Everything Is So Political (2 page)

Stray Dogs

Andrew F. Sullivan

“T
ilt your head to the right.”

The man standing in front of my camera stares back at me. His eyes do not blink. He says nothing, but instead tilts his head back to the left. A thin drip of sweat beads on his chin.

“No, the other way.”

Sometimes they scream. Sometimes they drop to their knees before me and plead. Or pray. The blindfolds I remove from each of their faces are often soaked in sweat or tears.

“Stand up straighter, please.”

The please isn't necessary. If they refuse, if the screams get too loud, if they end up clutching at my legs begging for one more day, the two guards posted outside will come in to silence them. Most of them just stand there before my camera, staring at some point on the wall behind my head. Heads shaved, bodies encased in polyester gray, they all begin to resemble one another.

“Hold up the sign under your chin.”

There is no please this time. His number reads 700 817. His eyes are brown, but they lead nowhere. The flash from my camera is the only spark in any of their eyes.

“Hold it straight. Yes, right there. Under your chin.”

It's a false spark.

* * *

The basement where I take the canisters is filled with the stench of chemicals and tepid water from the dripping sinks. The windows are painted over in black. My assistants Garrett and Carl scurry around in the darkness. They ignore me as I enter the room, too focused on producing today's prints to even offer a good morning in response.

We cannot risk exposing the film to any form of light. I step up to the sink and crack open today's canister, filled with a reel of faces I will never see again. In the total darkness it is only my hands which inform me of my surroundings. Everything becomes a ritual of blindness. The sink is fourteen centimetres from my right hand. The crank to open my canister is fifty-seven centimetres from my left hand. The door is one metre and sixteen centimetres behind me.

There is a knock at the door.

“Richard?”

I sigh loud enough for Garrett to hear me through the thick steel door.

“What is it?”

“The prints from yesterday are ready. The warden wants to see you upstairs in an hour.”

My shoulders slump forward and I set down the canister.

“Where is Carl?”

I can hear Garrett mumble under his breath. He'd rather be the one heading upstairs to visit the warden's heated room. We could see our breath down here if it wasn't so dark.

“He's down at the mailroom. He said he was getting more film for tomorrow.”

“I already got that earlier this morning, though.”

“I know,” Garrett sighs. “He just loves to waste his time down there.”

I pick up the canister again, testing its weight in my hand. All those faces locked inside, waiting to be released in their new form. Like a flattened butterfly under glass.

“So you'll see the warden soon?”

I crack open the canister listening for any of their voices. My ears are met with only a resounding drip from the other room and Garrett's foot tapping on the ceramic tiles.

“Tell him I'll be there soon enough.”

* * *

The warden stares at me from across the wide walnut desk in front of him, gray eyes shifting to take in yesterday's gray reproductions. His thick fingers leaf through the pile of photographs. Their mouths are never open. The warden always makes me promise they won't smile. He doesn't need to tell me twice. I've never had to tell a single one not to smile.

“So you are coming with us tomorrow?”

It's not a question. I stare at a spot just above the warden's head, my eyes focused on a painting. A winter landscape that operates like a window for this musty room. The true windows here are shuttered and barricaded. The bookshelves are dusty and overstuffed.

“Yes.”

I do not ask where we're going.

The painted forest above his head is paralyzed with ice.

“Bring your camera. And the other two. Carl and . . . Garrett?”

I nod.

“You will need them to carry your equipment, I'm sure.”

The painting is probably just some cheap print mailed to the prison. No shops out here.

“Do you know where we are going?”

“The fields?”

The warden sets down the photos, splaying them out across the bare wood. I do not ask where my photographs go after these meetings in his heated room. Some might say I suffer from a lack of curiosity. They are the ones you will find out there under all the dirt and snow.

“Yes, we are going to the fields.”

* * *

The snow we walk through shifts like sand. The soldiers in front of us march with weapons in hand, driving the prisoners before them. The prisoners are still in their gray coveralls, uncovered ears red as the markers we spray on abandoned fence posts and fallen telephone poles to mark our path through these empty fields. They carve a path through the snow, which is slowly covered up by the drifting whiteness behind us.

Carl follows behind me carrying the camera stand. Garrett marches up ahead, stumbling behind the warden's long strides. I grimace beneath my scarf at his eagerness.

“Can I take the pictures?” Carl says.

“No, the warden requested I do it. I'm already competing with Garrett.”

The two of us pause and stare through the flailing beads of snow that make up the shifting dunes around us. Garrett's right leg pivots him forward as he walks.

“I thought the warden hated cripples?”

“He does.”

“So why does he keep him around?”

“I have no idea.”

The prisoners make their way over another hill of packed snow and frozen dirt. The warden calls for them to stop. His voice echoes over the ridge. We pick up our speed to find the prisoners kneeling on the other side of the dune. An empty ditch sits before them. Many of them are far too weak to dig. The warden knows this. The soldiers must have been out here earlier. The ditch is partially filled with snow drifts. It is shallow—close to three feet deep. I stop myself from measuring how wide it is and ask Carl to set up the camera for me. Garrett approaches and the two of them prepare for our photo session out here.

You can see the veins beneath the prisoners' cold scalps pulsing with the thin blood that runs through their bodies. None of them attempt to run. The soldiers line up behind the prisoners. In the cold, both sides watch their breath form into clouds before their faces. I take my place behind the camera, and Carl and Garrett settle into the snow.

The warden nods in my direction, and I open up the lens.

One soldier, his eyes barely visible in the slits between his hat and scarf, cocks his gun.

“No.”

The warden lays a hand on the rifle, pulling it back from the prisoner's head. Garrett mumbles something beside me. I don't bother to listen. The wind fills my ears, but I can still hear the warden's voice across the shallow ditch.

“Do not waste the ammunition.”

Rifles are readjusted. The white snow is doused in red—flowers bloom in a chilled desert. Each body tumbles forward into the ditch, most still emitting small clouds from their mouths that float up from the cold dirt to be captured in the flash of my camera. Rifles rise and fall, their stocks clattering off fragile bone. Those who await their turn kneel passively with eyes like the landscape that surrounds them. The soldiers themselves work methodically in the cold.

I notice Carl has turned away. The warden himself walks around the pit, kicking small snow drifts over some of the moaning bodies below. He points at Garrett and Carl beside me.

“You two help fill this in.”

As the last of the bodies tumbles forward, the soldiers begin to toss snow and frozen dirt over feeble arms and legs. My two assistants join in. Carl attempts to avert his eyes. We are not just here to take pictures. He was supposed to understand that. I watch as he vomits into the snow and listen to the hiss of bile snaking its way down to the hard soil beneath.

Eventually, there are no more plumes of steam rising from the shallow grave. The soldiers stand around idly smoking. The wind dies down and I can hear Garrett mumbling something to the warden. I choose to ignore it. Dirt and snow create a patchwork before us that will soon resemble just another dune in these ever shifting fields, until the summer months arrive again.

There will be no pictures then. Only the harsh sun and the stray dogs that come to feast.

Three feet isn't very deep. It's only ninety-one centimetres.

* * *

The negatives from the killing fields have gone missing.

“Where did you put them?”

Only out in the fields is the warden forced to raise his voice. Inside, there is no wailing wind to compete with. In this room, our breath is invisible.

“I put them in the dark room, and then went down to the mail office. When I came back, they were gone. I checked the sinks and the canisters as well.”

“You were in charge of them though. Weren't you?”

I begin to focus on the painting above the warden's desk again as he circles my chair. Someone has dusted his bookshelves, and the painting's frame is slightly tilted to the left. I choose not to estimate the angle.

“Yes, I am.”

“Who else has access to that room?”

He already knows all the answers here, but I comply.

“Myself, Carl, and Garrett.”

“Do you suspect either of them could have taken it?”

The warden is always practical. He sees no reason to yell.

“You know who it is, don't you, Richard?”

I focus on the painting. I focus on frozen oceans full of driftwood spray painted red. I focus on faces without names and ears turning scarlet in the cold. I focus on their faces in gray relief.

There is a knock at the door.

“Yes?”

“We found him in the mailroom again. All the envelopes have been confiscated.”

These conversations always seem to be conducted through cold steel doors.

“Take him down to interrogation for now.”

The warden walks over to his bookshelves. He runs a thick finger along one shelf. He lifts it and examines the few specks clinging to his chapped skin.

“Well, I guess this matter has solved itself for now. We'll discuss it further tomorrow.”

I nod my thanks and slowly back my way towards the door.

The next time I see Carl, I will only recognize him by his eyebrows.

* * *

“Tilt your head to the right.”

Carl stares back at me. His lips are shaking. He wants to speak. I've advised him against this.

“I made copies.”

“Hold up the sign, please.”

“Richard, listen. Listen, okay? I made copies of the negatives.”

When I pulled the blindfold from his face, it was drenched in sweat. There are no tears yet, just standard desperation swelling his eyes. His pupils are glistening under the translucent film.

“Under the sink. The one that drips. They all drip, but the one that really drips, you know?”

Carl's accomplice had been just like any other prisoner. His number is still fresh in my mind. 701 043. He stood stock still and stared at a space over my shoulder. I did not even need to instruct him on where to hold the sign.

“Richard, you know what is going to happen to me, don't you?”

I nod. He continues.

“No one will ever see these photographs. They will burn them all when the time comes. They won't find any evidence. This is just a hobby for him. Just a game. You were there yesterday!”

I have heard all of this before, on endless repeat. It rings out inside my head each morning.

“Please hold up the sign.”

“Richard.”

His voice attempts to strangle itself.

“Stand still, Carl.”

“I made… copies. Lots of them.”

“I don't want to ask you again, Carl.”

His face begins to crack.

“Lose the picture or something. Open it up before you get downstairs. Do something to the film. Dip it in ammonia. Richard—I don't want to end up like the rest of them. Please.”

The guards outside can hear him as his voice mutates into a loud squeal. I need to take this picture soon. There are others out there lined up in the hall awaiting their turn. The door opens, and my camera flashes, catching Carl with his lips tightly sealed against the coming eruption.

“Don't let him have it. Don't let him have it!”

The guards enter the room, and I watch as clubs descend onto Carl's skull. The sign showing his number clatters off the floor in my direction. I pick it up. It reads 701 044. I pluck off the final digit, “4,” as the two guards drag his unconscious body away. I replace it with a “5,” and the next gray flannel figure shuffles into the room. There is a red stain on the concrete floor beneath her feet. I pull the blindfold from her wet face and hand her the sign.