Possessed hearts - стр. 23

It's six degrees centigrade. I feel sorry for Isa.

But this girl exceeded my expectations and stood firm against all my demands, the cold and the icy spray of the ocean. She was so obedient and meek that I gave myself my word not to kill her. Aisa is too beautiful, too sublime. Even for me. Especially for me.

After the shoot, I hurriedly wrapped this heavenly creature in a warm blanket, put her in the car and we drove to her house where I handed Aisa over to her anxious parents. I was invited to dinner, but I declined, citing my already purchased tickets to London, where I was scheduled for my next shoot and interview with Colour world, one of the most famous English reportage photography magazines. I bought the tickets three days before the meeting with the editor-in-chief so that I could print my best photos. After all, even though I was shooting models, in my spare time I was shooting the world. Ordinary mortals. Airports. On the platform. In subways. On the street and in cafes. Children and old people. The beautiful and the not so beautiful. The ugly. Cripples. Life itself in all its contradictory diversity. But also Death. Three years ago, I managed to capture it. In Toronto. A guy jumped in front of an incoming train. And I did it: the suicidal man was left hanging in the air, right in the centre of the train's huge iron nose. Unaware of what was happening, the driver, frowning his bushy eyebrows, stared silently ahead. A second before the train crushes, blows to pieces the body of the suicider. The mouth of the girl opens in horror, reaching out her hands to the one who has decided to end his Life. Probably his girlfriend. Now an unofficial widow. Best shot I've taken in all the years I've been into photography.

***

– I'm impressed, Miss Mroczek. You should open an independent exhibition for your photos," said editor-in-chief Bernard Attick. He looked very impressive.

We were sitting in his large office, bright from the four large desk lamps, tastefully furnished but slightly dishevelled. The editor's black wooden desk was cluttered with dozens of folders, an open notebook, many sheets of paper, letters, and a small white coffee cup lurking on the very edge. One wrong elbow movement and it would fall to the bare parquet and crumble to pieces. But the editor-in-chief seemed so accustomed to having that particular cup in exactly the right place that I wasn't worried about its safety.

Mr. Attick was a professional. And I respected him. I respect very few people. But his sense of smell and flair and taste were beyond reproach. It's true he had a funny last name. But it's kind of cute.

– Isn't it? – I said modestly, knowing exactly why he was so impressed.

– Yes… Your photos… I've never seen anything like them. And you do modelling, don't you? – Bernard looked at my photos for the second time. – This one. It's magical.

I looked at the photo: Oh, yes, a random shot in a little cafe in Liverpool. A little boy is discreetly feeding a fat, short-legged dog a boiled sausage while the boy's mother sits at a table, concentrating on her mascara. The woman's mouth is wide open, as if it were aiding her in her occupation. Black and white photograph. Early 2000s.