One Night, New York by Lara Thompson

Author:Lara Thompson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2021-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

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The box was so heavy it reminded Frances of her suitcase. However she tried to carry it, either by the stiff handle or out front with both arms, some part of her body soon began to complain. She didn’t care, though. Agnes saw pictures everywhere and it took her a long time to set up, so Frances had plenty of opportunity to rest in a patch of shade on a clean-enough square of sidewalk and watch her work.

Each time they stopped, Agnes would point to a place and Frances would ease the case on to the sidewalk, rubbing whatever part of her hurt the most as she straightened up. Then Agnes would pull out the wooden legs of the tripod and set its little brass feet on the ground. If they were somewhere busy – an intersection perhaps, or behind the barrier of a construction site for another skyscraper – other people might stop and stare, murmuring to each other, asking Frances what was going on. Agnes would ignore them as she walked around checking the light, then she’d hoist the box on top of the tripod and start to pull and twist, flicking catches and popping out hidden compartments, the concentration adding lines to her smooth face. Once or twice Frances was certain she saw Agnes whisper to the camera, as though encouraging it to do a good job. If a little crowd gathered they’d ooh and ahh like an audience in front of a show, except they never really got to see the part when the curtain went up. That would come later, Agnes said, down in Dicky’s darkroom, where she promised Frances could watch as she conjured the pictures from nothing.

Frances already felt like she’d seen half the city being built. Agnes had taken pictures of the new Rockefeller Center going up, of its vast balustrades and huge iron girders, of ton upon ton of concrete poured into wire frames that looked like giant chicken coops. She’d pulled Frances underneath the metal legs of the El Train, hunting for the right pattern of shadows, shouting when cars refused to slow enough for her to freeze them in time. She’d shot old men in rags pulling carts of scrap and young women in fine clothes jumping on to the backs of buses, their skirts hitched up so they wouldn’t catch on the wheels.

Set up on a corner by a church, Agnes had laughed so loud she scared a few pigeons into the air, and she’d beckoned Frances over and let her dip her head beneath the black cloth. Only then had Frances understood the magic of it all. She hadn’t felt the wonder until she’d seen the world turned for herself, as though the sidewalk was crushing the buildings, as though they were crushing the sky. She’d not realised the power of that little wooden box until she too laughed out loud when a man walked past, striding along, hanging from the asphalt like a bat side-stepping across a branch.

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