Serafim and Claire (24 page)

Medium:
Gelatin silver print

Description:
Coitus

Location:
Montreal, Quebec

Date:
May 1929

The room is small, confined. Folded backdrops and painted stage sets lean against the wall to one side. A lone sofa is keeping the accordion of these props tightly baffled, one of its arms pushing into the strata of plywood. A low coffee table hovers in front of the settee, an ashtray and radio resting on its surface, making the room into an impromptu lounge area for stage performers. Behind the settee, floral wallpaper blossoms and vines up and out of the frame, an overgrown two-dimensional Eden; while a couple, half unclothed, cover the sofa's cushions in a ravel of their limbs.

The woman — her face turned towards the camera, eyes closed, lipstick smeared, her features plump and girlish — is sprawled beneath the weight of a middle-aged man. Her dress is gathered in folds at her hips, her bare legs protruding from around the man's waist. Her right arm dangles over the coffee table, her lopsided breasts spilling in its direction. The wrist of her left hand is bent above her head and is clenched by the man, his grip squeezing white dents into the buttery texture of her skin, dimples shadowed.

His expression is semi-maniacal, biting down on his lower lip, eyes crazed, as he reaches out to the coffee table to adjust a dial on the radio, likely to conceal the sounds they are making. Obviously, one cannot hear the scratch of music from the speaker; though at the same time — in their expressions, the whisper of restless cloth, in the turn of his fingers — one can.

“
T
here. A fancy Studebaker is slowing down, near the club. Yes, it's stopped. I think it's him.” Claire was speaking quietly into the side of Serafim's face. “Now don't turn around. Keep your hands on my hips. Good. Kiss my neck. No, the other way, I can't see. Relax your legs, you're standing stiff. Try to look like you're enjoying yourself.” Claire's back was against a brick wall, from which position, over Serafim's shoulder, she could see the front of the cabaret, down the street from where they stood.

“Okay, the driver has parked in the entrance of the alleyway. The councilman's out, hurrying to the door. He doesn't want to be seen, you can tell. Now he's inside. Okay. Oh — wait. The driver is still there, at the entrance to the alley. I guess he's going to stay. So you will have to access the alleyway down the block instead. Stay clear of his car. Remember the door in the back that I showed you? Wait there. I'll open it when the time is right. And remember: you'll only have a few seconds, so move fast but quiet. I'll meet you at your apartment later tonight. Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Let's go.”

As they parted, Serafim wanted to kiss her goodbye, but she slid away from him, waving over her shoulder, as if they were a long-married couple parting for some errands.

It was Tuesday, and Claire crossed the street on her way to her early afternoon practice. She entered the darkness of the cabaret, walked over to Callum the bartender, who apparently hadn't even begun to think about working for the day, and stood slowly smoking a cigarette, watching the puffs feather and spread through the murky room.

“You all right then, doll?” he asked.

“I am just ducky. And you?”

“Likewise. Though I'm afraid your rehearsal'll be a tad late today. A certain magnate is, uh, gaining admittance again.” He winked.

Claire had been expecting this but, as usual, missed the sense of his words. “Well, I will just start getting ready anyway,” she said, making her way to the back.

“Hey, am I such a palooka you don't wanna wait here with me? S'that it? Come on. Pour ya a drink-avous.”

“No, no. I really have to get ready. Thanks, though.”

Callum smiled. “All right, all right, go on.” He waved her off. “Who knows, 'f I'm feelin' real nice, might just bring you a jorum of skee for to sip back there.” He winked again. “All by your lonesome.”

Claire smiled coyly, not knowing how else to dissuade him, and continued on her way to the rooms in the back. She could see the light through the cracks, hear the radio and the young dancer, her easy giggles and flirtatious small talk, their clothes already coming off. She paused at the doorway, the unfolded Chinese screen spread across it, and waited for them to become distracted by their foreplay before she risked passing through the hall, potentially giving away that someone was there.

She heard Callum get up from where he was sitting, and then the clink of glasses. She watched down the corridor, readying herself for the possibility that he might appear. He didn't.

As the laughter in the room increased and their breathing became heavier, she felt safe enough to tiptoe past. She made her way to the powder room farther down the corridor and eased the door open, wanting to make sure no one was inside.

“Hey, honey,” a fellow dancer called out to her. She was conversing with Claire's reflection in the mirror in front of her. “Did you think I had a sugar daddy in here like the other one? Is that why you opened the door like a criminal?”

“No, I just was . . .” Claire pointed over her shoulder.

“So, looks like we'll be stalling a few minutes once more. Not counting how long Isabelle's usually late on top of that. Why don't you come have a seat, keep me company.”

“No. . . . . have to talk to Callum about something.”

“Suit yourself.” She began to rummage through her cosmetics bag. Claire edged the door shut again.

She then made her way to the back door to unlock it as quietly as she could, which would take some time. It was a heavy metal door, with clanking bolts and hinges that whined and complained when touched. She wrestled the rusted bolts out of their sleeves, carefully freeing the plates, levers, and slots. She nudged it open to look outside and saw Serafim waiting against the opposite wall, looking guilty, holding his hat, squishing it nervously. For some reason Claire liked this little habit of his. She found it endearing in some way.

Leaving the door ajar, she crept back down the corridor to make sure Callum was still at the bar in the front and the dancer still in the powder room. The coast was clear. And by the sounds of it, the councilman and the young dancer were, if not already in the act, very close to it. She returned to the back door, pressed it open, and gestured to Serafim to come in.

Together they stole down the hall, Serafim readying his camera. They stopped just before the Chinese screen, crouching low, and Claire pointed to the spot where Serafim could achieve the best vantage point. Serafim, all business now, peeked through the gap, adjusted the distance settings on his camera, and held the lens up to the slat of light that pinstriped his face and torso in the dark of the corridor, ready to take the shot.

Which was when Callum appeared in the hallway, a grenadine-sweetened cocktail in a vodka glass pinched in his right hand.

Claire jumped to her feet in a flurry, silent as snowflakes, and hurried towards him, careful to keep her body between Callum's line of sight and Serafim, who was still squatting in the hall behind her.

“You are so sweet!” she said, stopping in front of Callum, his progress stalled. She scooped the drink out of his hand and took an audible swig. “Mmm. Thank you. Thank-you-thank-you. Thank. You.”

Callum looked her over, perplexed.

“So good. So, so good. Really. Thank you.” Claire suddenly pointed at the front window. “Wow, how ugly is that dress?”

Callum turned and she hooked her arm into his, leading him back towards the bar. “So. Can I tell you a secret?”

Callum didn't answer, just continued to observe her carefully, eyeing both her expression and the way her hand was stroking his arm.

“You just caught me. I confess — I was watching them. I have watched them before, too. I think it is . . . erotic.”

Having arrived at the bar, Callum took his place behind it, smiled, straightening his collar. “Oh, yeah? You . . . you like to watch, you say?”

“Yes, I do. Now” — she took a long drink of her cocktail, placed it with conviction on the bar — “would you mind if . . . . kept watching? You will not tell, I hope.”

“No!” he insisted immediately. “No. Me? Hell no. Go on. Enjoy yourself.” He winked at her for the third time that day.

Claire smiled, and in mock mischief tiptoed back towards the corridor.

As she neared Serafim, she was glad to see he hadn't stopped taking pictures. He might already have what they came for, she thought. He was busy snapping exposures, tilting the camera at different angles against the gap in the screen and making incremental adjustments to his settings. Someone on the other side of the screen turned up the radio, their groans and sighs swelling with the volume.

Then, just above the music, Claire heard the rusted wail of the back door opening, as a fan of daylight spread across the end of the hallway. She and Serafim exchanged a panicked glance, and Claire headed towards the back door, mouthing blasphemies through every shade of vulgarity.

The other dancer stood in the daylight, looking up at the clear sky. She noticed Claire behind her. “Hey, sweetie, someone left this open. You know some rummy out in the back could walk right on in here?”

“Really?” Claire paused, feigning shock. “My . . . God.” She looked through the doorway. A tin garbage can on the other side of the alley, lying on its side, stared emptily back. “It must . . . I mean, maybe it has to do with, you know, what is going on in there.”

“Oh.” The other dancer considered this. “Maybe.”

“But you know” — Claire pointed at her — “you know, I thought I just saw somebody in the backrooms who didn't belong. I mean, maybe some rummy
did
get in.” She turned and scurried back into the dark, over to the Chinese screen. The councilman on the other side gave a climactic grunt and shudder, while Claire lifted Serafim by the arm and pushed him forward, towards the light of the back door, where the other dancer still held it open. At first Serafim resisted, but he soon surrendered to Claire's impulse, plodding along in the hope that she knew what she was doing.

“Now beat it! Filthy drunkard! Pervert!” She pushed Serafim out into the bright alleyway and fumbled to close the door behind him, as if he might try to dash back inside. The clang of metal, schlock of bolts sliding back into their sleeves.

In the sudden darkness, Claire felt her way to the powder room and opened the door, offering herself and the other dancer both light and safety. “I'm glad
that
's over,” she said.

“Yeah,” her companion agreed, though she was still hesitantly working things out. “Did that guy . . . did he have a camera?”

“No . . . I don't think so. But I wanted to ask you, do you have any mascara I can use? I forgot mine at home, and I could really use some.” Claire opened the door farther, an invitation for the other dancer to enter, move on, and forget what she might've just seen.

The dancer's posture relaxed, as if physically letting the incident slough off her shoulders, no longer her concern. “Yeah, of course, in my bag,” she said, on her way to her seat in front of the mirror. Claire closed the door, sealing them both inside.

Later that evening, she rushed to Serafim's apartment and — too impatient to knock —barged in to find him smoking on his sofa. “And?” she asked him, glad to be speaking French again. “How did they turn out?”

He gave her a stern look.

“Now, don't tell me they didn't work. I thought you told me you were a professional.”

“No, that's not it. It's the way you pushed me out, like you were going to call the police. Why did you do that? That woman saw me and my camera.”

Claire laughed. “It was to save us! Pretending you were just a drunk who stumbled in through the back door was the best way of getting you out of there, with the photos and everything intact. Now you're just a drunkard in their minds, who was stumbling around in a place you weren't welcome. It happens all the time. No one suspects a thing. Promise.”

Serafim thought this over, looking at his cigarette. “Well. Okay. The pictures are there.” He gestured to a large envelope near the radio.

Claire rushed over and slid the photos out. Gasping, she spun round. “These are perfect! Perfect.” She stared into the dreamy centre of the room. “By next weekend, we'll be rich.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I am. Nothing can go wrong now.” She slipped off her shoes, removed her jacket and shawl, and dragged it suggestively across the back of her neck. “The hardest part is behind us,” she said, already making her way towards him. “You'll see.”

Paris, França; 7 de março de 1929

Estimado Serafim,

Thank you for sending me those last photos. I really enjoy the body language of the prostitutes and how readily they lend themselves to interpretation. The pictures got me thinking of a conversation I had the other week, about Lucien Aigner.

I'm not sure if you've heard of him yet, but he's well known here, primarily for his stunts. He carries a camera in his pocket (he swears by the same model you do, in fact), and once he's in the private settings of the notable, politicians and high society, he shoots them on the sly. “Caricatures, grimaces, the unaware moment, the pratfall, showing the mighty made human; in pyjamas if possible,” he said in an interview. The resulting photo essays printed in
Vu
and some of the German picture magazines have damaged more than a few reputations.

This sparked the discussion I had. It comes so easy for us to take pictures of prostitutes, urchins, street people, because, I think, it costs them little to be photographed. They are already stripped down to a fundamental state, and as I've seen with the models I photograph, the simple act of having to stand nude tends to make one unashamed of one's form. This has me wondering, then, if we should not be concentrating more on the rich, on those whose baring of their true selves, whose being caught and seen as manifestly human, costs them so much more. They can, after all, afford it. If empathy is the end goal, shouldn't we actually be seeking not only moments of majesty in those whom, like prostitutes, society has torn down, but the moments of frailty in those whom society props up?

Abraços,

Álvaro