Serafim and Claire (14 page)

She was ushered from club to club in a motorcade of luxury cars — Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs, limousines — storming in and out of establishments at will. Claire watched as her smartly suited chaperones slipped effortless bills into the hands of everyone who might possibly stand in their way. Small bribes were offered for everything: to quickly get in, out, ready the cars at the front doors, have someone go ahead to chill the champagne, musicians to keep playing, clubs to stay open, police to ignore curfews and bylaws, the lights to be dimmed, private rooms to be cleared, tables to be pulled together. Tiny bribes everywhere, for everything.

Well into the morning hours, Claire stopped kissing the manager long enough to ask him about the following night, the Saturday. Could she perform again? Of course, of course, the manager promised, leaning into her once more, his hand on the skin of her knee, hurriedly exploring farther into her dress. Claire helped his fingers along, and by the time the sky began to pale with the light of morning, she was inside his sophisticated mansion, throwing her clothes over his elegant furniture, gripping tight to the silken sheets of his bed, and laughing at the high ceiling above him.

When they woke several hours later, he pulled back the blankets, groaned, and held his head. He made his way out of the room, telling her she could find her own way out. Before he left, he mumbled that he would see her again that night, as promised, for another performance at the Gayety. A Saturday night, the theatre's biggest.

Late that afternoon, while Claire was rehearsing before the show, it occurred to her that in the sweep and swirl of the previous day's events, she hadn't even thought to call her old club to let them know she wouldn't be showing up. It was the kind of thing that was almost sure to get a dancer fired, at least the first time it happened; it would unquestionably get her fired the second time. Claire was amazed at the fact that she didn't really care about this. What was a razed bridge if you didn't even want the
choice
of crossing back over it?

While she rehearsed with the other two dancers that afternoon, the feature dancer was curt and condescending with her, exchanging scathing glances with Claire at every turn and in the glimmer of every mirror that tilted in her rival's direction. Claire simply ignored her. She was too busy willing herself to exceed expectations. She felt invincible.

Medium:
Gelatin silver print

Description:
Il fascio
;
Italians on pier

Location:
Le Havre, France

Date:
1926

Three men in black shirts — sleeves rolled up, and one or two buttons undone from the collar — are smiling, elated, in what appears to be morning sun, in springtime or summer.

Two of them are wearing flat caps; the other bares a head of dense, wavy black hair. Both hats are not on straight, as if they've only just been donned, hurriedly, for the picture; or have been continuously removed and replaced as a part of the men's reverie.

Each of them is looking in a different direction, away from the camera; the man in the middle looks as if he is about to drop his hands from the flanking men's shoulders. Their faces are carved with archetypal Roman features, like three busts in an Etruscan museum.

Behind them looms the hull of a leviathan steamship, rectangular sheets of metal stitched together in a patchwork of seams and rivets, stalwart industrial needlework.

The man on the right is turning away dramatically, gazing slightly over his shoulder, stepping away from his companions, looking back at something that is out of the frame. One couldn't guess what he sees, but there is a strain in his expression that seems to indicate there is a whole lot more to smile about. And a whole lot less.

Serafim stood on
a wharf in northern France, deafened by what sounded like all the languages in Europe trying to drown each other out. The quayside roiled and churned around him, men and women carrying trunks for short distances before putting them down again; children crying, wide-eyed and snivelling, clinging to their parents, brothers, sisters; men brushing close to Serafim and giving him half-aggressive nudges, likely because he was the only one in the knotted crowd who wasn't in a hurry.

The ship from Oporto had landed the night before, and it was the morning of disembarkation. Minutes earlier, Serafim's merchant friend had given him a few direct, seaman-type orders. He had one day to unload merchandise. If Serafim wanted, he could sleep on the ship again that evening, but they would set sail the following day at noon, so he would have to have all his belongings off the boat by then. Good luck,
adeus
, a firm handshake, and his friend was off into the swelling confusion, bent on making sense of at least his part in it. Which was more than could be said for Serafim.

He was quiet in the bedlam, thinking how strange it was that his new-found freedom felt so terrifying. He wondered if complete freedom was one of those things people aspired to but secretly held themselves back from attaining. Serafim now had the liberty to go anywhere in the world, do anything. He had no land, no ties, no home to return to. He was unbound, floating illimitable; yet he had never felt so burdened in his life. What if we
choose
confinement, he contemplated; what if we actually
seek
to settle into the security of some type of bondage? A person certainly never has to worry about their bearings, or who and what they are, when held in place by a few simple, even token, chains. Rendering oneself a captive liberates one from all the squeamish dilemmas of free will.

Serafim shouldered his way to the outer edge of the mob and began sauntering down the quayside, waiting for some idea of what to do with his day, as well as the rest of his life. He wanted an idea to spring from the chaos, pin him down, muscle his head in some direction, set his sights on something. He contemplated making his way to a train station and heedlessly getting on the first train that stopped in front of him, letting it pull him out to some waylaid village, or anonymous university city, or bourgeois suburb of Paris.

A man bumped into him from behind. “
Je m'excuse! Désole
,
hein
?” Flashing a set of palms, backing away. Serafim told him it was nothing, in Portuguese, which either fell on deaf ears or was devoured by the flurry of moving bodies around them. Serafim passed the next ship along the pier, being loaded with burlap sacks and wooden barrels, the workers' vision tunnelled onto the queues leading up the boat ramps and onto the deck. He waited for a break in the lines to weave through them, excusing himself as he scurried by. He passed another massive steamboat, which had fewer people in front of it, and by the time he was approaching the one after that, the crowd had become sparse enough for him to look around, observe his surroundings in a little more detail, come out of his shoulder-hunched self. As he did so, he heard music nearby.

A group of men in black shirts, Italians, milling about in front of a steamship, had broken into sudden song with the greatest animation and bravado, several of them conducting the lyrics with clenched forearms held high, two of them with hands on their chests, swaying their heads, all of them smiling. “
Dell'Italia nei confini / Son rifatti gli italiani / Li ha rifatti Mussolini / Per la guerra di domani
. . .” It continued, finally reaching a crescendo with a collective hooray, which found them laughing and splintering off into smaller groups of natural conversation that became, in their own way, even more animated than the singing. The photographic potential was ideal, and Serafim lingered on the sidelines, waiting for them to get used to his presence, dawdling in hopes of becoming socially invisible. But before that could happen, one of them, crouching over a makeshift stove and brewing what appeared to be coffee, gestured for him to come over and join them.

It was in fact coffee, or at least some kind of shockingly bitter syrup that resembled it, Serafim thought, wincing and swallowing it down like aspirin. He crouched in the midst of the men as they nodded welcoming hellos in his direction —
ciao
,
buon giorno
,
salve
. The man who'd given him the tiny cup of coffee felt the need to explain the song, their black shirts, the insignias on some of their things (an axe bound to a bundle of sticks with several twines of rope). Had Serafim heard of Il Duce yet? In the papers, yes, Serafim intimated, he had.

“I am happy to hear,” replied the man, “because Benito Mussolini, he is a good, good man. He is bringing back, how do you say,
restoring
(you understand? —
bene
) restoring the dignity, the international dignity, of Italy. We” — the man made a giant, inclusive circle with his hands, encompassing the ship behind them as well — “we, all of us, are
il fascio
(how do you say?) —
fascistas
. Yes, Mussolini, he is going to change the world,
amico mio
. The world. You understand?”

And Serafim, radiating with understanding, seemed to grasp the depth and import of the message better than the messenger himself. He pulled out his Leica, inspired, and asked if he could take pictures of these proud fascists. Of course, of course! A floppy hand flicked him out into the dynamic throng, granting him free passage to whatever intimacy he came across. Serafim moved from small group to group, the men often posing together, hands on each other's shoulders, dragging other people into the frame, while Serafim pretended to release the shutter at the predictable moment and then, holding the camera at his chest, waited for the better shots to unfold, snapping them deviously, imperceptibly. Instead of this window of opportunity closing itself in the fleeting way it usually did, the exposures only got better the more used to him they became, until he was completely out of film. Intending to return once he'd replenished the film, he then thought of doing something even more active, more committed. Painted on the side of the hull that towered above them were white letters stencilled onto a low-gloss blue, the ship's name,
Resolute
, which, he noticed, was also printed on a manned booth opposite the ship — presumably the ticket vendor.

Serafim approached the man, struggling in his grade-school French. “I would like to know . . . how much is . . . a ticket for your boat?”

“You can speak in Portuguese,” the man said, recognizing Serafim's accent, in the way people do when they share a mother tongue.

“Oh,” Serafim said, relieved, “you're from Portugal?”

“Yes, but working for this shipping company, English owned, most of my life.” The connection required little more explanation. “It sounds like you are from Oporto.”

Serafim faltered, self-conscious. The Oporto accent wasn't known for its refinement or beauty. “Yes, . . . . was — but now would like to get on board the
Resolute
.”

“Of course.” The man opened a book, procured a pad of receipts. “What will your final destination be, Mr. . . .”

“Vieira. Well, to be honest, it depends on where those men are going, the Italians.”

“Montreal.”

“They're going to America?”

“Well, Quebec, Canada, but the city is only kilometres from the United States, yes.”

“I see.” Serafim turned to take a look at them again, his eyes pinpointing the insignias of what was almost sure to become a vital political movement, the men's expressions, telling postures, wildly whirling arms and gesticulations, the limitless potential for photos in that one moment alone. “Montreal it is, then.” He turned back to the vendor and showed him his camera,“I thought we might come to some kind of arrangement. I imagine you need up-to-date photographs of your ship, for advertisements, et cetera?”

The man cocked his head. “Perhaps.” Then, unhurriedly, he left the booth and entered a building nearby, returning a few minutes later to rearrange the book and pad of receipts in front of him. “Have you been commissioned for commercial photography before — for shipping, commerce?”

“Yes.”

The man smirked. “A businessman, Mr. Vieira, must know the nuances of when and how to lie. You are not much of a businessman, are you?”

Serafim's face warmed. “No. But I am a sound photographer.”

This time the man laughed, readying a pen and turning over a new receipt. “Tell you what. I'll have you pay me, upfront, the second-lowest fare we offer to Montreal, one above steerage. At the end of the voyage, you show me the pictures that might be of use to us, and if we take any of them, I'll deduct their worth from your initial fare and give you a refund. Sound fair to an Oporto businessman such as yourself?”

Serafim smiled, shrugged, held out his hand. “Fair enough.”

The following afternoon, grey plumes mushroomed from the smokestacks of the
Resolute
. Billows of steam, rich, slightly sweet-smelling, began first to slant then to drag behind the boat, impelling it forward, out into the open Atlantic, to carve colossal through the dark swells. Serafim had no one to wave to back on land, but he found himself waving anyway.

His third-class cabin was deep in the ship, and was shared with three other men, two of whom snored throughout the rolling hours of the night, barrels of sound wheeling from one side of the room to the other with each sway of the vessel. The one who slept silently had yet to address Serafim, but by the way he spoke to the other two in the cabin Serafim could tell the man was coarse and abrasive. He was a man, Serafim noticed while strolling around on deck, whose sharp words either commanded respect or deeply annoyed, even enraged people. Serafim was feeling lighter and more excited than he ever had in his life, and he made a point of avoiding the man, keeping even the tight-quarters interactions in their cabin as limited as possible. Until three days into the trip.

Serafim had been taking pictures in an out-of-the-wind but well-lit part of the upper deck when a different man — an emotionless, bland-looking gentleman — called him over and asked him to take his picture. Not in any position to say no, Serafim obliged, surreptitiously catching a shot of him after he'd relaxed from his pose, and while he was giving a haunted look to someone standing nearby. The man then asked — and Serafim, who was catching more Italian by the day, was sure he misunderstood him at first — for the picture Serafim had just taken, wondering when he would actually have it in his hands. Serafim explained that he would have to develop it in a darkroom, enlarge it in order to make a single copy, so to speak, once they arrived in Montreal. The man became perceptibly anxious, wanting to know if it was possible for Serafim to make, say, a million copies of this photo if he so wished. A million copies that might be kept for years, and handed out at any time, to anyone, such as the authorities, or one's enemies, people who might be looking for you?

“Well, sure,” Serafim answered, “once the film is developed, that is possible, yes.”

“In that case,” the man commanded vehemently, “I want one photo,
and
this thing, this film of my photo, that a person can make copies from.”

It was hard to believe he wasn't joking, but Serafim felt the quiet, pressing need to agree to this.

“Good,” said the man, “good. So, you will give me the photo and this film the day we arrive in Montreal.” It was not a question.

“Sure,” Serafim agreed, and eased himself away from the man, stepping backwards, and in the process bumped into his controversial cabinmate.

“Ah,” the man who didn't snore said, “it is my neighbour. A gentleman who is clearly not Italian himself, but who, nevertheless, cannot stop taking photos of them.” He looked to be about Serafim's age, early twenties, and, like him, wore a moustache and a flat cap.

“Yes,” Serafim confessed, “I am interested in your political movement. And how animated you all appear. I am from Portugal, where people are guarded, reserved — probably
too
composed.” Serafim spoke mostly in Portuguese, throwing in a few of the main verb differences he'd managed to pick up already. To his delight, the man seemed to understand perfectly. He calmly turned and they walked together along the deck, shoulder to shoulder.

“I see,” he began. “Well, if you would like to understand something about our ‘political movement,' as you say, you should understand first that it is the opportunistic exploitation of the
fessi
.”

“What means
fess
i
? Sorry.”

“The imbeciles, idiots, the easily led. Eight, nine of these people out of every ten cannot read, write, inform themselves with any kind of critical speculation.”

“Surely there are things one can understand without reading.”

The young man pivoted on one of his heels, facing Serafim. “Yes. There are. Like understanding who that man you were just speaking with is, what he does, why he should be avoided at all costs. Or like the situation right now in the steerage class below us, the fetid conditions there, and what those conditions brew. Like the expendability of all these seasonal migrant workers around us, travelling ahead of their wives and children to make enough for their transport — you haven't noticed many women on board, have you? — all of whom will find employment agents waiting for them on the docks when they arrive, their own countrymen, shamelessly poised to take the fullest advantage of them. Like being able to recognize an idealistic Portuguese photographer who only sees in other people” — the man tapped Serafim's Leica — “the light that bounces off their skin.”