Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Make a mess.”

“Make sure it’s not a big one.”

“I can’t promise.”

“Zack?”

“Yes.”

“Everything will be OK, brother.”

“You think?” Danny leaves the keys, shows me where the chemicals are, and we say good night. I am alone. One of the faucets in this enormous lab is not completely closed and is dripping. I don’t know why, but this sound makes me feel indescribably alive. I get to work.

*

Stella hated the hassles of departures and arrivals. She had packed her luggage two days earlier; she was dressed and ready to go. Now we just sipped coffee.

“You have some gray hair,” she said suddenly, while trimming the stems of a dozen freesias she had just picked from the garden.

“Thank you,” I said half-sarcastically and got up to refill my cup. I wasn’t offended, but her remark sounded almost like reproach.

“Don’t mention it.” She ignored my tone. “I like you this way.”

“What way?” I secretly glanced at her.

“This way.” She smiled as if there was someone else in the room besides the two of us, with whom she was communicating silently.

“You like me this way, with. . gray hair?” Opening the refrigerator door to grab the milk, I managed to steal another glimpse of her under my arm.

“The gray has nothing to do with whether I like you or not. We should be over the gray already, shouldn’t we?” She arranged the freesias in the small vase with fresh water.

“I’m still not over it.” I said. “Do you want more coffee?”

“No, thank you. But could you bring the sugar, please?” I went to the sofa and sat next to her. She put three spoonfuls of sugar in the vase.

“They’ll last longer this way.”

“Can I drive you to the airport?” I knew what the answer would be, but offered anyway.

“I don’t want you to.”

“It’s on my way to work.”

“Please,” she said firmly.

“I’ll miss you,” I say after a pause. I knew I shouldn’t have said it, but I did.

“You need to be alone. You need to decide what to do with your life.” And with that, she ended the conversation, got up, and tapped the tip of my nose with her index finger as if turning something on. She smiled that smile of hers again, wrapped the long, blue, sequined scarf around her neck, and tossed her favorite black bag with the little skulls over her shoulder.

Then the cab arrived. The driver was chewing gum and smelled like aftershave. While he was fitting one of her suitcases in the trunk, one of his shoes came untied. He bent over to tie it and I loaded the second suitcase. It wasn’t heavy.

Then we kissed and she slammed the door on the end of her blue scarf. I went to knock on the window, but then stopped as a warm feeling came over me. I smiled, watching the car pull away, with the blue scarf with its tiny sequins waving good-bye, like in a melodrama.

*

— what happened, zack? it was supposed to be short. i’m cold, and hungry

— just stay like this, this is the last shot

— how many times have i heard you say that!

— last one

— zack?

— yes

— i have something very important to tell you. .

— can you wait ‘til after this shot?

*

Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Ring. Ringing. Doorbell. I lift my head up. I had fallen asleep sitting in a chair, with my head buried between a tray of Dektol developer and a tray of Ilford fixing solution.

Ringing, buzzing, ringing. I get up, stretch my numb body, my head hurts from the chemical fumes, the messed-up doorbell half-buzzes, half-rings. I find the button and push it. I hear the elevator, I open the door. Danny seems pale. Upset.

“Hey, where’s the fire?” I try to joke. He doesn’t answer. He comes inside. He fusses about, looks very upset, more upset than ever, he can hardly stay in one place.

“We’ve got go.” He stops in front of one of the photos I’ve left to dry.

“Danny,” I say. “I’m starving.”

“What have you done?” Danny’s eyes start moving from picture to picture, the whole space is now filled with images — from 5-by-7s to gigantic 36-by-50-inch enlargements as big as the posters in a teenager’s room — the desolate places, the highways, Melody, empty streets, mailboxes, faces, diners, people, desert, trailers, raindrops on the windshield, skies, woods, barns, buildings, people, faces, people. . Danny looks at them carefully, touching the drying paper with the back of his hand. “You took all these? With what?”

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s as if you were taking photos for the last time!” Danny squints, standing in front of the sheets of paper curled by the dry air.

“As if for the first time or for the last?” The truth is that I got ecstatic last night when I discovered the huge quantities of Lumina — my favorite fiber-based photo paper that’s been out of production since the end of the nineties. Obviously, Hito had supplied himself with this high-quality paper, made of nothing but natural ingredients. You can pull the best medium values out of it, the most vibrant nuances of gray. I notice, however, that Danny is very, very upset.

He suddenly grabs me by the wrists and tries to look into my eyes. “I know everything.”

That said about medium values, the shades of gray and life, I’m thinking about the iconic images of stars — Marilyn Monroe, Che Guevara, Levsky, Elvis. “You know everything?” The truth about stars is that they don’t need medium values. The best way to create a star is to get rid of the medium values, to increase the contrast and to reduce the face to its characteristic eyes, lips, hair, mustache. To dark and light.

“Everything. I know everything.” Danny is worrying me, he’s digging his nails into my wrists, his knuckles are white.

“Chill, man. Of course you know everything. We all know everything we need to know.” Danny tries to say something. I guess he’s trying to tell me something important. All of a sudden he bursts into tears like a baby. He lets go of my wrists and embraces me.

“I know everything about. . Stella. About you and Stella.”

“What do you know about Stella?” I say and feel the knot.

“I know. I’m sorry, Zack. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about Stella.” Suddenly, Danny hits me on the chest, and then again and again on the chest. “But why didn’t you tell me? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?

“What did you need to know?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that she’s gone?! She’s gone? She’s. .”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“You didn’t ask. But now that you mention it — yes, it’s true, Stella has been dead to me since. . uh. . for almost two weeks.”

“She’s not dead to you, stupid! She’s not dead only to you! Stella is dead, dead, dead, dead, dead! To you, to me, to herself, to everybody. She’s dead, gone!” Danny is crying. “Wake up!” Danny is trying to stop crying. “I called friends in California. I called Tony. He told me how it happened.” Danny grabs my shoulders. “Stella died in a car accident on her way to the airport! Stella died in an accident, Zack! Stella is dead. She died there, on the freeway. Tony said you went crazy, you turned off your phone, and you wouldn’t talk to anybody. Not a single one of your friends could reach you. I found out that you’d disappeared. They told me about the fire, about your house. You need help, brother. You need help. .” The cell phone in Danny’s pocket rings. “You need. .” He sniffles, rubs his eyes. “Let’s go. We have to. . We’ll come back later. We have to go, we have to. .” His cell keeps ringing. “We have to get the bag, to take it to. .” Danny is confused, the cell phone is ringing. Danny is more confused than me. His Adam’s apple jumps up and down. Danny reaches into his pocket, pulls out a Nokia, takes a deep breath, and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “Yes. When? But, Boss, it’s too. .” Danny looks at his watch. “What? No, I’m OK. I just got a cold, a flu, that’s all. Yes. I got it. We’ll be there.”