“You doing okay?” I pause beside her.
She nods and lifts the camera to peer through the lens. She holds the camera deftly, her left hand supporting it from beneath and her right hand holding the body with her index finger on the shutter release. But her stance and positioning are both off.
“Bring your elbows closer to your body.” I nudge her to lower her elbows. “And move so you’re perpendicular to the flower instead of parallel. That stabilizes your stance.”
She lowers the camera. “I’m not taking a picture of the flower. I’m taking a picture of the faucet.”
She indicates the old, rusted spigot attached to the side of the brick building. Water leaks from the mouth and pools on the dirt.
I step back, sorry for having distracted her. “Why the faucet?”
“I like the shape.” She crouches and studies the faucet more closely. “Even though it’s covered in rust, it’s still graceful and almost elegant.” She glances at me, uncertainty creasing her forehead. “Is that okay?”
“More than okay.” Wanting to leave her alone to work, I start toward another group of students.
“Dar…Mr. Hawke.”
My “teacher” name sounds strange in her voice. I turn back to her.
“That photo.” Nell rises, rubbing a hand over her thigh. “It won you the Pulitzer Prize.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell the class?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. I didn’t want anyone to look at it as a prizewinner. I just wanted to know what you thought.”
“So, the people in your photos…” She hesitates, pushing a lock of thick hair behind her ear, and looks down at the camera. “Twenty years’ worth. You must have photographed thousands of people. Do you still think about them?”
“All…” I pause and clear my throat. “All the time, Nell. They never go away.”
She meets my gaze. Her teeth catch on her full lower lip. “Then how—”
“Mr. Hawke, I can’t figure out the right aperture setting for shade.” Simon hurries over, holding up his camera.
Nell retreats and turns back to the faucet.
Smothering a flicker of annoyance over the interruption, I take Simon’s camera and look through the viewfinder. Nell appears in the camera lens, in my vision, her elegant profile softened by a few strands of loose chestnut hair. I adjust the controls until she’s sharp and in focus.
My index finger comes down on the shutter release. The snap reverberates down to my bones.
It’s the first picture I’ve taken in almost three years.
CHAPTER 9
Darius
The volatile unpredictability of war photography is one of the many reasons I was pulled toward it. I spent almost twenty years not knowing where I’d be the next day, or even at the end of the current day. I didn’t know if I’d still be alive. The adrenaline rush had been intense, sparked by the drive to capture a moment charged with emotions and energy.
After my captivity ended, I both needed and wanted to get right back to work. To immerse myself in the freedom of not knowing. Unfortunately, my fucked-up psyche had different plans.
But not once did I think I would ever welcome routine. I’d been forced to have a routine when I was imprisoned. Only in my mind had I been able to go wherever and do whatever the hell I wanted.
During my first few weeks in Grenville, it’s a surprise to discover that I appreciate the household structure. Henry has always been a master of strict routine and became even more so in the face of his wife’s turbulence. He and Nell have an unspoken schedule of meals, work, TV programs. Teaching also has a predictable schedule—bells ring at specific times of the day, lesson plans are followed, students sit in their designated seats.
The routine is critical to getting my work done. I need to teach, to remember how to hold a camera, take a good shot, get into the world again. I also need to write the book to draw public and governmental attention to the hostages still held in countries around the world, even if I still hate the idea of reliving my own ordeal in Krasnovar.
By the time I’m in my third week of teaching, I’ve developed my own routine centered around waking, running and working out, organizing lectures, and preparing for the next class.
In the evenings after dinner, Henry and I fall into the habit of having a drink in his office. On Friday, I open a bottle of Glenfiddich Rare I’d bought and pour two glasses.
Henry still has an old record player that’s now an antique, and a collection of vinyl LPs that he’d collected in high school. Classic stuff—the Stones, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen. He puts on R.E.M.’s Murmur and lowers himself into a wing-backed chair by the blackened old fireplace.
I hand him a scotch and sit across from him. We might as well be two old guys sitting in rockers on the front porch, yelling at kids to get off the lawn.
I’ll take it. Never before have I so appreciated just sitting across from a longtime friend, drinking and listening to music. I’ve had a lot of friends, colleagues, lovers, and acquaintances. More than I can count. I’ve lost just as many—through circumstances, death, bad luck, anger, and mostly the stark fact that I chose my job over everything and everyone else.
Henry’s always been there, though. A rock. I never needed to wonder where he was or what he was doing. He was always in the same place.
“How is it, teaching a bunch of teenagers?” He takes a sip of scotch and nods with impressed approval.
“Fine so far. They seem like good kids.”
“You got the curriculum all planned?”
“More or less.” I study the formation of ice cubes in my glass. “The school board has to renew my contract in December, so I have a separate curriculum for each semester. That way, if any of the kids drop out or add the class next semester, they’ll still get a complete lesson.”
“Great thinking.” Henry lifts his eyebrows. “The administration and parents will approve of your foresight. And they’re not easy to please.”
“Sounds like the school has a lot of support.”
“Best school in the county.” He takes a sip of his drink. “It should be, considering the tuition.”
I smother the urge to offer him financial help. For years, I’ve wanted to give him as much as he needed—for Katherine’s care, for Nell, for himself. But more than once, I made the mistake of offering. The first time, I’d unintentionally stabbed Henry’s pride. He’d bluntly told me he could take care of his own family. I’d felt like shit for insinuating he couldn’t, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself from offering again a few years later.
We’d even fought about it. My argument was that I still considered Katherine my sister and wanted to ensure both her well-being and Nell’s security. His sharp rebuttal was that Katherine was his wife, Nell was his daughter, and he appreciated the offer but would I kindly fuck off?
I haven’t brought it up again.
I’d kept in touch with Katherine and her mother after I’d graduated from boarding school and started looking for photography work. Katherine and I had seen each other more often when she was accepted to UC Santa Cruz. I’d been living in San Francisco. Odette had moved back to Russia by then and had asked me to keep an eye on her daughter. One night, I invited Katherine to join me and some friends at a pub to watch a game.