Guillermo Rosales - Leapfrog and Other Stories

“That’s impossible,” I told him. “Pythagoras of Croton was never photographed in his lifetime or painted by any artist.”

“Well, then look through films set in antiquity for some old, bearded man who looks like a prophet.”

I went out to the archive and was looking for what Ramses requested for a long time. In the end, I came upon a photo of John Houston dressed as an ancient Greek, holding a staff in his hand.

I quickly took it to Ramses and asked him if that was what he wanted.

“I like it,” he said. “Find me more — seated, standing, talking.”

I went back to the archive and was actually able to gather several photos of John Houston in different positions in his prophet garb.

“Perfect,” Ramses said with the material in his hands. “Now leave me alone. For this work I need a lot of concentration and solitude.”

Ramses spent the whole day working in the dark room. It got to be five p.m., and the medium and I left the place, with him inside, concentrating on his work.

The next day, when I appeared before him in the dark room, he turned on the lights and showed me his work, still in the dryer.

There you could see the thirty old classicists in Miami Beach surrounding a Pythagoras dressed in a Grecian tunic, raising his staff very solemnly. There were four photos like that. The others were simple views of the hotel and of the jolly old men who radiated happiness as they danced.

“As you see, it’s all a trick,” Ramses said with a smile. “Pythagoras of Croton never existed, and if he did exist, he must now be old dust over the hot earth of Croton.”

“So you don’t believe?” I asked him.

“In anything.” Ramses responded. “When I left Cuba, I stopped believing in all religion and all philosophy. I embraced money as my ideology.”

“But then, this is a scam.” I said.

“Perhaps,” Ramses responded, looking down at his nails philosophically. “But they’re going to be happy with these photos. Their devotion to Pythagoras will lead them to blindly believe that John Houston is the real Pythagoras. They will never suspect that it’s a crude photomontage. They’ll be happy; I’ll have six-thousand dollars in my pocket. What you call a scam, I call a white lie, a dream machine. The camera I have is just a Japanese Nikon to take pictures of weddings and baptisms. Everything decorating it is pure useless junk to create an ambience. So, what do you make of all of this?”

By way of response, I started laughing.

“The perfect business.” I said.

“Good,” Ramses said. “Now you have to go to Kendall, to 122nd Avenue, to hand over twelve photos to an old woman who lost her daughter three months ago and is obsessed with the idea that the deceased is still living in her house. As you’ll notice, the daughter is none other than Bette Davis in the movie “Jezebel,” dressed as a late 19th-century lady. If the old lady complains that this isn’t her daughter, you’ll be able to tell her that spirits change their appearance according to their tastes and, to wander about in the fourth dimension they take on the face they like most. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“So go. There are twelve photos and the old lady should give you five hundred dollars, as per the contract. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“So get going!”

I left the studio in Ramses’ car and was soon in Kendall looking for the old woman’s home. It took me a while to find the house — it was tucked away, protected by two gates, and guarded by an aggressive Doberman who barked frantically at me from the moment I got out of my car. I rang the doorbell and the old woman answered, leaning on two crutches.

“I’ve come from Ramses Photos,” I said with a forced smile. “I brought the photos the Maestro took of you and your deceased daughter two months ago.”

“God bless you, son! I am willing to stop eating for a whole month for those photos. I’ll pay any price, but let me see them right away.”

I handed over the sealed envelope and she opened it very delicately.

There, in the first photo, you could see the old woman sitting in a gray armchair with Bette Davis behind her, her hands on the old woman’s shoulders, dressed in a very elegant suit from the mid-1800s.

“My daughter! My daughter!” the little old woman exclaimed, tears in her eyes. “Why does she look so different? She was thinner.”

“Well, spirits take on the form they always wished they’d had in their material lives,” I said, evoking Ramses’ words. “Believe me, this is the actual appearance your daughter has in the great beyond.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the old woman said. “It doesn’t matter to me at all. It’s my daughter and I’ll pay anything to have her with me again. Do you know how she died?”

“No.”

“It’s better if you don’t know. She was raped eleven times by three criminals, who afterward knifed her repeatedly, and then took everything she had in her purse. She was finishing up veterinary school — at the height of her youth.”

“She’s happy now with you,” I assured her.

“God bless you, son. I won’t eat, I won’t buy that plot of land in the cemetery I’m saving for. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter to me to go without my heart medicine this month. My little daughter, my dear girl is with me.”

She turned around with the photos in her hands and came back a little while later with four one-hundred-dollar bills, all wet and wrinkled.

“Here you go,” she said. “That’s all I have. I know I’m one hundred dollars short, but I hope to God that kind-hearted Ramses can understand that there just isn’t anymore.”

“He’ll understand,” I said. “Don’t worry about that.”

I shook her bony hand and she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“You don’t know how happy I am now,” was the last thing I heard her say when I was already in the car. I bid her farewell with a wave of my hand and went quickly back to the studio on Flagler Street.

“How did it go?” Ramses asked when he saw me.

“Fine. Here’s the money.”

“Only four hundred? I told her five hundred.”

“She doesn’t even have a bucket to kick when the time comes,” I explained.

“Nonsense! Those old folks have a lot of gold saved in the bank. You should have bargained. Tomorrow, I’ll go myself to get that hundred dollars. Now, go to the archive and look for a dachshund. It’s for another old lady who can’t be consoled after the death of her pet. I already photographed her, all I need is the dog lying at her feet.”

Calmly, without any emotion or desire to argue, I said to Ramses, “No, my friend. I’m done with this job right now.”

“What’s wrong with you, cubano ? Aren’t you happy with the salary you’ve got? I’ll raise it to five hundred dollars a month soon.”

“I’m sorry, Ramses, it’s not that. Keep the money you owe me. Find someone else to deal with your archive. I’m leaving.”

“Oh, I get it. Scruples?”

“Something like that.”

“How long have you been in exile?”

“Three months,” I responded.

“You’ll never get a leg up.”

“I know.”

“Fine, leave if you want. Take this hundred dollars, you’ll

need it.”

“No, I don’t need it. Thank you.”

I turned my back to him and walked to the front door. From there, I heard Ramses raise his voice to say to me once more:

“You’ll never get a leg up here!”

I went out to the street. It was a beautiful summer afternoon and I started to walk toward downtown. I crossed the bridge, passed in front of the library, walked in front of the showy clothing and jewelry shops, and ended up at a lonesome park that bordered the sea.