man’s child. Parents on vacation. Not enough pocket money.
“I gave you ten thousand.”
“Yep,”
No, no, no, no, no…it isn’t fair.
He weeps, curled up. Tears follow the path of the camera through the air, landing in the dry grass. He is at rock bottom. He twists this knowledge around inside, again and again, and continues to cry. In the end it becomes a form of pleasure. He opens his eyes and sees the pool through his tears, a billowing rectangle.
The reflections of sunlight detach from the surface of the water and become stars that dance toward him. He waves his hand weakly to fend them off but they bore straight into his head like glowing needles.
“Aaaaaahhhhh…”
He punches the air around his head with his hand but the needles are in there, darting around as if searching for something. They puncture his brain, tearing and cutting and he feels sick to his stomach. He is being dissected alive.
The sunlight rest on the surface of the water. His back throbs with pain. Gently, one branch at a time, he climbs down out of the tree and crouches beside his camera like a boy grieving for a dead pet. He removes the lens, then shakes it. Something is irretrievably broken inside.
You have taken your last picture, my friend.
Fifteen years together. He carries the lens back to the house, places it in his bag and takes out the Sigma lens. Not the same thing at all.
The camera body appears to have survived, so he screws on the Sigma and attaches the strap from the reserve camera. Then he refills his water bottle and takes a couple of bites of cold pizza. His jaws work mechanically up and down. His head is empty. He looks around the elegantly appointed room and his gaze is caught by the Bruno Liljefors piece above the fireplace. It depicts a sea.
I thought he only painted foxes.
Frank lets himself fall back into the sofa, closes his eyes and falls asleep.
He is in a deep sea darkness, sinking. A light goes on far away. He swims toward it. When he reaches it, everything will be fine. If he doesn’t get there, he will continue to sink. He swims. His strokes are slow, thick, as if the water were syrup.
The point of light does not get larger.
And yet he reaches it. It hovers in front of his eyes. He reaches out for it, to touch it.
That’s when he sees the maw that opens behind the light. It’s one of those fish. He’s read about them. They live in the depths where the sun’s rays never reach. They lure smaller fish with the help of a little lantern. When the fish swim up to it…
A door slams shut and Frank is wide awake. Marcus is standing in front of him, grinning.
“Hi there, Frankie boy. How is it going in the bushes?”
“Well…” Frank blinks a couple of times, reemerging from the darkness. “…not so good.”
“Why not?”
“They’re not coming out.”
Marcus widens his eyes with an exaggerated expression of surprise. His eyes are red and he seems under the influence of something. Maybe large gestures are the only ones he can manage. He slumps down into an armchair and points to the pieces of pizza that remain. “Do you mind…?”
“Go ahead.”
Frank gets up and gathers his things. When he reaches the door, Marcus clears his throat.
“You know, Frankie boy, there’s been some complications.” Frank waits, does not turn around. “That is…the financial part of this rental contract doesn’t feel completely satisfactory.”
“Rental contract?”
“Yes, that’s what it’s called. The rent, for god’s sake.”
Now Frank turns around and looks at Marcus who is sitting up in the armchair, licking pizza grease from his fingers. He is dressed in turned-up linen pants, loafers, and an untucked white shirt. A rich man’s child. Parents on vacation. Not enough pocket money.
“I gave you ten thousand.”
“Yep,”
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