The weight of water - Anita Shreve [56]
“Or a lucrative contract,” says Rich.
“But even then,” argues Thomas, “there would have to be something in the act — the handling of the victim, the feel of the knife against the flesh — that attracted the killer to that particular method.”
“Thomas,” I say, nodding at Billie.
“Mommy, take a picture of the pancakes,” she says. “Before they’re all gone?”
I reach behind me into my camera bag and bring out the Polaroid. I shoot the platter with the pancakes that are left, and then rip the film out and give it to Billie to hold. She’s a pro at this, and holds the corner casually.
“The Masai,” I say idly, “believe that if you take a photograph of a person, you have stolen his soul. You have to pay them for the picture.”
“The soul is for sale then?” asks Adaline.
“Oh, I think the Masai are shrewder than that.”
“See, Adaline? Look!” Billie stands on the bench to hand Ada-line the Polaroid. As she does, she cracks her head on the sharp corner of an overhanging cabinet. The color leaves Billie’s face, and her mouth falls open, but I can see that in this company my daughter is determined not to cry.
I reach over and fold her into me. The photograph flutters onto the table. She presses her face into my chest, and I feel her breath through the opening of my robe. Adaline picks up the Polaroid. “Lovely picture, Billie,” she says.
I kiss Billie’s forehead, and she pulls away from me, turning in her seat, trying bravely to smile. Adaline hands the picture to Billie.
“Very game,” says Adaline to me.
“Thanks.” I envy you.
I look quickly up at her and catch her eyes. Does she mean Billie? Or does she mean having my daughter with me? Or does she mean Billie and Thomas — the whole package?
“Sometimes I imagine I have caught a likeness of a person’s soul,” I say carefully. “Occasionally, you can see it. Or what you imagine is the true character of that person. But of course, it’s only a likeness, and that likeness is only an image, on the paper.”
“But you can fool with images,” she says. “Didn’t I read that somewhere? Can’t you change the image?”
“You can now,” I say. “You can do it almost flawlessly with computers.”
“So you could, theoretically, create another character, another soul.”
“This is assuming that you believed the camera could capture the soul in the first place,” I say.
“This is assuming that you believed in the soul at all,” says Thomas. “That what you saw was not simply an arrangement of organic particles.”
“But surely you believe in the soul,” Adaline says quickly, almost defensively. “You of all people.”
Thomas is silent.
“It’s in the poems,” she says.
I have a series of photographs of Billie and Thomas together, taken shortly after we have eaten the pancakes. I have dressed and am getting my gear together in preparation for the boat ride over to Smuttynose. I take out the Hasselblad, which I have loaded with black-and-white. I do four quick shots — click, click, click, click — of Thomas and Billie, who have lingered at the table. In the first, Billie is standing on the padded bench, inspecting Thomas’s teeth, counting them, I think. In the second, she has bent her body so that she is butting her head into Thomas’s stomach; Thomas, too, is slightly bent, and has wrapped his arms over her back. In the third picture, they both have their elbows propped upon the table and are facing each other, talking. The conversation must be serious; you can see that in the tilt of Billie’s head, the pursing of her mouth. In the fourth picture, Thomas has one hand tucked inside the open collar of his shirt, scratching his shoulder. He is facing me, but he won’t look at me or at the camera. Billie has turned her head away from Thomas, as though someone has just called to her from the forward cabin.
The head sea is apparent the moment we round the breakwater. Small waves hit the Zodiac and send their spray into and over the inflatable boat. With one hand on the tiller, Rich tosses me a poncho, which I use