This story was originally submitted and posted as The Photographer's Assistant. After the story was accepted, I realized that the file was incomplete (very much incomplete), so I am resubmitting the entire story under the title "The Mermaid." I apologize to those who wasted their time reading the incomplete version and hope you will take the time to read this completed draft.
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"It was all Tia's idea." Django had written in his email. I reached into the side pocket of my briefcase, which was underneath the seat in front of me and pulled out the copy of the email. "Besides," Django had continued, "we need someone to help with our photography." I folded the paper and replaced it in my briefcase. I needed a cigarette, but the "No Smoking" light was on. So, I closed my eyes and leaned back in the big leather seat. I was not accustomed to flying first class, but the University of Munich was paying the bill, in addition to a generous stipend, so that I would teach a workshop entitled, "Character, Plot, Setting" as part of a global writing conference that they were hosting. Two years ago I had written a book that garnered critical praise, but little commercial success, as a result I had earned a reputation as a technical writer, who had little customer appeal. Perks came infrequently to such a writer. So, I intended to enjoy the experience. I had never imagined the comfort of first class and I wanted to sleep, but my mind kept wandering back to Tia.
We had only met a month earlier.
I was in New York to meet with my editor at Halton. Jonas, a long-time friend of my father, who owned a successful gallery on the west side, suggested I drop by the after my meeting so that we could go to dinner. Jonas had a meeting in the afternoon with an artist and his wife from Germany, but he was free afterwards.
My meeting was over sooner than I thought, and I arrived at Jonas's gallery just after 4:00 p.m. Chloe, Jonas's ice princess of an assistant was busy on the phone when I walked in and waved me without so much as looking up toward the back of the gallery in the direction of Jonas's office. Jonas's door was shut. So I occupied my time by looking at the paintings and photos on the wall.
Now I must admit. I'm not much into what passes for "art" these days. Colorful splatterings of paint on a canvas that looked like the work of a four year old, or simple abstract shapes tilted in "interesting" ways with a four or five figure price tag attached was not my idea of art. Give me dogs playing poker or Elvis on black satin any day of the week.
I pretty much exhausted my capacity for cultural edification after ten minutes. Jonas's door was still closed and I could still hear Chloe's self important, high pitched, nasally voice echoing back from the front of the gallery. I noticed a leather portfolio leaning up against a wall. The zippered opening had been left open and inside was a collection of photos. I pulled the first one out and was stunned. The picture was that of a naked woman shrouded by green and blue tinted scarves. Her head was turned so that her long dark hair fell across her shoulders. The effect of the scarves was tormenting as you could almost, but not quite, makes out the shape of the woman. I felt a familiar sensation begin to stir in my groin as I returned the picture and pulled out the next one.
Again, the hair, which I could see was just slightly damp hung seductively across the model's chest; seductively revealing the curve of her breasts. The picture seemed to have been taken through multiple layers of the same scarves. It had a dream-like quality as if you were seeing the model through the shallow depths of an ocean tide pool. The model was neither big, or what the one art professor I had in college would call rubenesque, nor was she brittle or waiflike, as so many models seemed to be nowadays. She was a real woman. Like the close encounter you have on the subway. The woman sitting across from you who you always want to say something to, but just when you get up the nerve the train pulls into a station and in a crush of people she is gone; so quickly you wonder if she was ever there at all. And then you lie awake at nights wondering if you'll ever have that moment again, and deep down you know that you won't.
I heard voices coming from the other side of the door. Jonas's meeting was wrapping up. I quickly replaced the second photograph and shoved my hands in the pockets of my pants and turned away as if intrigued by a particular picture on the wall. I was painfully aware of my erection that was straining against the fabric of my pants. With my hands in my pockets, I tried to position my stiffened penis in a way that maked my hard-on less obvious, but I knew that it was of little use.
Jonas came through the door first, continuing his side of the conversation and was followed by a younger couple. The man was handsome with sharp features and a sparse goatee. Then I froze. The woman was the woman from the photographs. Even though I have never seen her face, I was sure of it. She was medium height with long dark hair and her face was just as I pictured it would be. She was as beautiful as a fantasy. "Tim," Jonas said surprised to see me standing there. "You're early." Jonas was a big man and his voice loudly shattered the solitude of the previous moment. The couple smiled politely, while Jonas turned to lock his office door. It was an old building, and Jonas fumbled with the lock.
"My meeting got over early," I offered awkwardly. I could feel my face redden with the shame of my arousal. Jonas finally secured the lock and stood up. He regarded me warmly for a moment. Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes dropped down and there was the momentary understanding of my discomfort.
"Well, he said with a wry smile. "I see you've already become familiar with Django's work and most notably his wife, Tia. Django offered me his hand. His grip was strong and confident. Tia nodded her head; a slight smile creased the corners of her mouth. My humiliation was complete, I think to myself. "Hello," she said. And I will never forget that first sound of her voice. Her accent was clipped and unmistakably German, but her voice was crisp and clear like a perfectly plucked note on a violin.
"Hi," I said weakly and I immediately hated myself for sounding so pathetic. But really how much better could I sound with the Empire State Building of erections jutting out from the front of my pants. "I'm Tim Baxter. I'm an old friend of Jonas's."
"Yes, Yes, Yes." Jonas said impatiently and he waved his hand as if to dismiss with the necessities of congenialities. "What I want to know is what do you think of these." Jonas pulled a few of the pictures out of the portfolio, the first that I had already seen and two others, which were new to me.
"Well," I began tentatively, not really knowing what was expected off me. Django leaned in closer to hear my comments while Tia stood apart from the group. "I think this one," I nodded to the first picture that I had seen, "really draws your eye, you know? It seems to tell the promise of a story..."
"Oh, you writers." Jonas said dismissively. "You see a story in everything. Always about the story." Jonas leaned the three pictures at an angle against the wall, before pulling out two additional photos from the portfolio. Once the photographs were arranged to his liking, he squatted down in front of them to get a bird's eye view. "Now do you see the shadows in this one," he said over his shoulder to no one in particular, " the way they draw these imaginary lines – they are exquisite." Django hovered above and slightly behind Jonas's left shoulder and provided the narrative of his photographic technique. The two men began talking another language that consisted of angles, shadings, and F-stops.
I stepped back and gave Tia a shrug. "It is all Greek to me," I said.
"I'm sorry?" she said cocking her head slightly. "They are speaking Greek?"
"No, No." I say quickly shaking my head. "It's just an expression. It means..." I started to explain, but Tia stepped toward me and put her hand on my arm. "I am just, 'joking' you?" Tia said with a smile. "When Django begins speaking of his art, I usually try to busy myself to with other things."
