Paul Theroux - Picture Palace

I had proof of this gladdening of my eye. One day in the spring of 1943 Mama decided to have the piano tuned. The man she hired was Mr. Slaughter, whose picture I had done in the Twenties and who was much in demand on the Cape as a piano tuner because of that picture. He was blind. I had been uneasy about his visit and rather dreaded his gratitude. But I stayed in and waited with Phoebe. The folks were in town and, mistrusting our ability to solve the simplest problem, they had left us with an envelope of instructions and a few dollars.

Mr. Slaughter arrived on the dot of three, in Mr. Wampler’s beach wagon. He tapped his cane on the porch.

“Hi, there.”

“That you, Maude?”

Then he was in the house and stooping and grunting over his satchel.

“Piano’s in here,” I said.

“Hate to bother you, but would you mind taking another picture of me? The last one was fine, but I was wearing my old suit. I got a new tie and a haircut today. Here, I brought this camera in my bag. It’s all loaded. All you have to do is pull the trigger.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? It’s a Brownie. Always in focus.”

“Phoebe can do it.”

“Won’t be the same thing.” He fingered a dollar bill. “I’ll pay you cash.”

Oh, hell, I thought. “Stand by the window.”

“Just fix this here tie—”

I aimed at his voice and clicked. “Mister Slaughter, I—” But I couldn’t say it, I hardly believed it — I could see him!

He looked much older, twisting a cloth cap in his hands, with a white cane and a satchel at his feet, and fish-faced, his mouth puckered, as if he were sniffing at something. And whether it was the grayness of the afternoon or his obstruction of the window, I didn’t know, but I was deeply disappointed by what I saw: the gruesome parlor, the stacks of newspapers, the paintings on the wall so much less lively, a tomb-like quality in the room, his worn shoes on the worn carpet. Everything was aged, reduced in size, very plain. If I was shocked it was not because of the miraculous suddenness of my vision, but because of what I saw — no thrill, only a pale light, a blind man in a shabby room.

“It’s right over here, Mister Slaughter,” said Phoebe, entering from the kitchen. “What are you two doing?”

As I looked up from the camera, the shade of my eyelids was drawn on Mister Slaughter, who had looked as white and as fragile as ash.

He said, “This war. Maybe it’s a blessing we can’t see what’s going on. All the fighting. Still, I hope the picture comes out.”

When he left he took the light with him. I had not liked what I had seen. Perhaps it was a true wartime event, a vision of failure and desolation in victory; it made me wary of more victories of that kind.

But secretly I started experimenting with my own Speed Graphic, and I found that if I was calm, and holding the instrument a certain way — and provided I was alone — I could, for the second it took the shutter to open and close, see a whole still picture, which remained printed on my retina like a photograph in a rectangle of light.

I did not tell a soul. This was not vision in the ordinary sense, but it gave me hope for something better, I knew it would take more than a camera to get my sight back.

Soldiers — the earliest ones to enlist — began arriving home in their khakis. In June 1944, we had a phone call, collect, from California: Orlando was on his way back. The next few days were a torment and every time the phone rang there were screams of “I’ll get it!” But it was a full week before we saw him, and he was not alone.

He had brought his “buddy” with him. All soldiers had buddies then. This fellow, a rawboned individual whose name was Woodrow Leathers, was from Stillwater, Maine. Orlando had promised him a ride there in his car after his own homecoming on the Cape.

“Cookie,” said Orlando as he kissed me in his old tender way, lingering a fraction on my lips, promising more with that pressure. Phoebe he treated strangely, with a distancing formality, nipping her on the cheek and then drawing Leathers to the window to point out the windmill in the far garden, which he affectionately ridiculed. I suspected that things had changed between them, if indeed anything had ever existed.

Leathers — or “Woody” as Orlando called him — made a beeline for Phoebe. “You married?” he said, not mincing his words. Clearly encouraged by her reply, he went on, “I wouldn’t mind settling down once this war’s over.”

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “I’ll show you our beach.”

This left Orlando to me. He was just what I needed. He had been my ailment, he could speed my recovery, for love is both a sickness and a cure. I remembered his promise: I’m going to open your eyes . Well, here he was. We walked along the beach, he skimmed stones into the Sound and said, “I dreamed about this.” Up ahead, I could hear Phoebe flirting with Woody.

At dinner, Papa said, “This calls for a celebration.”

“It’s real nice of you folks,” said Woody.

Mama had roasted a turkey, Papa uncorked his New York chablis. Woody sat next to Phoebe, and I had Orlando.

“It’s a bit flinty in taste,” said Papa, sipping the wine, then pouring. “I hope it doesn’t destroy your palate, Woody.”

“Tastes real good to me,” said Woody, and after two glasses his manner changed. He steadied his elbows on the table and guffawed and told us about the gooney birds on Midway Island: “I see this son-of-a-whore in a chair looking at the birds and I says, ‘What do you do all day?’ And he says, ‘This.’ This! Looking at the fucken birds!” He became expansive about the assault they had made in the Marshall Islands: “The Christly landing-craft fucken nearly capsized and we could see the little bastards scattering on the beach. But I just waded in and let them have it with my Jesus carbine and brought them down like fucken partridges. Eh, Ollie?”

The folks took this remarkably well. He was forgiven: it was war.

Orlando said, “Woody’s quite a shot.”

“You’re no slouch,” said Woody. “Anyway, the fucken old man was bullshit, but after we took the Marshalls we both got a stripe.”

“You must be glad to be out,” said Mama.

“Out?” said Woody. “We ain’t out. We’re just on furlough.”

“Ollie?” said Papa.

Orlando said, “He’s right. We’ve got a month.”

Mama said, “I don’t want you to go back. I won’t let you.”

“Don’t spoil it, Mother,” said Papa. “We’re giving Woody a bad impression.”

“Fucken okay with me, sir. But where would the Corps be without me and Ollie? They’d be grabbing hind tit, sir. We’re going to sink Japan — I don’t want to miss that.”

“Can’t you quit?” said Phoebe.

“If you want me to, I will!” said Woody, “Naw. Hey, it’s not bad. We get better chow than this, believe it or not.”

There was a silence, then a cricket’s mad chirp.

Woody said, “I always say the wrong thing.”

Papa said, “We know what you mean, son. We want you to feel right at home.”

“I’m having a real nice time,” said Woody, and the table was jolted as he nudged Phoebe.

“I’ll bet you’re a much better shot than my brother,” said Phoebe.

“Maybe I got a better weapon,” said Woody.

Orlando ignored them. He hugged me and said, “You look great, cookie. I really missed you.”

And when he touched me I felt a current run through a glorious circuit in my body.

“We’re going to hit the hay,” Papa said later, in the parlor, setting down his brandy glass. “Plenty of time to talk tomorrow. You youngsters should turn in, too.” And he led Mama away.