Guess who's back....

Well, I know that nobody reads my blog and I was hopelessly inept at keeping it up. But, I have set myself the challenge of writing and publishing three short stories over the next few months. So, I have begun the first story and here it is so far. I will be editing / finishing it soon, I hope. 

In Camera

A sharp  banker, a lawyer, a salesman’s eyes peered from beneath the fleece cap and Peter flinched his gaze. This herder, Maxim, was terrifying and invaluable. A cloud of cold breath and cigarette smoke enveloped him despite the warmth of the cooking fire. Peter had craved an invitation to this yaranga, a glance inside the Chukchi homes he had been photographing as an outsider for days. The harshness of the tundra meant it was forbidden to refuse hospitality and Peter had readily accepted Zhenya’s invitation. 

Zhenya was Maxim’s wife and her eyes shone. She glistened with light condensation on her fawn skin dress. Peter knew it was rarely worn and in broken Russian he discovered it was worn for special occasions. It had been worn for her wedding. It was recently. Peter knew these things without asking. 

Vankare. Lygoravetlat. Tundra. Real people. Peter sensed Maxim had warmed to his theme. His eyes shifted between Peter and his young, pregnant wife. Peter’s sense that he was to be a vessel for Maxim’s message was as clear as the plastic cola bottle with which Maxim gesticulated. His trousers frequently lit up as their reflective stripes caught the light of the fire. He ceaselessly created the impression of a man with life pulsing through him. He adjusted himself shamelessly, making Peter conscious of his focus. 

The camera had be set up that afternoon under the supervision of Zhenya’s curious grandfather. With the large exposure plate to accommodate, it took up much of the available space and Peter was conscious of the intrusive, condensive effect of the apparatus. And yet, it was obvious that Maxim, charged by heat and home understood that this was his audience. 

Maxim drunk from a deep bowl of rikeil. The mixture was an obvious rebuttal to the woes of the constant snows and harshness. Fat, blood, moss and boiled intestine. Each gulp seemed to solidify his presence. 

Peter had been especially keen to photograph the youngest couple in the village. They seemed to walk a line that made them compelling subjects. They were fiercely observant of tradition and yet both seemed out of place. They could, he thought, have lived in Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Zhenya was perhaps too warm to stomp the catwalks of Milan, but she was bright and when unobserved had a womanliness that resonated. 

As she deftly placed a plate of reindeer ribs between Peter and Maxim, a third villager entered the yaranga and sat beside Maxim. Peter had never met this man and nor had the fixer who had been consistently narrating the scene. The men of the village had been in the far south of the Chukotka peninsula driving their herds to softer pasture and hunting seal. This man had recently returned. He had blood stains on the shoulders of his jacket. 

It was clear to the European visitors that the conversation which had suddenly risen in volume did not involve them. Peter’s fixer was Valentin. Of Russian ancestry, his ability to communicate and arrange was impeccable and his Hungarian bonhomie made him an exceptional travelling companion. The fact that he had a working knowledge of focal length and white balance was an added bonus. 

As the smells, steams and words intensified the cloud around Peter, it was clear that he was, gradually being drawn back in to the conversation. Pavel, it became clear, was not a casual visitor. He wanted to be pictured alongside Maxim. He had an idea that the images would appear in the London Times and this was a chance to send a message to the world. 

With diplomatic dexterity, Valentin demurred Pavel’s grander notions and explained that the project to capture vanishing tribes was not political but artistic. Home-brewed vodka had emboldened Pavel, perhaps necessarily, and as his focus on Valentin’s words sharpened, it was clear he was not to be put off. 

Peter looked at his watch. Zhenya had settled in an isolated corner of the dwelling making herself the furthest from the fire. It was close to midnight. The time would not affect the light; there was no moon. But, Peter knew that the moment had to be taken. It was foolish to use more than seven or eight plates in one evening and yet there was a sense of something compelling unfolding. 

With a startling wordless dexterity, Maxim and Pavel were at Zhenya’s sides. She seemed alarmed, but a well-trained diffidence took over her.  They eased the decorated shawl from her shoulders and revealed her delicate neck. With equal capability, Valentin arced the camera to them as Peter began to see what was being exposed to him. 

Peter knew that Soviet weapons had been tested in the area. He knew that the Chukchi people were of little importance to Moscow’s generals and it was hard to look at the scars on Zhenya’s neck without a sense of the scorching pain that caused them. 

The picture was framed. Peter saw that instantly. Valentin would have sensed the moment too. Their days together on the tundra had given them an understanding. This often happened. His mission to preserve images of things on the precipice of loss was easily understood by the fixers wherever he went. He shared his visual language as they translated nearly lost tongues for him. 

Maxim and Pavel were like footballers holding a trophy. They glared at the lens with the intensity of triumph snatched from near defeat. Zhenya’s mild shame and sacrificial quality would sell well. Peter reproached himself for the thought and squeezed his thumb to join his fingers on the hypodermic trigger. 

Copyright Robert Lench 2015.