the camera, presumably at the sleeping shape in the bed. “I wonder how old you are,” sherepeated, and there was something in her voice that was sad and off-key.
My father was still looking into the camera. He was maybe five, six years younger than I am now. He, too, spoke quietly, but without a great deal of affection in his eyes.
“And I wonder what you’ve become.”
WHITE NOISE . S OMEONE CLANKED past my hotel room with a trolley.
I didn’t pause the tape. I couldn’t move.
THE LAST SCENE WAS from 8mm, too, but the colors were more faded, washed out, pale surfaces bleached to pure light. Dark hairlines and spots popped and flickered all over the screen, making movements behind them feel measured and distanced.
A blaze of hazy yellow sunshine through a big window. Outside, trees rushing past, leaves blurred into sound. The steady beat of a train, and some other quiet noise I couldn’t place.
My mother’s face, younger still. Hair shorter, and black with lacquer. Looking out of the window at the passing countryside. She turned her head, looked at the camera. Her eyes seemed far away. She smiled faintly. The camera was slowly lowered.
Abrupt cut to a wide city street. I couldn’t tell where it might be, and my attention was caught by the shapes and colors of the cars parked by the sides of the road, and the clothes worn by the few passersby. The cars had panache, the suits didn’t, the dresses were on the short side. I didn’t know enough about such things to date it on the dime, but I guessed we were now back in the late ’60s. It had that sense of being the calm before the storm.
The camera moved forward at an even walking pace. Every now and then the back of my mother’s head wandered into the left side of the frame, as if my father was slightly behind her and to the right. It wasn’t obvious what he was supposed to be recording. It wasn’t an especially interesting street. There was what looked like a department store on the right, and a small square on the left. There were leaves on the trees, but they looked tired. He kept the camera high, panning neither up nor down nor to the sides. They made no attempt to point anything out, or to communicate to each other. After a while they crossed a road and then turned off down a cross street.
Cut to a different street again. This was a little narrower, as if farther from the center of town. They seemed to be walking up a steep hill. My mother was in front of the camera, seen from the shoulders up. She stopped.
“What about here?” she said, turning. She was wearing sunglasses now, businesslike. The camera hesitated for a moment, and wobbled, as if my father had taken his eye from the lens to look around him.
His voice: “A little farther.”
Onward they walked, for perhaps another minute. Then stopped again. The camera panned round, giving a tantalizingly quick panorama of what seemed to be the top of a rise in the middle of a hilly city, tall buildings on either side of the street. It looked naggingly familiar. Signs at ground level declared the presence of grocery stores and cheap restaurants, but the windows above looked like those of apartments. People stood outside the stores, assaying produce, wearing hats; others walked in and out of the stores. A busy neighborhood, coming up for lunchtime.
Mother looked back at the camera and nodded. It was her call. She made it, reluctantly.
Cut to later in the day. A slightly different view, but the top of the same hill. Where before it had been morning light, now the shadows were longer. Late afternoon, andthe streets were nearly empty. My mother was standing with her arms down by her sides. An odd gurgling sound came from somewhere out of shot, and I realized it was similar to the noise I’d heard on the train.
There was a little movement of the camera, as if my father had reached out to touch something. Then my mother moved forward a little way, or he stepped back. A harsh release of
My father was still looking into the camera. He was maybe five, six years younger than I am now. He, too, spoke quietly, but without a great deal of affection in his eyes.
“And I wonder what you’ve become.”
WHITE NOISE . S OMEONE CLANKED past my hotel room with a trolley.
I didn’t pause the tape. I couldn’t move.
THE LAST SCENE WAS from 8mm, too, but the colors were more faded, washed out, pale surfaces bleached to pure light. Dark hairlines and spots popped and flickered all over the screen, making movements behind them feel measured and distanced.
A blaze of hazy yellow sunshine through a big window. Outside, trees rushing past, leaves blurred into sound. The steady beat of a train, and some other quiet noise I couldn’t place.
My mother’s face, younger still. Hair shorter, and black with lacquer. Looking out of the window at the passing countryside. She turned her head, looked at the camera. Her eyes seemed far away. She smiled faintly. The camera was slowly lowered.
Abrupt cut to a wide city street. I couldn’t tell where it might be, and my attention was caught by the shapes and colors of the cars parked by the sides of the road, and the clothes worn by the few passersby. The cars had panache, the suits didn’t, the dresses were on the short side. I didn’t know enough about such things to date it on the dime, but I guessed we were now back in the late ’60s. It had that sense of being the calm before the storm.
The camera moved forward at an even walking pace. Every now and then the back of my mother’s head wandered into the left side of the frame, as if my father was slightly behind her and to the right. It wasn’t obvious what he was supposed to be recording. It wasn’t an especially interesting street. There was what looked like a department store on the right, and a small square on the left. There were leaves on the trees, but they looked tired. He kept the camera high, panning neither up nor down nor to the sides. They made no attempt to point anything out, or to communicate to each other. After a while they crossed a road and then turned off down a cross street.
Cut to a different street again. This was a little narrower, as if farther from the center of town. They seemed to be walking up a steep hill. My mother was in front of the camera, seen from the shoulders up. She stopped.
“What about here?” she said, turning. She was wearing sunglasses now, businesslike. The camera hesitated for a moment, and wobbled, as if my father had taken his eye from the lens to look around him.
His voice: “A little farther.”
Onward they walked, for perhaps another minute. Then stopped again. The camera panned round, giving a tantalizingly quick panorama of what seemed to be the top of a rise in the middle of a hilly city, tall buildings on either side of the street. It looked naggingly familiar. Signs at ground level declared the presence of grocery stores and cheap restaurants, but the windows above looked like those of apartments. People stood outside the stores, assaying produce, wearing hats; others walked in and out of the stores. A busy neighborhood, coming up for lunchtime.
Mother looked back at the camera and nodded. It was her call. She made it, reluctantly.
Cut to later in the day. A slightly different view, but the top of the same hill. Where before it had been morning light, now the shadows were longer. Late afternoon, andthe streets were nearly empty. My mother was standing with her arms down by her sides. An odd gurgling sound came from somewhere out of shot, and I realized it was similar to the noise I’d heard on the train.
There was a little movement of the camera, as if my father had reached out to touch something. Then my mother moved forward a little way, or he stepped back. A harsh release of
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