"Good holiday?" he called out, scratching an elbow with one of his dark, inky hands.
"Excuse me?"
"Good holiday?"
"Actually, I'm working."
"No!" He shook his head. "You are too happy to be working. Look at me, I am working!"
Sara smiled. She couldn't imagine doing anything else. "You're right," she said. "It's a great job."
"Maybe we trade?" the man offered. "I am free—you stand in hot sun until it is time to eat, sleep and start over again. Or maybe you come home with me? Bring your camera, take nice picture of us together in..."
His voice trailed off as Sara walked away. She was finished with mosques and archways and ready to move on. After walking back to her hotel, she ordered dinner and amused herself by critiquing the clumsy composition of a handful of shiny tourist brochures.
Waking before the alarm, Sara bought a banana at a stand near the hotel and ate it while walking. Then, taking a cab to speed up the process, she headed for a small Internet café that, for much of the day, lounged lazily in the shade of the university. Through the propped-open door she could see two computers, both occupied by silent, stone-faced students. Waiting her turn with a cup of coffee and a square of almond baklava, she sat down and organized her notes. She kept track of everything. For her editor, she noted where, when and what time of day. For herself, specific or unusual lens choices and camera settings. When a computer finally became available, she typed fast, double-checking place names but misspelling her own.
Leaving the café, Sara was ready to courier her rolls of film. She walked to a little shop she'd used once before and pleaded for rush service, but five days to America was the best they could do. Carefully she bundled the rolls in a protective box and began to negotiate her way through a courier form that was difficult to read. With a combination of blind guessing and explicit hand gestures from the clerk, Sara wrote something on every line. Her signature was a scribble in the lower left corner. The clerk smiled and placed the package, along with an overflowing pile of others, on a large central desk. Sara wondered how many slid unnoticed to the floor.
After a last stop at her hotel, she was ready to leave the country. Ordering a cab from the lobby, she began to prepare herself for the hassle of getting on the ferry.
click
An unveiled woman with curly dark hair and long thin limbs lifts her camera bags over a mob of hungry young boys. All eyes are focused on her as she plows through the crowd.
Surrounding every other foreigner on the way to the ferry there was a mirror image. Except some of the children were grown men and some of them wanted more than money.
Keeping her mouth set and her eyes firm, Sara pushed her way forward.
Once on board, she decided to stand outside. She loved watching the city disappear one frame at a time as the ferry chugged through the water. After a two-hour wait in Algeciras, Sara caught an overcrowded bus to Malaga. When she arrived at the station, she grabbed her luggage and hailed a cab to her favourite hotel. The four-storey building with its clean, simple exterior looked as familiar as her own apartment. Gratefully, she smiled at the man who signed her into a room.
Once upstairs, she dropped her luggage and ran herself a hot bath. The splashing water erased the tension of the bus ride, and her stomach began to settle down. Moving slowly, she dried off, dressed in clean clothes and ran her hands through her mess of damp hair.
Relaxing into the comforting arms of the Costa del Sol, Sara indulged herself in the evening she had hungered for. The restaurant she chose was lit with a gentle glow that bounced off the whitewashed walls and illuminated her food. She ate slowly, sipping wine and watching the flickering shadows her candle made on the table. At the end of the large meal, she tipped her waitress generously and took one last gulp of strong, sobering coffee.
As she walked back to the hotel, she could still feel the wine buzzing slightly in her head. Squinting at the street's detail, her eyes were as full and sore as her belly. Silently she walked into the cool, formal lobby without noticing the ceiling fans twirling endlessly above. She kept her head down, imagining frame after frame of symmetrically patterned carpet.
"Señora?" a man's voice said.
"Hmm?" Sara paused but did not look up.
"My name is Alvaro."
"Yes?"
"I have often seen you walk this way—your eyes down around your ankles. Why not look up," he said, smiling, "when you have so many things to look up at?"
"You've seen me before?"
"Si. When you checked in, and also other times."
"I was," she brought her hand to her face and smiled, "I was looking at the carpet."
"So, you are not sad then?"
"No. Is that what you thought?"
"Beautiful woman, always alone, drowning her sorrow in her ankles..."
"I was thinking."
"I have been thinking too," the young man said, coming out from behind the counter."I want to show you somewhere happy."
"I was just going to bed."
"Oh." The man's wild eyes flashed through a whole roll of possibility. "Maybe tomorrow then, unless you want... no. No, you must sleep. Good night, Señora. Sleep well. I will show you some other time."
"Si. Some other time."
As she climbed the stairs, she was thinking of the boyish man with his muscular arms and well-formed smile. In her room, she walked to the small basin and ran water from the tap. Her neck was tanned where it showed through her loosely buttoned shirt and there was more colour on her cheeks than she expected. Squinting into the large, square mirror, she framed herself against the room's soft texture. She fixed her hair before pressing the shutter.
click
A dark curl escapes the others.
With the imaginary photograph complete, she washed her hands and dried them on the bleached white towel. Walking quietly to the door, she eased it open and allowed her gaze to explore the empty hallway. She could imagine his arrival—a blur of black and white dancing through the glowing red. She would use a long exposure to capture him as he passed through her life. C–l–i–c–k and then click, click. Movement and a sudden goodbye.
When the streetlights outside the window blinked off one by one and the sun rose on the other side of the building, Sara's head was under a pillow. She surfaced briefly from a dream and then rolled back into sleep.
At noon, still lolling in the smoothness of the hotel sheets, she was reluctant to get up. Her mind was filled with images from other visits to Malaga.
click
The dripping foliage of freshly watered flowers on a third-storey balcony.
click
Through an iron gate, an abandoned wooden chair on the well-worn steps of a Gothic cathedral.
click
A scattering of birds as a young boy chases a dog through a half-forgotten street.
Sara enjoyed the visual luxury of the city—she could sit at a sidewalk café and take a handful of beautiful shots without leaving her chair.
When the phone rang, she was startled and forced to sit up. She reached over and answered, recognizing the silence immediately. It was her editor.
"Hello?"
"Sara, did I get you up?"
"No. I was just about to run out the door. What is it? Did you get the Portugal negatives?"
"Sara,