Coming Through Slaughter - Michael Ondaatje [13]
I need a picture.
Thought you knew him.
I need it to show around.
Still—shit man who has pictures taken.
Bolden did, he mentioned one. Perhaps with the band.
You’ll have to ask them. Ask Cornish.
But Cornish didn’t have one though he said a picture had been taken, by a crip that Buddy knew who photographed whores. Bellock or something.
Bellocq.
He went down to the station and looked in the files for Bellocq’s place. They knew Bellocq. He was often picked up as a suspect. Whenever a whore was chopped they brought him in and questioned him, when had he last seen her? But Bellocq never said anything and they always let him go.
Bellocq was out so he broke in and searched the place for the picture. Hundreds of pictures of whores in the cabinets. Naked and clothed, with pets or alone. Sad stuff. To Webb the only difference between these and morgue files was the others were dead. But there was nothing of Bolden. He sat down in the one comfortable armchair and eventually fell asleep. Buddy what the hell are you doing out there. You don’t know what you’re doing do ya. Hope Bellocq has the picture. I can’t even remember what you look like too well. I’d recognize you but in my mind you’re just an outline and music. Just your bright shirts that have no collars are there. Something sharp.
Something sharp was at his heart. Pressing. As he opened his eyes it pushed deeper and he jerked back into the chair. Bellocq was peering into his face out of the darkness. It must have been around two in the morning. Bellocq was still holding the camera case with his left hand and with the right hand the tripod, leaning his own chest against it so the three iron points were hard against Webb’s body. Watch out man. Bellocq pressed harder.
What do you want. I’ve got no money.
I need a photograph.
None for sale.
Do you remember Bolden. He disappeared. I’m a friend. Trying to find him. Cornish told me you took a picture of the band.
Why don’t you leave him, he’s a good man.
I know I told you he was a friend. Can you take that hook off me and turn a light on in here. I’d like to talk to you.
Bellocq swung the tripod to his side in an arc. He didn’t touch the lights or sit down but leaned against the tripod as if it were a crutch. You’ve got a nerve coming in here like this. Just like a cop.
Webb wanted Bellocq to talk. Bellocq began to walk around the room. He could hardly see the features on the small figure as it moved around him. There was something wrong with his legs and the tripod was now his cane. He had put the camera away carefully on a shelf. He walked round Webb several times expecting him to talk but the other was silent.
Cornish? He used to be in Bolden’s band?
Yes.
Shitty picture.
Doesn’t matter. I just need a picture with him in it.
I wouldn’t want it getting around. Coughing over his tripod.
How’d you get to take it?
Long story. He knew some of the girls I used to do. He used to screw a lot and being famous they let him in. He used some of them to get stories for The Cricket. He paid them for that but not for the fucking. He was a kind man. He didn’t treat you like a crip or anything. We’d talk a lot. It was him who got the girls to let me photograph them. They didn’t like the idea at first. What was his real name?
Charlie.
Yeah. Charlie … So I took the picture but I was using old film and it’s no good.
Can I see it?
Don’t have a print.
Make me one will you.
Ten minutes later he bent over the sink with Bellocq, watching the paper weave in the acid tray. As if the search for his friend was