Pulling the sheet over her breasts, Sara listened. Joyce rarely called unless she wanted to change an assignment, and sometimes not even then. Email was cheaper and easier to use.
"I think I sent seven rolls," Sara said.
"Yes, I have them, but they're horrible. In fact, this is a terrible batch."
"I don't understand."
"Maybe you should check your camera."
"But—"
"These negatives are all trash. There's nothing here I can use."
"But, I thought you wanted shots of—"
"The subject matter is great," Joyce said. "I'm talking about the quality. They're all fuzzy. I think you should check your camera."
"I don't know what you're talking about. My camera's fine!"
"Well then check your head, because I can't use anything you sent."
The phone went dead in Sara's hand. Joyce gave no further instructions.
Unable to swallow, Sara got up and spit into the sink. Pulling her temples back to stretch her tired eyes, she glared at herself in the mirror. With an elastic band she pulled back her dirty hair and bent over to wash her face. She needed to test her camera.
Brushing off the woman at the reception desk, Sara rushed into the street. Adjusting her camera quickly, she took a series of frantic shots. Then, deciding she needed to match the conditions in Portugal, she hailed a cab.
Sitting in the back seat, her hand waiting to open the door, she rocked with the motion of the car. Reading her anxiety, the driver wove through the heavy traffic as quickly as he could. When they arrived, she thrust a bill at him without waiting for the change.
Standing on the beach, she squinted at the light reflecting off the water and the tiny speckles of sand. Pulling her camera out of the bag, she aimed low, just below the horizon. The intensity of the sun made it difficult to see.
Click
Three-quarters water. One-quarter sky.
Click
One-quarter water. Three-quarters sky.
Click
Half water. Half sky.
Click
A wave in transition.
Mechanically, everything about the camera seemed fine. Aim. Shoot. Advance. She had done this a thousand times. After shooting the rest of the roll, she walked back to the main road. This time she would develop the prints. She wanted something that she could study with her own eyes.
With twelve hours to wait for the film to be processed, Sara sat in a crowded sidewalk café drinking strong black coffee. Absently she stared at the texture of the table. When her eyes glazed over, she shifted to the dark green foliage dangling from the wall beside her. It moved from translucent to opaque as the wind blew it in and out of the dappled sun.
Jittery from the coffee and the anxiety of the wait, Sara walked down to the harbour. With the orange glow of the sky behind it, she chose a perfect angle to sit and watch the sun fall. In the distance, there were small boats returning, full of fish and tired men. The rusty hues of their bodies matched the sky. Out of habit, Sara lifted her camera and took a few shots. Then she waited for her subjects to draw nearer.
On the boat she chose, the fish shone silver and grey, their mouths pale against the black of the floor. Three men, with faces wrinkled from many seasons of sun, shouted with their arms—move this way, more to the left, now tie her off. Sara waited until their faces had turned away. She wanted hands and rope and squirming fish, not the eyes of tired fishermen. Although she tried to tighten the focus of her telephoto lens, she couldn't get a clear view. She shook it, shielded her face, wiped the lens clean. But there was no change.
Kicking up stones, she started walking the short distance back to the hotel.
Taking a shortcut down a quiet, narrow street, she watched a man come out of his repair shop. As he turned to lock the door, she saw "Fuji" and "Kodak" on large plastic signs posted in the window.
"Perdón, Señor! Habla inglés?"
Looking her up and down, he answered suspiciously, "Si. Un poco."
"Do you repair cameras?"
"Si."
"Please," she started to dig hers out of the bag, "the focus is blurry."
"No. Today I am closed."
"It's an emergency," Sara pleaded.
"Five minutes." He held up his hand, displaying each finger in case she didn't understand.
While Sara waited in the cramped space of the store-front, the repairman took out his tools and looked closely at the camera.
Returning to the counter, the man spoke carefully, exaggerating each syllable. "Camera no problem," he said. "No problem."
"I'm a professional photographer," she told him. "PHOTOGRAPHER. I know my lens has a mechanical problem. My photos are BLURRY."
"No, Señora." He shook his head.
"Have you worked on Nikons before?"
"Camera no problem!" the grey-haired man repeated.
"But close-up shots come out fuzzy—FUZZY!" Sara explained again, wondering how much English he really understood. "The lens won't focus. NO FOCUS."
"Si. But CAMERA NO PROBLEM!" the man shouted. He put the Nikon on the counter, but she wouldn't take it. "Por favor, Señora. Por favor." He pulled keys out of his pocket, as if ready to lock up the store.
"Please, just look at it again," she said. "This is IMPORTANT!"
"¡Basta! Camera is good."
Slamming the door, she slung the camera bag over her shoulder and started walking. She would look for another repair shop tomorrow.
Pulling open the hotel's heavy lobby doors gave her a rush of comfort. Soon she would throw herself into the tub.
"Señora!" the woman at the front desk called. "Señora, I have an envelope for you."
Sara stopped and turned.
"It has been here all day," the woman said. "And this too." She held up a fax.
In the elevator, Sara scanned the page. It was an apology from her editor.
Look, I didn't mean to come down so hard on you. I've been thinking, maybe you should go home for awhile. You've been away a long time. Do what you have to do to change your ticket.
She crushed the paper with her right hand. She would think about it in the morning—after her trial photos had been developed. Opening the envelope she read, Meet me at four. Bring your camera.—Alvaro.
It was already after five.
chapter 2
With the window and the early-morning rush of Halifax traffic at her back, Sitara raised her hands from prayer to temple—elbows pointed down, palms pressed hard together. Balancing on one leg with the other tucked into half-lotus against her supporting thigh, her belly-expanding breath was deep and even. Standing in a self-made temple did more than calm her mind and regulate her breathing, it connected her consciousness with her body—something she needed now more than usual.
After moving through a flow of postures, she rested for a moment before sitting on a small Persian rug. With her pelvic bones balanced evenly on the ground and her hands upturned on her knees, she let her eyes softly close. The emptiness she searched for was beginning to fill her head.
Following