Shooting Kabul (17 page)

“I know, Son,” said Uncle Amin. “But the attackers didn't know, or care, I suspect. They were mad over
what had happened and they wanted to take it out on someone they assumed was a Muslim.”

“How is he?” asked Fadi. He remembered seeing Mr. Singh that last time, handing out ice cream to kids near Lake Elizabeth. He felt numb.

“He's in the hospital with broken ribs and a concussion,” said Uncle Amin. “That's where I was, visiting him and his family. The doctors say he'll recover in a few weeks.”

“Mr. Singh's family must hate us,” said Noor, her voice soft.

“No, of course not, Noor,” said Uncle Amin.

“But he was attacked because they thought he was one of us, a Muslim,” pressed Noor.

“No, no,” interrupted
Khala
Nilufer. “Mr. Singh's family would never blame us for what happened to him.”

“Children,” said Habib. The seriousness in his tone quieted everyone. “The attacks in New York and Washington have frightened people very badly. They are scared and angry, two emotions that can sometimes make people do terrible things. I want you all to be careful. If you have any problems at school with people bothering you or calling you names, tell your teachers, or come to us.”

“Your uncle Habib is right,” said
Khala
Nilufer. “If
anyone says anything threatening to you, tell us at once.”

Fadi nodded along with the rest of the kids.

“Come on, kids. Time for lunch,” said Zafoona with a cheery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “We've got a delicious cake for later.”

Fadi looked at the worry in Uncle Amin's face. It was the same worry Fadi had been carrying with him since Ike and Felix had caught him in the hallway and called him a towel head. He looked at Noor's worried expression and dropped the subject of beating up Barbie. He wasn't so sure he wanted to tell her about it now anyway.

“T
HE DARKROOM IS NOT A PLACE
to hang out and chitchat!” came Ms. Bethune's exasperated voice from outside.

Fadi exchanged a grin with Anh as she locked the darkroom door behind them. A lot of pictures had been ruined that afternoon when eager club members had opened the door, exposing undeveloped prints to light. But the two of them weren't taking any chances. Anh had noticed that you got more time when all the other students were done, so she'd reserved the last slot on the darkroom schedule. Plus, you had Ms. Bethune all to yourself if you had any problems.

“You go first,” said Anh. She pulled out her negatives and peered down through a magnifying glass. “I can't decide which pictures to develop.”

Fadi nodded. A week, a mere seven days, a paltry one hundred sixty-eight hours remained till their deadline. Ten thousand, eighty minutes to turn in the perfect shot to Ms. Bethune. The pressure was on. He said a quick prayer and gently unfurled the negatives from the roll of film he'd shot over the weekend. His shoulders tense, he slipped the reel inside the enlarger's cartridge. The enlarger was brand new and far easier to operate than the one his father had had back on Shogund Street. But the process was the same, and he quickly figured out how to work the lens so that it projected the negative's image down onto the easel. He scrolled to the third frame. A contented sigh whistled through his lips as he squinted down to examine the image.
There it is.

He'd gotten the idea for the picture from his last trip with his father to San Francisco, when he'd been busted trying to stow away on a plane to Peshawar. Images of the city with its rolling hills, curving streets, and colorful neighborhoods had lingered in his mind, reminding him of how he and his father used to walk the hills of Kabul, taking pictures of the city below.

With a sense of nervousness Fadi had approached
his father one afternoon when they'd been alone in the apartment together. He'd told Habib that Noor had given him the money to join the photo club.

“Really?” Habib had said, looking at Fadi over his reading glasses.

“Uh, yes,” Fadi had said.

“That was very nice of her,” Habib had replied as he returned to memorizing the street map of Oakland.

Relieved, Fadi had told his father his idea for the winning shot. His eyes twinkling with interest, Habib had agreed that it was a marvelous concept. He let Fadi come with him to work the following weekend, and when he'd finished his shift at six a.m., they'd strolled through the city, eating chocolate doughnuts, joking, and—best of all—taking pictures.

Fadi now adjusted the knobs on the enlarger, bringing the image into focus. The blurry gray lines sharpened, revealing a shot of Fillmore Street. He'd taken the picture in the crisp morning light, looking down from a steep hill as the street shot down at a nearly ninety-degree angle, stopping at the sparkling waters of the San Francisco Bay. The lighting was perfect. The neat thing about the slope of the street was the restaurant signs that jutted out from the graceful buildings on each side. There was a Chinese restaurant, a German
hofbrau
, a Mexican
taqueria
, a
falafel joint, a sushi bar, and a French bakery.

The composition of the shot works,
thought Fadi.
I hope the judges like it
.

The director of the Exploratorium, Millicent Chao, studied architecture, which the picture showcased. The buildings in the photo were restaurants, and Councilman Henry Watson owned one. Both of the judges loved the city, and the picture highlighted San Francisco. He wasn't sure what Lauren Reed liked, since they had never been able to get much information about her. And Clive Murray? Well, Fadi was sure he'd like it too, since the different restaurants represented ethnic and cultural diversity. He cropped the picture, cutting out the buildings along the edges so that the eye would follow the street down to the water. The eye naturally read the restaurant signs, creating the feeling of travel, passing through the world of food.

Fadi turned off the enlarger and grabbed a sheet of eight-by-ten photo paper. He slipped it under the lens and turned the enlarger back on. Light flashed down through the negative, landing on the paper. Within a minute, the machine automatically turned off.

Fadi exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. He removed his negatives and put them away. Next he retrieved the photo paper and turned to Anh.

“All yours,” he said.

As she fiddled with the enlarger, Fadi carried the photo paper over to the “wet” area of the darkroom. Ms. Bethune had prepared chemical baths in three trays and set them up in the long metal sink. He used tongs to place the paper in the first tray, containing washing chemicals. This was a delicate process, and the sheet could only remain in the solution a minute; too long a soak resulted in the paper breaking down. Fadi set the timer and stared down through the red gloom.

When the timer rang, Fadi reset it for five seconds and used the tongs to pull out the paper and slip it into the indicator stop bath. The print next went into the fixer for two minutes, which would make it light safe. Fadi gently pulled out the print and shook it to get rid of the solution. He attached it with film clips and hung it up to dry. Now all he had to do was wait, so he went over to help Anh with her prints.

Fadi glanced from his picture of Fillmore Street back up to Ms. Bethune's contemplative face. “What do you think?” he asked. He and Anh had hurried to the studio at lunch the next day to check how their prints had turned out after drying.

Ms. Bethune pursed her lips and reviewed the glossy black-and-white image. Fadi gazed down at the photo, and self-doubt crept into his heart.

“You've really captured a stunning image, Fadi,” said Ms. Bethune. “The idea of San Francisco being a cultural mosaic—literally a collage of different cuisines—is very clever. Technically it's beautiful, and it's executed perfectly.”

“But it's missing something, isn't it?” said Fadi. His brows furrowed as his finger traced the street down to the glittering water of the bay.

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” said Ms. Bethune. “It is a solid entry.”

“No,” said Fadi. He shook his head as it dawned on him what it was. “You've said it to us a hundred times. Great photos say something about life; they tell a story. My picture does that. But you've also told us that great photos evoke emotion.”

“Well, yes, I have said that, haven't I?” said Ms. Bethune. She frowned, looking back at the photo.

Fadi glanced over at Anh's picture. Since the beginning she'd wanted to take an action shot. After review-ing the judges' backgrounds, she'd decided to take a picture of performers dancing the South American tango. Millicent Chao's daughter was a ballet dancer, and
Henry Watson liked everything South American. She was sure Clive Murray would like the action shot, since many of his pictures focused on movement.

So Anh had dragged Fadi all over town to dozens of dance studios. She'd begged the instructors to let her photograph them. Finally, when a charming woman had invited them to a dance competition she was hosting, they'd jumped at the opportunity. Anh's father had dropped them off early to set up and had given them a big thumbs-up. An action shot required perfect timing and careful handling of the camera, so Fadi had suggested that Anh use a tripod. As Anh had nervously inspected the windows to establish the best source of light, he'd mounted her expensive, brand-new Nikon to the tripod and positioned it on the edge of the parquet floor. He'd admired the camera's sleek design and its cool new features.

As the dancing had begun, Anh had perched next to the performers. Her right eye had peered through the viewfinder while her index finger had hovered next to the shutter release button. With Fadi's help she'd kept the camera focused on a particular spot, at the center of the hardwood floor, waiting for the whirling dancers to enter the frame. Fadi had suggested using a fast shutter speed to freeze the action as it came into view. By the
end of the competition Anh had shot three rolls of film.

The image she'd chosen showed a lean woman in motion, her shimmering dress whipped around her limber body as a man in a tuxedo dragged her across the dance floor. Light flowed in from the back window, illuminating the couple, highlighting the tension in their passionate embrace. Fadi peered down at the intense image captured on paper. It made him feel as if he were eavesdropping on the story of two lovers.

“This is an amazing picture,” said Fadi with an appreciative sigh. “It captures all the key elements.”

“Thanks,” said Anh. Her eyes were troubled. “But, Fadi, you've got a great shot at winning too.”

“No,” said Fadi, his mind made up. “I don't think this is it.” He took his print of Fillmore Street and tore it up.

“Are you sure?” asked Anh.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” said Fadi.

“Well, it's up to you,” said Ms. Bethune. “But you've got a week to find the perfect idea and one last session in the darkroom.”

Fadi nodded. He had to win that trip, and that required the best picture possible.
Second best isn't going to cut it.

“Fadi, wait,” Anh said as they left the studio. She pulled on his elbow, slowing him down. “Why is
winning so important to you?”

Fadi stopped and turned back to look into her concerned face.

“Look, I don't mean to pry,” said Anh, “but it seems like winning this competition means more to you than just a camera and a trip on a photo shoot.”

Fadi paused and finally mumbled, “I really need to win that trip.”

“Why?”

Conflicting thoughts flooded Fadi's head. Anh was a good friend, and he couldn't lie to her. He pulled her into a quiet nook and told her about Mariam, but left out the part about how it was his fault she was lost. Without saying a word Anh reached over and gave him a hug. Fadi hugged her back awkwardly, his nose tickled by long strands of silky hair.

“It wasn't your fault, Fadi.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “As my father says, it was fate. When he and my mom left Vietnam on a boat fleeing the war, they got separated. But they found each other again in a refugee camp in Cambodia and came to America together.”

“Oh,” said Fadi, pulling away from her embrace.

“One of us is going to win,” she said with confidence. “And you're going to get that trip.”

Fadi didn't know what to say, so he just smiled. His heart felt lighter than it had in a long, long time.