Elementary, My Dear Watkins (24 page)

The night air was downright chilly as Danny, Luc, and Mr. Bashiri stepped from the doorway of the hotel. Danny was tired but pleased with the work they had done. Better yet, Mr. Bashiri seemed pleased as well.

They walked along the clean and quiet street, parting ways with Luc after a block. He was off to meet the lady from the train for a date.

“Are you certain you can handle all of this equipment by yourself?” Luc asked, carefully taking a strap from his shoulder and placing it on Danny’s. His concern was laughable, since Danny was usually stuck carrying most of the stuff anyway.

“I’ll manage somehow. Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Luc stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking.

“Thanks,” he said, turning around and taking a few steps backward. “But if I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do, I would end up not doing anything at all!”

With a laugh he turned and sprinted off down the street, whistling as he went.

Danny and Mr. Bashiri continued toward the hotel, a comfortable silence between them. Danny wanted to talk, to find some way to ask about the woman at the gala who had referred to Mr. Bashiri’s family and his ongoing need to “punish” himself. He was trying to think how to broach the topic when Mr. Bashiri spoke instead.

“I want to talk to you about the photographs you took today, Mr. Watkins,” he said. “At the hotel earlier, when we had our break, I went through the digital photos one by one.”

“Oh?” Danny asked, trying to keep his voice even. “What did you think?”

“Obviously, you have great technical skills. You also have a good eye, and a knack for composition.”

His words sounded like a compliment, but Danny could hear the reservation in his voice.

“Thank you, sir. Were there any problems?”

“Yes, though none you could have anticipated. I should have explained more fully, at the beginning, my intentions with this shoot. I realize now that you wasted a good amount of time taking perfectly decent photographs that will be of no use to us for this article.”

Danny could feel his pulse pounding in his neck. What had he done wrong?

“I shall try to explain,” Mr. Bashiri continued, his expression thoughtful. “You remember this morning in the break room at GMM, we discussed my technique of reflection and light? I should’ve gone on to say that I am also using the contrast of cold against warmth.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Danny said, trying not to sound defensive. “I thought you wanted to make Zurich appear wealthy, clean, and abundant. Didn’t I do that? The big bleeding globs of meat in the foreground? The doctor with his glinting spatula and five-thousand-dollar gas grill and custom-designed pool behind him? I caught him flipping the burger for the sake of action, but what I didn’t anticipate was the absolute glee that would appear on his face at that moment. When we finally got it right, it was a great shot. Maybe you overlooked the best one. We could go through them together. I could show you.”

They paused at a light, waiting for the cross signal.

“No, I saw the best one,” Mr. Bashiri said. “Again, it was an excellent photo. Just not in keeping with my theme.”

He went on to explain that his intention was not simply to contrast the wealth, cleanliness, and state-of-the-art equipment and procedures of Switzerland against the poverty, filth, and behind-the-times tools and methods in the Congo. He said that the Congo offered something that Switzerland did not, and that his intention was to show that as well.

“The difference between the two countries seems tragic, yes, but I also hope to demonstrate how the Congo is so much more real, and much
warmer
, than what we are seeing here.”

“Warmer?” Danny asked, wondering what could possibly be “warm” about the suffering of the refugees.

“Spiritually speaking. I always intentionally infuse most of my work with spiritual undertones and even lessons—though such things are not necessarily understood by everyone, at least not on a conscious level. This series is no exception.”

Danny braced himself for what Mr. Bashiri had to say, wondering what, exactly, he meant by “spiritual.” Was he talking New Age, transcendental stuff, Zen?

“To put it simply,” Mr. Bashiri continued, “I am using blue undertones here, as opposed to oranges and browns down there. Cool colors here, warm colors there. The reason I told you to keep the fire on the grill at the level of blue gas was because I am reserving the reds and oranges and yellows for later. The blue pool in the background today was fine. It was the bright red meat in the front, the orange flames flickering at the beef, that created the problem.”

“I think I understand,” Danny said. “The Zurich shots will be aesthetically pleasing, but it sounds like you intend for the pictures in the Congo to be more emotionally pleasing. Is that correct?”

Mr. Bashiri nodded vehemently.

“You see,” the man explained, “there is something very lovely but also very
cold
about the sparkle of this rich city. The refugees in the Congo may be miserable, but there is a realness to their experience that the people here lack. The refugees have more physical problems, yes, but there is also much less there to weigh down their souls.”

Danny was silent for a moment, trying to understand how anything about a refugee camp could be preferable to this stunningly beautiful European city.

“Perhaps you would have to be a man of faith to grasp fully the spiritual symbolism,” Mr. Bashiri added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his pipe. “Even the doctors we spoke with today, did you not get the feeling that they are more at peace and happier with themselves down there than they are here? That what they do down there matters more to them than their high-paying jobs and fancy possessions here? It’s not just about being fulfilled through altruism or good deeds. I am convinced that when they are among the people of the Congo, even though the work is difficult and the conditions are miserable, the doctors have left behind most of what stands between them and their Maker and are drawn closer to the true heart of God.”

Mr. Bashiri paused at a tall, cylindrical trash can and began rapping the pipe sharply on the edge, knocking the ashes and burnt leaves into the receptacle.

“Now that you mention it, I did sense a real fervor in the doctors we spoke with.”

“That is their spiritual hunger, my young friend, eager to be filled at the well.”

Danny nodded, starting to understand.

“So now do you see? Through the warmth of the photos I will take in the Congo, I am trying to show, primarily, a biblical principle, that ‘blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall inherit the earth.’ This is how I give God’s messages to the world: through my photographs.”

Mr. Bashiri smiled self-consciously, looking almost sorry that he had brought it up.

“Please do not tell your magazine I said that, though, because their agenda is not a spiritual one. Probably, I should not even have told you, but with all of your hard work, I felt you deserved to know. Also, I thought perhaps you would understand what I am saying.”

Mr. Bashiri finished tapping out the pipe and they began walking again. From his other pocket, he produced a small, resealable pouch of tobacco, and slowly he used it to fill the pipe.

“Are you a Christian, Mr. Bashiri?”

“Yes, I am,” the man replied quietly, after a long pause. “And you?”

“Yes,”
Danny said emphatically. “My faith is the most important thing in my life.”

Mr. Bashiri turned to look Danny in the eyes, considering for a long moment. Finally, he nodded solemnly and then spoke.

“I am not surprised,” he said. “In fact, now that you tell me this, I recognize that the light of God shines through you, in all that you do.”

“And in you as well, sir.”

“Just be careful, Mr. Watkins, that you do not confuse personal ambition with God’s plan for your life. That was a lesson it took me many years to learn, and by the time I did, it was too late.”

Halfway back to Westchester County, Jo decided to check her e-mail, hoping that Danny had been able to get to a computer and write, giving her more details about his trip.

She pulled out her handheld digital assistant and accessed her account, holding her breath as the list of incoming e-mails appeared on the screen line by line. Checking e-mail was usually the most fun part of the day for Jo, that time when she felt connected to Danny despite the distance between them. He couldn’t go online off and on all day the way she did and send little notes, but he made up for it by sending her a single, much longer e-mail almost every night. Danny’s replies were always a delight, filled with the kinds of visual descriptions that only a photographer could provide. Through his letters Jo could picture his apartment, his office, and much of Paris. He was loving the work but hating the separation from her, enjoying the city but missing his home country, loving the culture but merely enduring much of the food, especially the breakfast.

Now, sadly, there didn’t seem to be anything from him, which came as no big surprise, considering that he was busy traipsing around Europe and Africa.

There also wasn’t anything from the detective in charge of her case, despite the fact that she had just that morning forwarded him the most recent e-mail from the person she was starting to think of as “Toaster Man.” At least her grandmother had the connections to stay on top of things, but Jo missed the communication she was used to with Chief Cooper back home. He always returned her calls right away and did everything he could to help her in times of trouble.

Jo smiled gratefully at the thought. She would gladly trade all of NYC’s high tech resources and experienced manpower for just one small-town cop who actually cared.

As they reached the hotel, Danny felt disappointed and elated at the same time. The news that Mr. Bashiri wasn’t even going to consider including his photos for
Scene It
was devastating, of course, but once he understood why, at least he was consoled. And the man had been very complimentary of the pictures themselves. Next time, Danny would ask more questions and get more information about the overall thinking and planning of a shoot before setting out to prove himself as an
artiste
.

More importantly, he understood now why he felt such a growing connection between himself and the famous photographer. It wasn’t just about professional compatibility, it was about the Holy Spirit, who filled their hearts and their lives.

They were brothers in Christ.

Stepping into the hotel lobby, Danny wanted to find a quiet corner and sit and continue their conversation where it had left off, maybe urging Mr. Bashiri to explain what he meant when he said he learned his lesson “too late.” But the photographer was looking very tired, and he said goodnight, suggesting they meet in the café across the street for breakfast at eight in the morning.

“Okay, see you then,” Danny replied as the elevator doors opened and Mr. Bashiri stepped inside. “I’ve got to check something before I go up.”

“Very good. See you in the morning.”

The elevator doors closed, leaving Danny alone in the empty lobby. He strode to the front desk and asked if there were any messages for their room.

“Nei,”
the man replied after checking, and then he said it again in English. “No.”

“Is there a pay phone somewhere nearby?”

The man directed him down the hall and gave him a printed sheet of instructions in several languages, including English, on how to use the phone with a calling card. Danny followed the directions step-by-step, taking a chance on dialing Jo’s cell phone number first. Quickly calculating, he realized that it was about 5:00
PM
back home. She was probably out in her office, just wrapping things up for the day.

“Hello?” she asked, and suddenly Danny broke into the biggest grin he’d had in a long time.

“You have no idea how sweet it is to hear your beautiful voice.”

“Danny!” she gasped, and he could hear her excitement as well. Though they e-mailed every day, they hadn’t spoken on the phone in more than a week. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he missed being connected in this way.