Sisters Weiss ~ A Novel by Naomi Ragen

Author:Naomi Ragen [Ragen, Naomi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

22

London, 1987

Cold, depressed, lonely, she feels her feet dragging along the nasty, wet pavement on Great Portland Road as if wearing weights. Her eyes roam desperately, looking for some shelter from the bitter London cold. There. The handsome wooden storefront. The door is heavy and solid as she opens it, expecting to be enveloped by the warm vapors of a tea shop. But there are no tables, no waitresses in uniforms, she realizes as she unbuttons her soaked raincoat in confusion and disappointment. Instead, the walls are hung with photographs.

A photo gallery! She hasn’t come across a single one since arriving, and now, by accident, she stumbles into one! She steps in closer, staring. She sees a photo of a young girl carrying a baby through the rubble of a destroyed village. Her eyes are large, dark—already old. They stare directly into hers, filled with fear, hope, and a simple resignation that challenge her pity. “What is your pity worth?” the girl’s face seems to say, the baby close in her arms as she steps through disaster toward an unknown future.

I cannot move, she thinks, mesmerized.

“I don’t know why they insist on hanging up such rubbish.”

The voice is deep, rude, male. It wakes her, dragging her back to the present, giving her frustration an outlet.

“Excuse me? This just happens to be a work of genius! One of the most heartbreaking photos I’ve ever seen!”

His eyes open wider, amused, surprised.

He is tall and muscular with a soldier’s straight back and cautious stance. His hair, a dark, curly brown, is cut short; his eyes, a deep, earthy brown surrounded by deepening laugh lines, gaze unflinchingly into her own.

“I suppose it’s not bad, for an amateur, that is. But anyone wandering around a war zone could have managed it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she says through gritted teeth, her native New York–ese coming to the fore in a primitive rage. “I just happen to be a professional photographer myself—an award-winning photographer—so perhaps I can appreciate a little better than you what kind of talent went into this! Just look at the lighting; it’s surreal! And the graininess, the contrasting shadows just over the child’s head—it’s almost a metaphor for the horror of the situation and the hopefulness of life injected into it … And that child’s expression, her eyes! Why, they’re … they’re…” To her horror, she feels the tears welling up, her throat constricting, choking her.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea…” he says softly, the ironic grin replaced by sincere concern. “Here, take my handkerchief. It’s the least I can do.”

“A handkerchief? You’ve got to be kidding!” she answers rudely, searching desperately through her handbag for a tissue with which to remove as quickly as possible the embarrassing liquids spilling down her face.

“Well, if you feel that passionately about it—the photo, that is, not the handkerchief”—he grins wickedly, shrugging—“I just happen to know where you could see a lot more of this stuff.”

She blows her nose, her passionate interest overcoming her antagonism and her embarrassment.

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