Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

“Is there a reason that Mr. Derry would have stripped the shop and disappeared like this overnight?”

He gives her an indulgent smile.

“The problem, my dear, is that there are many reasons.” He pauses, changes the tone of his voice and asks, “You purchased a camera from him recently?”

“A used Aquinas. A real find. It’s twenty years old, but it’s in great shape. The thing is, Derry told me to take it home and try it out. I haven’t paid for it yet.”

“Forgive me,” he says, pours another cup of tea and goes through the same routine with his little finger. This time, however, he leaves the tea in his cup. “Most people would not deem this a problem. I think most people would consider this a great stroke of fortune.”

“You’re saying I should just keep the camera.”

He sips at the tea and shrugs. “You came today to pay the man. Your intentions were honorable. You are not the one who disappeared, are you?”

“Well, no,” she says, “but—”

He leans forward a bit. “There is another problem?”

“It’s not a problem, really, I just wanted …”

“You had questions about the camera?”

Sylvia feels like he’s pressuring her, leaning in toward her. She feels like she doesn’t want to tell him about the photographs. And yet he may know something about how to find Derry. So she says, “There was some film left in the camera. I assume it belonged to the previous owner. I was hoping Mr. Deny could help me return it.”

“Return the film?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Couldn’t the previous owner simply purchase new film? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She can feel the manipulation. The old guy wants the whole story. And it’s clear he’s not going to come up with any help until he gets some explanation.

She puts down her teacup. “I guess I haven’t made myself clear. You see, the film had been exposed. The previous owner had already taken some pictures. I wanted to return the pictures.”

He sits back, makes a big effort at crossing his legs, exerts a lot of energy. Then he folds his hands together and rests them on his belly. He stares at her, suddenly no longer grandfatherly but more like some weary grade-school principal who’s too long in his job and too far from retirement. Sylvia’s uncomfortable with his look and she wants to leave, maybe drive out to the Snapshot Shack and relieve Cora, sit in the booth alone for the rest of the day listening to AM radio and looking over people’s vacation pictures.

“You developed the photographs,” Mr. Quevedo says quietly.

“I have a darkroom,” she says, “In my cellar. I’m a photographer.”

He waits for a minute staring at her the whole time, then says, “Would I be familiar with your work?”

Now she’s embarrassed.

“It’s not like that,” she says. “I don’t make my living at it. I just take a lot of pictures. I go out and shoot a lot of film.”

“A hobby then?”

She hates the word.

“Not, not at all. Not a hobby.”

She’s fumbling. She can’t seem to order her thoughts.

“I’m just starting out,” she says. “I’ve had some problems. Some …”

“Complications,” he finishes for her.

“There was a family illness. My mother passed away.”

He nods, concerned. Patriarchal.

“I’m very sorry,” he says.

“I just got off track for a while,” she says. “I lost my focus.”

More solemn nodding. He pulls at the stiff cuffs of his shirt and they sit in silence. Sylvia tries to concentrate on the tea, looks down and pretends to study the swirling patterns of the carpet.

“These photographs you developed,” he says, “the ones from the camera. What did you find?”

Her eyes come up to his face and she says, “They were stunning.”

“Nature scenes?” he asks.

“No. Nothing like that. There were seven shots. All of the same subjects. A woman and her child. An infant. Inside an old building of some sort. Incredible use of shadow. The gradations were—”

“Masterful?” he says.

She’s getting annoyed with his interruptions.

“The best thing I can say is they were genuine. They hit me like a bullet. They hung on. It’s difficult to explain.”

“Believe me, Sylvia,” he says, “twenty years in this business, you come to understand the importance of the elemental image.”

She looks past him at the Fouquet.

“I guess that would be true,” she says, then adds, “I like that phrase. Elemental image.”

But he’s moved on. He’s tapping his chin and mouth with his long index finger.

“You know,” he says, “the work sounds very much like Propp.”

She waits for him to go on and when he doesn’t she says, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand,” he says. “I’m saying it’s most likely a talented imitator. Perhaps a student studying the technique of the master.”

“Propp?”

“You disagree?” he says. “Well, of course, you’ve seen the work. And your description was very generic. You have to understand my specialty is more literary. And classical rather than contemporary. As you can imagine, I’m not very well versed in photography. Always a step removed, so to speak. A passing familiarity with the basics. When I hear shadowy Madonna and child, naturally I think of Propp.”

“Naturally,” she says.

“Are you one of the fans or one of the detractors?” he asks. “It has been my experience that there is no fence-sitting when it comes to Propp.”

She takes a deep breath. If she tries to act like she knows what he’s talking about she’ll only look more foolish in the end. So she exposes her ignorance, her glaring un-hipness. She asks, “Who is Propp?”

Mr. Quevedo is taken aback. He straightens up and uncrosses his legs, leans forward toward her. He’s no longer the school principal, but the understanding priest of Sylvia’s childhood dreams.

He clears his throat, lowers his voice and says, “Forgive me again, Sylvia. I’ve been quite impolite all morning. I forget that simply because someone is legend in the Canal Zone it does not necessarily mean they are a household word beyond our borders. You are not familiar with Terrence Propp?”

“I assume he’s a photographer?”

He nods. “I’m really not an authority. I’m an old man who takes his supper in the cafés. I’ve heard the stories and rumors for so long now that I assume the rest of the world is just as soaked in the myth.”

“The myth?”

“I can give you the names of some who can help you. Very likely, they can look at the photographs and tell you who took them. Propp is their obsession, not mine.”

“You’re using words like myth and obsession. I can’t believe I haven’t heard of this guy.”

He shrugs, gives a smile that’s not quite sheepish. He blinks a few times and says, “Is is so surprising really? There is no single pool anymore. There hasn’t been for some time. Everything has fragmented. Why should culture follow a different road? Propp is a single particle, floating in a narrow vein. Though I warn you, Sylvia, the faithful will tell you otherwise. And quite emphatically.”

“It’s just a little strange,” she says. “I mean, I go to the galleries regularly. I hang around the art sections at all the bookstores. I would think I would have—”

“I once heard it said that Propp is only stumbled upon by those he wishes to have stumble upon him.”

She thinks for a second and says, “I don’t follow you.”

He waves a hand at her.

“It was said by a fanatic. So much cryptic babble. You know the young ones down here, they think their art is some mystery religion. That’s the problem with cultists. They always lose their capacity for humor. Of course I believe in commitment to the work. And yes, Sylvia, there can be fun in the hoax. In gamesmanship. I’m no stranger to the allure. The stunts we used to dream up back at the Tronador. I could go on all day. But there is a difference between walking the dog and being on the wrong end of the leash. Between using the mystery and having it use you.”