Serafim and Claire (23 page)

Claire rapped playfully
on the door. She stood on the landing, surveying the neighbourhood, waiting for Serafim to answer. A cluster of newly returned songbirds huddled in a tree at the same height nearby, watching her silently. Evidence of the monumental moving day that always took place on the first of the month (the newspapers quoted it at fifty-two thousand families this year) could still be seen: a broken chair piled onto the skeleton of an armoire, splinters of wickerwork like spilled matches on the sidewalk.

The cluster of birds didn't fly off as the door flung open. “Mademoiselle Audette. I am very pleased you could make it.”

“Call me Claire, please. Hope Serafim's okay for you, too.” Claire peered around his body in the doorway. “Say, is that a last year's Philco?” She edged past him and into his apartment, directly over to the deluxe cherrywood radio, ran a hand across its sleek contours, switched it on, adjusted the volume.

“Well, I am not sure how new the model is. My employer gave it to me at Christmas, as a bonus. He had just bought a new one, and so I guess had no use for the old one.”

Claire was listening more to the music than to what he was saying. She pointed at the speaker. “The Jack Denny Orchestra. Definitely. Sounds like a remote. On a Wednesday night, no less! Probably isn't being broadcast from the Normandie Roof.”

Serafim gave a slow grimace, confused.

“Like on Saturdays,” she clarified.

He nodded tentatively. “Of course.”

“So! What does a girl have to do to get a drink in this place?”

Serafim faltered, appearing to give the question some serious deliberation. What
did
a girl have to do in order to get a drink in his place?

“A drink,” she repeated. “Aren't you going to offer me a drink?”

He suddenly paled, mortified. “Oh. . . . . don't have any alcohol, I'm afraid . . . in the house. Right now.”

Claire let him off with an easy laugh, removing her hat, shaking out her bob. “Well, I guess you'll just have to go and get some, then.” She sat down in an armchair, crossed her legs. “What do you usually drink?”

“Uhm, normally beer, from the barrel, with a friend. Sometimes cognac. There is an
épicerie
on the corner where I can refill my bottles in the back. Bottles of cognac and molasses, I mean.”

“I know. So it's settled, then. I'll wait here.” She looked around the room. “Oh! Why don't you show me your darkroom before you go.”

Serafim took a moment to steady his posture, drew in a deep breath. “Yes. I have prepared it for your arrival. I will ask you not to touch anything inside it. Please.”

Claire gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Of course, of course. So where is it?”

“Here.” He pointed at a closet door. “I have also set some photographs aside, of mine, for you to look at. If you would like.”

“I really just want to see the darkroom.” Claire stood and opened the door that he'd pointed at. Serafim stepped into the dark behind her to plug in an orange lamp. “So,” Claire ventured, “if I understand, you can take a picture anywhere, bring it here, and put it on a piece of paper, without anyone else ever seeing that picture throughout the process?”

He thought about the weightlessness of this question with considerable gravity. “Yes. That's correct.” Serafim unplugged the light, escorted her out of the room, and closed the door. “I . . . should go and refill that cognac bottle. Please, excuse me.”

While he was gone, Claire wandered through his apartment, moving her body to the song on the radio. His apartment, she noted, was clean, tiny, arranged with modest furnishings; the only thing modern or of value was the Philco in his sitting room. She returned there, to wait on his outmoded sofa, in front of which was a small coffee table with a photo album placed evenly at its centre. She leafed through it, distractedly tapping her foot.

What she found in its pages surprised her. She'd never seen photographs like these before. He clearly had an eye for choosing moments and creating compositions whose movements continued on, the life of his subjects still breathing. Claire closed the album, sat back on the sofa, and contemplated his poverty, his defeat, his just-out-of-reach aspirations, even his talent. This man, Serafim Vieira, was going to suit her ends like a tailor.

Serafim soon returned with the cognac and they drank into the night, laughter flitting through the room. Serafim lit a paraffin lamp, and Claire danced to the radio alone, swaying over the hardwood floor. He watched her, his tie loosened, collar button undone, with a stupor grin and his eyelids half closed. When Claire finished, she sat down next to him on the sofa, seductively close, and topped up both their cognacs. She smiled. Suddenly feeling guarded, Serafim wanted to know once and for all what her visit was all about, what she'd wanted to ask of him, what she wanted him to do.

Claire eyed the photo album he'd set out for her to see. “Well,” she began, “sometimes people are born with a gift, a talent. They are designed to do something great. They have all the skill, determination, commitment — but something stands in their way. Something is blocking their path to greatness. Now, what they need is a little luck, but it isn't there, it doesn't come. This is the point where most people would give up, or wait for whatever that obstacle is to move. But what if there was another option? What if there was a way to jump over it? What if there was a way to help providence along, a way to create our own luck? Would that . . .” Claire reached a soft hand along the back of the sofa to touch Serafim's shoulder. “Tell me, would that interest you?”

Serafim nodded deeply. “You cannot know how much that would interest me.”

“Good. Okay. Now. You know how corrupt the politicians are in this city. You know that they spend most of their time stealing, paying off the police, investing in the bootlegging over the border, all while employing people like us for pennies. And you know that, if they were made to hand over just a bit of their money, it would be a significant sum to us and an insignificant sum to them. Like the misplacement of one of their many fur coats. While for you and I, with but a trickle of their funds, just imagine the people we could convince to give us a break. It just so happens that I have an incredibly simple way to get at those funds. But I need your help. I need a photographer. That is what I want of you. Would you like to hear more?”

Serafim did. He wanted to hear it all. Down to the finest detail. When Claire had finished, Serafim gave her a look that suggested he had been waiting for someone like her to come along for a long, long while.

Claire shuffled closer. “I knew I would be able to trust you.” She kissed him, slowly at first, but their breathing soon grew urgent and could be heard above the radio static. Buttons were unfastened, vests, shirts, dress removed. But before Claire took off her chemise, self-conscious of her scar, she blew out the lamp and led him to the bedroom. The sex was insistent, impatient, and afterwards he fell asleep on top of her, still inside, and only rolled off when she shifted his weight.

Claire had little rest. Serafim was a fretful sleeper, turning endlessly, stretching, plying his hands, muttering in Portuguese. Exhausted, she thought of leaving his apartment at one point, but in the end succeeded in calming him into stillness by lightly stroking the back of his neck for half an hour. There was something boyish about him, she thought. He was like a very serious child.

The twin bells of his alarm clock rang early — an untimely, unwelcome surprise. Claire rolled from the bed to find her chemise before he could see her. She put it on as he moaned, holding his head, hungover.

But the moment she'd left his bedroom, he called out at her in an assertive, almost angry tone. “Stop! Wait, please. I have to check the kitchen.” He hustled out of bed, threw some pants on, and craned his neck through the kitchen door, presumably, thought Claire, looking for rats. He was outwardly relieved to find nothing there.

Claire put on the rest of her clothes and headed for the front door. “I think we should go out on Friday to discuss the specifics.”

“Okay.”

“Meet me at that same tavern, then, at seven again.”

“Okay.”

Claire put on her shoes, opened the door to leave.

“Wait,” said Serafim. “I was wondering, do you . . . do you secretly love cooking?”

Claire snickered. “I secretly hate it. More than anything. See you Friday.” She swung the door shut behind her, somewhat harder than she'd meant to, thinking already about which tramline would work best to get her home.

Paris, França; 14 de setembro de 1928

Querido Serafim,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to let you know that, as per my inquiries into the health of Inês Barbosa, I have received replies from my acquaintances in Oporto. She is, apparently, in superb health, still joyfully wed, and has recently given birth to a boy, Salvador Sá Barbosa, by all accounts a robust and energetic child. I do trust that this news will aid you in putting your unhealthy quandaries, and her memory, to rest.

I have some wonderful news to share with you. I've begun selling photographs, more or less regularly, to a newspaper here in Paris. The pictures that interest them are nothing like the ones in the illustrated magazines, but at least they are, finally, running photos to supplement some of their news stories. Of course, they require most of the shots to be posed, but they do ask that the subjects be situated in the context of the adjoining article. This is doubtless new ground, which, as you can imagine, has me engaged in current events much more than before.

In this same vein, I read your letters and see your words becoming more socially aware than I ever remember them being. Why, just in a conversation yesterday, I cited something you wrote about “witnessing” in your last correspondence. It occurs to me that we may be on the same path, again, in more ways than one. Perhaps, my dear friend, following news stories and taking photographs for the journals will come to interest you as well. Even if it is merely a means of moving towards your greater goal. Regardless, the richness in this new thinking of yours seems as good a fortune as any.

As minhas maiores saudações,

Álvaro

That Friday, Serafim
was early again. He'd imagined that he and Claire would stay for a drink at the tavern, and so had chosen to sit at the same table they'd occupied the day they met, same chair, even ordered the same drink. But when Claire came in, she had no sooner kissed her hellos than she was scanning the establishment and suggesting they leave, right then, take the number eleven tram to the top of the mountain, where they could have a stroll and discuss things without being overheard.

They were quiet throughout the jostling tram ride, sitting shoulder to shoulder, tight-lipped and opposite a sign exclaiming, Do Not Spit on the Floor! Once at the top of the mountain, they sauntered along well-kept paths, Claire's arm hooked through Serafim's, looking much like a serene married couple to passersby, uttering plans for racketeering and extortion instead of endearments.

The details were all ironed out: when the picture was to be taken (the following Tuesday), whether or not there would be enough light to snap it, and how Serafim would both enter and exit the back of the cabaret unnoticed. The more they went over it, the more impressed Serafim was. She had obviously thought everything through. She was clever and thorough. However, while her scheme was admittedly seamless, leaving nothing to chance, he wondered if there was something he wasn't seeing, some razor-thin element that could cause the entire thing to messily unravel. Serafim stole glances at Claire whenever he could, catching her unguarded expressions, trying to work out what she might be thinking, wishing that his memory worked in the same way film did. He still couldn't believe he'd managed to sleep with such an eye-catching woman without being made to pay for it.

They stopped at a viewpoint, looked out over the city and its many squiggles of smoke that rose like snags in a stonework carpet. The Montreal Harbour Bridge would be completed soon, and its two largest spans extended over a void of water, reaching out towards each other above the St. Lawrence River, girdered fingers stretching out to touch, an unseen spark of static threatening to link them.

Once they finished discussing their plans, their words faltered, trailed into blanks, and it seemed it was time to head off in their respective directions, something Serafim wished to postpone as long as possible. Suddenly, Claire suggested they go out on the town to celebrate her birthday.

“Why, I would be delighted,” said Serafim. “How old are you, if you would permit me to ask?”

“Twenty-four. Should we go?”

“Sure,” he said, stiffly taking her arm again. “You know, we're the same age.”

“You don't say. I hope you dance.”

“I . . . do not. But I enjoy watching.”

“I'm sure you do. In the dance world, we have a word for people like you. Audience.” She laughed easily. Serafim tried, but he didn't quite succeed in joining her.

They descended into the city again, starting out the evening in some of the uptown clubs. Claire confessed it had been ages since she'd had a Friday night off; it was one of the two busiest days of her workweek. Their conversation, at first stilted, grew easier as the night progressed and the alcohol flowed. Claire spent most of the night in the centre of the dance floor, while Serafim sat at a table, squishing folds of the tablecloth or taking pictures of couples as they whirled past in front of him. He felt that he was treading a fine line between enjoying himself and feeling unbearably jealous, watching Claire's intimacy and laughter with other men, many of whom moved their feet magically in time to the tunes being played, just like her. Occasionally, as she was dancing, she caught a glimpse of Serafim sitting in the dark of the periphery, and flung a wave and smile out in his direction, only to close her eyes soon after. She closed her eyes often while dancing, he noticed, as if it helped her listen to the music, as if she were dissecting the anatomy of its melodies with her movements.

At closing time, the band announced the last dance, and Serafim wondered if they would return to his place again, like a modern couple living in sin.

They stepped outside and he helped her with her coat, one gentlemanly sleeve at a time. “That was a lovely evening,” he said.

Claire buttoned her jacket and flashed him a look of disbelief. “I hope you realize it's just begun. Taxi!” She rushed to a slate-black cab and opened the door, slid along the bench, and patted the seat beside her. “Quick,” she said, lighting a cigarette. Then, to the driver, in English, “Can you take us to the Terminal, handsome?”

The Terminal Club was an experience Serafim was not quite prepared for. Hearing black people on the radio was one thing — or seeing them on record covers, as porters and bellhops, musicians, even as dancers — but having to drink a cocktail right beside them, share the same table, be the minority among them, was another entirely. Serafim was intimidated by their darkness, by the volume of their laughter, which he'd never heard before. He followed Claire into the club, keeping close as they walked deeper into the bare-bulbed electric light, where sweat, smoke, alcohol, and perfume washed over them in a raucous wave that almost knocked Serafim back. The music was more ardent and raw than in the other clubs, with newly arrived musicians pulling bronze trumpets and saxophones out of cases lined with purple velvet and shouldering their way closer to the stage. To Serafim, it was bedlam. Claire, on the other hand, fed on the chaos. She had begun to clap her hands to the rhythm, fighting to get her coat off and drape it over the back of a chair before hurrying onto the untreated wooden floor, her body already creasing to the song.

Serafim ordered a drink and sat stiffly and uneasily in the only free seat he could find, sipping his whiskey too quickly. A waiter came by; he ordered another. Just then an older gentleman, his white beard a stark contrast to the shiny cinnamon of his skin, leaned in towards Serafim to compliment his “fine lady” and her sense of rhythm. “Yep,” he said in English, “a bona fide Oliver Twist she is, and a real Sheba too. Comes here often, in fact.” Serafim stalled, wondering what his meaning was exactly, and waited for the old man to expand. He did not. Instead, the man began a long stream of monologues, which Serafim tuned in to and out of as one would a radio for the remainder of the night, listening at first with great anticipation and interest, and later with a kind of distant attention.

The old man got on to the topic of corruption, the Mafia, and the way it was in the city before Tony Frank was hanged in 1924. He leaned heavily across the table, closer to Serafim, to tell him all about Dandy Phil. “See, Dandy had run a nightclub in Montreal until he dreamt up an invention that landed him in a partnership with Costello, in New York City. It cannonballed him straight into the big time. Now Costello is a household name in the States, a man of
real
influence in the Big Apple down there. So the two of 'em team up to make a fortune with Dandy's new invention, see — call 'em one-armed bandits they do — candy-vending machines converted into gambling implements. Drop a nickel in a slot, push a combination for the buttons, and see if a whole load don't shower out at your shins! In the Big Apple it's said you find 'em everywhere — speakeasies, stationery stores, candy shops — and that all told they bring in a hundred thousand clams a day. Of course, with that kind of money, they also have an army of thugs collecting and reclaiming machines that is stolen (where there's money, there's muscle protecting it, and don't you forget!). Hell, I've heard these machines is so big with the tiny tots, those racketeers make little ladders available for to reach 'em!” The man wheezed with laughter, but seeing that Serafim wasn't joining him, he wondered if he'd lost him somewhere along the way. He asked Serafim if he knew what a racketeer was.

Serafim hesitated, looked around the blaring room as if it were quiet. “No, no, I don't know about racketeers. Why do you think I would know about racketeering?”

“Boy,” the man wheezed in response, slapping the table and crumpling back into his chair, “you's one balled-up fella!”

As he recovered from his chuckle, Serafim ordered another drink from a passing waiter, and looked out at the dance floor for Claire. He managed to catch a glimpse of her, her head thrown back in laughter, hands gesturing like courting egrets, their motion fluid, a delicate rising and arcing in the air, only to see her disappear again, sinking smoothly into the boiling surf of misted foreheads.

“Now, you wanna hear a story” — the old man was suddenly pointing into Serafim's face — “about corruption, about politicians and Westmount, about the mayor hisself?” Serafim froze at the combination of these words and, as if being robbed at finger-point, sat still and attentive until the white-bearded man had finished.

The man recounted a story about a famous speaker for the Universal Negro Improvement Association who had been invited for a rally in the city only to be jailed and silenced by local politicians. He went on, tallying a long list of other misdeeds and double-dealings doled out incessantly by the monopolist class. He accented the end of each anecdote with a slap on the table and a wheezing laugh, then looked up at Serafim for an indication that he should carry on, implying that he had enough dirt to dish out for hours, there were that many injustices done in the city.

Serafim sipped his whiskey and listened carefully. So these were the people he was going to be taking money from, the obscenely rich and corrupt? It occurred to him that, sure, what he and Claire were setting out to do wasn't righteous by any stretch of the imagination, but for Serafim, with the help of such stories, their plan was slowly becoming somehow justified. It wasn't as if they were stealing from the virtuous or the poor. No, they were stealing from, at best, people who deserved it, and at worst, people who could afford it. It was a notion that Álvaro himself had brought up in a letter he had posted only two months earlier. Everything around Serafim was pointing in this same direction, like long grass in a windstorm.

The old man tapped Serafim's shoulder. “Boy,” he said, standing up, “I gotta iron my shoelaces.” After a moment of trying to figure out what he meant, it became clear to Serafim that the man was headed to the washroom, and since Serafim had to go himself, he followed. They exited the club and at once came up against a line of men urinating against one of the buildings in the alleyway. Serafim was inebriated enough to take it in stride, unzipping his pants in front of a brick wall and listening to the old man strike up a conversation with someone else.

Serafim stared up through the wires at the night sky. He felt a swimming pang of nostalgia, or, more precisely, of
saudade
, that untranslatable Portuguese concept, a sense of having lost things one might never have won in the first place. His existence in this new country was turning out to be more gritty and foreign than he'd ever imagined. As he looked up into the decidedly un-Portuguese night, this thought pleased him. Somewhere along the way his life had become adventurous, dangerous even.

He went back into the nightclub and found Claire sitting at the table he'd just left. She got up before he reached her, barely able to stop herself from moving. She watched the band from the edge of her seat, her spine arched as if the back of her chair were hot to the touch, jigging her legs to the beat of the song. It was clear to Serafim that all she really wanted in life was to jump to her feet and impel the world into evocative movement. In the same way that all Serafim wanted was to seek out evocative movement in this world and stop it, freeze it forever in a frame. Together, he contemplated, wobbly on his feet, they were going to make a great team.