Kitabı oku: «Under a Sardinian Sky», sayfa 4

At the end of the counter was a copy of Vogue that Antonio kept on display. He said it attracted the ladies who had an eye for fashion and the purse to match. Some such must have been leafing through it, because it was folded open at a beach spread. Carmela thought about her grandmother’s expression if she imagined any of her grandchildren at the beach dressed in short puffy shorts, pulled in tight at the waist and attached to a bodice that left little to the imagination. The model in the shoot played with a multicolored paper balloon that floated just beyond the tips of her fingers. Carmela was moved by the buoyancy of the moment that the photographer captured.

She picked up the magazine and turned its pages, convincing herself it was preparation for Mrs. Curwin’s appointment, even though no doubt she would arrive, as always, with a small shipment of dog-eared magazines to show the outfits she adored. Carmela would then work out accurate patterns from sight and match them to Mrs. Curwin’s measurements, re-creating the designs of the fashionistas with ease.

Audrey Hepburn looked out at her on the page, sitting on one hip on a studio floor, a mass of layered tulle cascading about her. Carmela took in the pure embodiment of effortless grace, a modern-day princess. Her heart ached; she spent hours re-creating such things for others, but she knew there would be few occasions for her to do anything close to it for herself. Besides, the generous curves of her silhouette were a world away from the elfin figure in the magazine. Sometimes she’d imagine herself at a fitting. She’d picture the dressmaker, dreaming up ways to taper her wide shoulders, her athletic arms—which she always wished were more like her mother’s than her father’s—and how to divert the eye to her narrow waist instead. Franco and his family were one of the wealthiest in town, but they cared little for the frivolity of parties or unnecessary expense. After all, Franco would preach, one didn’t accumulate wealth by spending it, like a peasant. It was a patter that accompanied their Sunday promenades, after mass, when she, Franco, and the rest of the town’s younger generation would congregate in Piazza Cantareddu and admire the elaborate window displays of the closed boutiques that lined it.

Flipping the magazine cover shut, she pushed it back over to its place. The model on the cover puckered her red lips into an expression of faux surprise. Her hair flew in the wind, beyond her was the sea, and in her hand she held a camera.

Perhaps Franco would be open to considering a honeymoon after all? Somewhere on the island where no one from Simius would know them. Somewhere Carmela might slip into a skimpy bathing suit to feel the wind caress her bare stomach, hair twirling a wild dance on the breeze, and not a soul around to remind her it was not the done thing of any respectable Sardinian woman. A part of the coast where only chic Parisians, classy Florentines, or royal Spaniards would strut for the summer, with little regard for propriety, their heads full of poems and sultry cigarettes. Perhaps Franco would swim with her, trace down her neck with his warm lips as the poppy red sun dipped into the pink water.

Antonio flung the bead curtain open before she could indulge herself further.

“She changes prices on a whim,” he moaned. The grocer next door was a distant cousin of his. Her narrow shelves ached with card boxes of pasta and vats of olive oil. Although she had barely enough room to fit more than three customers at a time, she made ends meet in part, Antonio would insist, by not offering significant discounts to her neighbors. “She’s still bitter about my father breaking his engagement with her, is all,” he said, opening up the large jar of milk of magnesia with a pop. The coy maid on the label flashed a saccharin smile.

Antonio took a teaspoon and ladled a generous helping of the white granules into a tumbler, then lifted the beaded linen doily off a ceramic jug on the counter and poured water from it. Carmela watched it fizz together, transfixed for a moment by the bubbles racing up to the surface.

“Take a good siesta this afternoon. If I was your mother, I’d be worried.” He smirked, half joking.

“Of course you would,” she said, taking a gulp, “Here, keep the change.”

“Someone’s on the road to partnership, then?”

“Just trying to thread needles straight.”

The sound of laughter blasted in from outside, followed by a group of soldiers bursting into the small bar, filling the space with uniforms. Antonio grew an inch taller and began his well-rehearsed patter. With little convincing they ordered a dozen caffè corretto, espresso spiked with aqua vitae. Carmela thought it strange that they would be drinking at this time of the day, and in uniform. Perhaps the addition of coffee to the liquor made it somehow permissible. There was an excited jitter about the men, as if they had little time for a big celebration. Antonio was a tornado, powering out the large order from his beloved coffee machine that whooshed into production.

The beads swayed again and another officer walked in, to deafening cheers.

“To be sure, sir,” one man shouted out, “back in my family’s Ireland, we’d be wetting the baby’s head with Guinness, not coffee!”

The pack laughed.

“Three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. Lieutenant K!” another called out.

Carmela’s ears pricked.

Her eyes darted to the gilt mirror in front of her, but she couldn’t make out any of their faces; the bottles were stacked too high. As their bellows vibrated Antonio’s little cave, Carmela took a snatched glance over to the crew. The corporals looked young. She saw them take turns patting an officer on the back. He laughed with them, relaxing into the celebration but still keeping rank. Then he was ushered into the middle of a circle they formed around him. The men clinked their tiny cups of creamy espresso, topped with enough hot water to make it palatable to the American clientele but pungent with Antonio’s generous shot of alcohol.

She didn’t need to see his face to know who it was, because the voice gave it away. When he turned around toward the bar, she caught a flash of his aqua-blue eyes and felt a short, sharp twinge of vanity—a brief wish to have spent a little more care on her appearance that morning. She silenced the sudden hurricane of jumbled thoughts with one swift, polite smile. He returned the pleasantry, but Carmela wasn’t convinced it was a new father’s joy she read in his eyes.

She twisted back round to Antonio, but he was thick in the onslaught of more orders, pulling another round of shots, delighted for the profitable morning. She slid off her stool and flew out of the bar, wind on her heels.

CHAPTER 4

Mrs. Curwin swished into Yolanda’s studio, sparkling with the same charisma with which she shimmered at the center of her parties. Carmela had no memory of Mrs. Curwin ever waltzing into rooms, conversations, or relationships, without the kind of ease and grace most could never aspire to, let alone achieve. This British lady of the house made no secret of the fact she had been raised among the poor of London’s East End Jewish immigrant community. She often reminisced about those early days, without feigned nostalgia, rather to express a deep appreciation for her new position. Carmela loved the way Mrs. Curwin neither succumbed to a maniacal fear of losing her riches nor flaunted it, as others from similar backgrounds did. She enjoyed her wealth with neither guilt nor condescension, but with respect for the husband who had accumulated it from his hanger factories that supplied most of London. She was married to a man she adored and bore him two boys with ease. To Carmela, it seemed that her life was but a dance.

Yolanda rose from the fabric desk and cut across the room in one smooth, direct motion, like a sharp scissor blade slicing material. She offered a warm handshake. “Piacere, Signora Curwin, sono Yolanda.”

“Piacere, darling,” Mrs. Curwin replied, extending her hand. “I insist you call me Suzie.”

Yolanda smiled, trying to follow.

“Signora asks you to call her Suzie,” Carmela translated, moving toward them from her table on the other side of the room.

“Yes, do talk for me, Carmela,” Mrs. Curwin added. “My Italian is worse than I think!” She waved her hands in the air with a giggle. “Carmela, darling, be a love and take my hat, will you? You have that wonderful look of fresh air about you today—even more than usual.”

Carmela smiled and hung the red, wide-rimmed hat on the stand by the fitting area. The space was separated from the seamstresses’ stations by three full-length mirrors framing a small square rug. Across the width hung a rail with a heavy navy velvet curtain ruched to one side, held together with a plaited cord. Mrs. Curwin glided toward the three mirrors, opened her pocketbook, and powdered her nose. “It’s positively sweltering out there!”

While Yolanda and Carmela stood a polite distance away, waiting for her to finish, Carmela scrutinized Mrs. Curwin’s dress. The front bodice was cut on the bias and gathered at the upper edge to a yoke emphasizing her tiny waist. The extended shoulder seams formed cap sleeves in a deeper shade of red cotton. The full skirt was gathered at either side of the front waistline. It was the perfect summer dress—cool, alluring, and elegant.

She turned back to face them, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I’m throwing a party next week, and nothing I’ve brought from London seems appropriate—too formal, too black tie. I’m looking for something light but suitable for evening. Decadent but understated. I know dear Carmela has magic hands—and eyes that cast spells.” She flashed Carmela a twinkling smile. “If your sewing creations are half as good as the lamb and fennel you made for lunch the other day, my dear, I’ll be belle of the ball!”

Mrs. Curwin reached into her woven bag and pulled out some magazines. “Let me show you what I’m thinking.”

“Caffè, Signora?” Yolanda asked.

“Sì,” she replied, like a child in a pasticceria. “Latte poco, grazie.”

“Macchiato,” Carmela explained to her godmother.

Yolanda replied with a smile. Carmela could tell she was trying not to appear too desperate.

Carmela pulled over a high-backed chair for Mrs. Curwin and sat on a small wooden stool beside her. Several pages of her magazines were dog-eared. “Now, Carmela, I adore this halter neck,” she said, flicking past the first few pages and pointing to a model on a Parisian street, “and doesn’t every woman feel irresistible in a pencil skirt? But I’m not sure I like the way they work together in this dress here, do you?”

“We can do anything, Signora.”

“A delicious dilemma!” She laughed, leafing through to the next dog-ear. “You see, I adore the off-the-shoulder—”

“Signora, ecco il caffè,” Yolanda said, arriving with a wooden tray with the two-cup coffeepot she had set to rise just ahead of the appointment. She placed it on a low, wooden stool beside them. Carmela noticed that Yolanda used her best espresso cups, white bone china with fine, gold-painted trim. Yolanda placed one cup and saucer in the center of a square of embroidered linen and poured coffee into it from the metal pot. To this she added warm milk from a china jug. An oval plate lay beside it, painted with bright pictures of traditional Sardinian dancers, topped with fresh pastries from the pasticceria down the lane; copulette—paper-thin pastry cases filled with sweet almond paste, topped with smooth, white icing that looked like small diamonds of virgin snow. Alongside lay tiricche—pastry cut with delicate scalloped edges, filled with fig jam and rolled into horseshoes. Carmela breathed in their fruity sweetness as she lifted the plate to Mrs. Curwin.

“Darling, how could I possibly refuse?” she said, reaching out a manicured hand for a copulette. Carmela noticed how the girls at the nearest stations eyed Mrs. Curwin. None of them ate sweets in the daytime. They were strictly for weddings or fiestas, not morning breaks.

Mrs. Curwin took delicate bites with relish, careful not to spill any of the crumbling icing. Then she stirred some sugar from a ceramic caddy into the tiny cup. “Why, oh why, are the streets of London not lined with espresso bars?” She took a sip and moaned with pleasure. “I’ll talk to Marito about it. Soho would be the place, of that I’m certain.”

Since the Curwins’ first visit to Sardinia five years ago, Mrs. Curwin had stolen sporadic words from Italian and peppered her English with them. She now referred to Mr. Curwin as Marito, Italian for husband. “If I could convince Marito to open the first one, I could bring a little bit of Sardinian paradise to the London drizzle—but only if you’ll come and prepare the sweets, Carmela! We’d have all those fashionable city boys queueing up to gawp at you besides.”

Carmela smiled, flattered—the creamy, marsala-spiked zabaglione she made for the family last night had not gone unappreciated. Then she thought about Piera, at this moment likely returning from the market in the unforgiving heat, loaded with produce to prepare the Curwins’ dinner.

Over the next hour Mrs. Curwin showed Carmela several other magazine spreads. Carmela took her sketchpad and a length of charcoal from the drawer underneath her desk and returned to the fitting area to begin a quick outline of some initial ideas. Her hand skimmed over the page at great speed. The other seamstresses began to tidy their stations for their three-hour lunch break. Carmela could feel them glancing over her shoulder at her sketch as they passed on their way out.

She began with the outline of a pencil skirt but added some extra bounce just below the waist. A bodice rose up above it. The neckline was off the shoulder. Two sweeping curves overlaid one another to form a heart shape by the collar bone and extended slightly wider than the arms. The border was accentuated with a lighter fabric. On the side of the waist she drew a jeweled clasp. It was dramatic and imaginative. Exactly what Mrs. Curwin had hoped for.

“I love it, darling!” she said. “Those sharp lines are stunning, coupled with the softness over the décolletage. It’s just beautiful. Yolanda!” she called, leaning toward her with a conspiratorial twinkle. “If I were you I would tell you to offer her partnership in a heartbeat—only make sure she keeps her summers free to carry on feeding my family to distraction!”

“What does she say?” Yolanda asked Carmela, barely masking her panic.

“She likes it.”

Carmela walked along the only road out of town that led to the Curwins’ rented summer villa. Huddles of houses gave way to parched countryside. The town’s hills were dipped in the rusty hue of the fading sun, rising and falling in crags down toward the crystalline coast. Wild fennel sprouted in tufts along the side of the dusty, white road. Carmela yanked at one of them and chewed it; the refreshing taste of anise cooled the inside of her cheek.

The road was punctuated with grand Victorian villas. Their porticos rose above Corinthian columns, with verandas wrapped around the width of the houses. High arched windows were framed with granite cornices and hung with heavy, dark green shutters. Several were now rented out to inquisitive tourists like the Curwins, who paid handsomely for their month stay and appeared to take pleasure in the faded majesty. The families who owned them were descendants of the island’s aristocrats. They took responsibility for arranging local staff to undertake all domestic duties.

The Curwins’ villa belonged to Franco’s uncle, one of the reasons Carmela and Piera could rely on being hired each year. Domestic work was seen as the mainstay of orphans or immigrants, but working for the British held a certain cachet. The positions were sought and fought over.

Carmela turned to the driveway and walked through the tall iron gates. She passed a fountain carved into the rock, which trickled with water from an underground spring. Beside it, wide lily pads floated upon the green surface of a pond. On the opposite side, a small stone chapel stood, where the original owners attended private masses, joined by neighboring families so as to avoid the necessity of traveling into town and mixing with folks of lower class. The four rows of pews were polished weekly, but outside, ivy threatened a coup and the wrought iron cross rising from the tiny steeple was fighting a losing battle against the elements.

Carmela carried on past the high, wooden double doors of the entrance, terra-cotta pots of blooming geraniums lining the side of the house, and reached the side door of the kitchen. Piera had her hands deep in preparations for dinner. Carmela was greeted with an earthy whiff of sautéed garlic with warm spinach wilting in a skillet upon the stove.

“Nice of you to stop by,” Piera huffed, grating a snowfall of nutmeg into the pan.

“I’m sorry, I was cutting patterns. Mrs. Curwin came in today. She loved my design.”

“Wonderful. Now work some magic here, please.” Piera moved to the floured surface of the marble counter; picked up a long, wooden rolling pin; and began thinning a sheet of pasta dough. “Sauce won’t cook itself, you know.”

Carmela washed her hands under the iron faucet of the large ceramic sink. An enamel bowl next to the stove was already filled with tiny cubes of carrots, celery, and onion. Carmela placed another skillet on the stove top, drizzled some dark green olive oil into it, and lit the gas ring. She peeled the clove of garlic that Piera had left beside the bowl, crushed it with one quick blow of a knife, and placed it into the warming oil to infuse. Beside Piera, a metal crusher clamped onto the worktop had a large bowl of fresh tomatoes beside it, pulped into passata. Carmela cranked the handle a few more times to squeeze the final tomatoes into the bowl.

“Daydreaming again?” Piera piped. “Or do you like burned garlic?”

Carmela snatched the skillet off the flame and poured in the diced vegetables, trying to brush away the pique of irritation. She took a deeper breath. Their aroma was sweet and earthy, unchanged from her earliest memories of dancing around the hem of her mother’s apron. Others found peace in the chilled silence of church. For Carmela, it was in the kitchen. The excitement of today, the short-tempered mood of her sister, would give way to an inner peace. To prepare a meal with success required the cook to devote her complete attention to it—mental, physical, and emotional. It was a well-known fact among the Simiuns that an angry, distracted, or lazy cook produced only bitter food.

The sisters’ culinary duet was well oiled. If Carmela was a little late, though, like today, it took a few dishes before Piera would settle back into their combined rhythm.

“Hard day?” Carmela asked, stirring the trittata so that the olive oil glazed all the small pieces evenly.

“While you were dreaming up dresses, I had to shunt in and out of town like a donkey. Nonna was on fire all day.”

“I heard. Vittoria came running past the studio today, flapping like she’d been stung.”

“When Zia Rosa finally got home, she bossed me around like a slave. Never been happier to get to work, I tell you.”

They slipped into a familiar silence. Carmela let the vegetables soften before adding the tomatoes. She sprinkled a small spoonful of sugar over them, a pinch of saporita—a blend of nutmeg, paprika, and cumin—and then reduced the heat to let the sauce thicken.

“You know that woman from Pattada came again the other day,” Carmela began. “There are some off cuts enough for me to make you a new summer dress.”

Piera pummeled the dough as if it were an old enemy. “Pass me the spinach.”

Carmela grabbed the woolen potholders and lifted the skillet off the stove, then picked up another chopping board—a slice of an olive tree trunk—and placed it underneath. Before Piera could ask her, she moved to the wooden icebox and grabbed a slab of salted ricotta. She sliced a generous amount and crumbled it into the warm spinach. Then she threw a pinch of salt and ground some pepper into the mixture. With two teaspoons she carefully cupped small balls of green and placed them at even spaces along the rolled-out dough.

“I look ridiculous in those dresses—like a boy in a skirt.”

“Not when I make them, you don’t. Smells delicious, Piera,” Carmela said.

Piera lifted the second pasta dough sheet and laid it like a blanket over the balls of spinach and ricotta.

“Here.” Carmela took the wooden wheel out of Piera’s hand. “I’ll finish. You won’t cut straight if you’re thinking about Nonna.” She rolled the serrated wheel along the length of the pasta and then along the widths, cutting out perfect parcels of ravioli. Then she dusted them with flour and placed them on a tray.

“Did you see your poster?” Piera asked, brightening at last.

“Almost,” Carmela replied, wishing the image of that tired plate of cheese and lard didn’t flash in her mind, or the coolness in Franco’s eyes as they kissed good-bye. “We didn’t stop for lunch today.”

“It’s nearly six,” Piera said, brushing down her apron. “You know they eat early.”

Carmela never paid much mind to the usual time Simiuns ate their dinner before she worked for the Curwins. Few were the Simiun families who dined before nine o’clock, and it certainly would not include pasta. At home, Carmela and her siblings would be lucky to get more than a cup of warm milk and bread. Feasting at night was deemed gluttonous excess, particularly in their household, an indulgence reserved for special occasions only, like Christmas Eve.

Carmela lifted the loaded tray to the stove and gently dropped each parcel into a deep pan of boiling water. The ravioli bobbed as if reluctant swimmers gasping for air.

“Ladies, that smells absolutely divine!” Mrs. Curwin said as she sashayed into the kitchen wearing a two-piece swimsuit in a tropical flower print, a halter-neck bikini top, and tight shorts to match. An oversize white linen shirt hung over her bronzed shoulders. “I’ve been taking in the last rays on the back terrace. It’s glorious at this time.”

She reached into the icebox and removed a jug of water with sliced lemons floating inside. She poured herself a drink. “I think we’ll eat out there this evening, Signorine.”

“Of course, Signora,” Carmela answered, as Mrs. Curwin floated out of the room to change for dinner.

Piera scooped the ravioli out of the pan. She layered them gently on a wide, flat dish, spooning sauce in between as she went. When all the pasta was on the dish, she grated a generous amount of pecorino over the top. It oozed into the hot sauce. Before she placed the cheese back into the icebox, she pulled off a tiny hunk to nibble.

“I saw that,” Carmela said.

Piera grinned.

The sisters filled another bowl with paper-thin slices from a fresh fennel bulb and narrow wedges of orange. They squeezed the remaining juice from the inside of the orange peels into the bowl and sprinkled salt and freshly ground pepper over the top. With a generous splash of olive oil, the salad was complete. They tore some pane fino and placed it in a basket, then topped it with a few sheets of pane carusau, thin sheets of crisp bread they had warmed in the oven and drizzled with olive oil, a little salt, and some fresh rosemary. A carafe was filled with their father’s wine. They laid two large, wooden trays with all the dishes and carried everything outside.

The terrace at the back of the villa was paved with large terracotta tiles, framed with a delicate marine mosaic of waves and fishes. Overhead, passiflora and clematis wove a thick, fragrant canopy. Piera and Carmela took out a linen tablecloth, four plates, and four heavy green glasses from the wooden sideboard that stood against the wall of the house and laid the table with them. On each plate they positioned a rolled linen napkin wrapped around a knife, spoon, and fork. A thin bottle of dark green olive oil, a small pot of grated pecorino, and a pepper mill were placed in the center of the table, along with all the plates of food and breads. On top of the sideboard was a basket of velveteen peaches and purple-green plums, for after dinner.

Mr. Curwin came out first, holding a glass of cold, white vermentino, a book tucked under his arm. “Buona sera, ladies, this looks wonderful.” He pulled his linen trousers up an inch as he took his seat and then he straightened his collar. His skin was not as bronzed as his wife’s. Mr. Curwin preferred the cool of the shade in which to read historical accounts or biographies to the dazzling rays in which his wife and children basked. His eyes were small and light brown, bright with an intelligence he reserved for well-timed, dry quips. The boys raced up from the back of the garden, where they had been playing around the lemon and fig trees, and hopped into their respective seats.

“Hands, boys,” Mr. Curwin said. They marched inside.

Mrs. Curwin made her entrance in a simple, yellow cotton crossover dress that was tied in a bow at the back. It showed off her sun-kissed skin. A cluster of citrine sparkled in each ear. “How we will ever go back to English food escapes me, Marito, really.”

“Yes, you remind me every time we come, dear,” he replied, reaching forward to snap off a crisp of pane carusau.

“Then take my advice and buy these girls plane tickets!” She smiled, half joking.

Carmela imagined Franco’s expression if she were to tell him she had packed for a London life. Her mind flew back to the time an uncle had asked her whether she would accompany him on one of his salesman’s trips to the south of the island. He had been trying to earn commission on the sale of sewing equipment and told Carmela she would be the best person to demonstrate how good such and such a needle was, and so forth. She remembered sitting on the front step outside the house before daybreak the following morning, clutching a small overnight bag. When the morning sun slit across the violet dawn and he still hadn’t shown up, she realized he had been teasing. How foolish she had felt to even think her grandmother would have let her go, or that her uncle would have seriously thought about taking her. What kind of impression would he have made traveling alone with a young, unmarried girl, only sixteen at the time, even if she was his niece? Piera hadn’t stopped laughing at her until they fell asleep that night, probably relieved, Carmela had since realized, that her sister hadn’t left her alone, forgoing the predictability of a Simius life for the adventure of life on the road.

“Now, ladies, before you go and the night girls take over,” Mrs. Curwin said, “have a think about our party, yes?”

“Party?” asked Piera.

“Yes. Next week. Marito has invited about thirty people. Fellows from the base, mostly. The charming captain introduced me to his chief lieutenant—even Marito had to admit he was a darling American—”

“I used that word?”

“Absolutely! He’s the most marvelous specimen either of us had clapped eyes on. They’re pretty new around here, so they told me—how Americans do love to talk—and we thought we’d give them a proper welcome, if you like.”

She lifted her glass, and Mr. Curwin filled it with vermentino. “In truth, it’s a bit of a belated birthday bash for me, actually. Wear your dancing shoes, won’t you, girls? Everyone needs a break sometime!” She raised her glass toward her husband. They drank. Carmela pictured her grandmother watching, agog, as two of her grandchildren left for work in their best shoes.

“We’ll talk about the menu over the next few days,” Mrs. Curwin continued, running a swift hand through her hair, lifting it higher off her face. “Just thought I ought to mention it now in case you need to order anything special from the salumeria, and so forth.”

“Of course, Signora,” Carmela answered.

“Suzie, darling, please. Now head on before it’s too dark.”

Carmela and Piera turned back to the kitchen and laid the skillets to soak in the deep ceramic sink. Two young girls came in to take over for the night shift and exchanged a perfunctory greeting. Piera and Carmela stepped outside and began their winding walk back to Simius in silence, under the canopy of a starlit, purple dusk.

“Ticket to London?” Piera asked after a while, kicking a stone.

“Tickets.”

“Franco’s always wanted to meet the Queen, no?”

The daydream brought a broad smile to Carmela’s face. Considering even the slightest possibility of a life beyond her shores was seductive. She breathed in the cool, scented air of the evening, aromatic with sun-toasted juniper and thyme. In the near distance, the lights of Simius twinkled; beyond it, the cobalt sea. Franco was right, of course; this island was the perfect place for them. Paradise was underfoot. How foolish to even entertain the idea of chasing dreams in London, or Marseilles, or Munich, like many of their contemporaries, running after invisible riches.

The sliver of a moon crept up over the distant hills, jagged silhouettes of the surrounding valley. Carmela thought about the woman playing on the beach in Antonio’s magazine. That life was nothing more than a photograph, after all.