Sweetness and Light

When I met her again, it was on the 12.10 train from York to King’s Cross. She was occupying the best part of two seats and seemed totally at ease with herself, unaware of the furtive glances from other passengers in the carriage. Until I’d moved to another part of the country, we’d been inseparable. She was the best school friend I’d ever had. We kept in touch for many years, but gradually the phone calls became less regular, the postcards less frequent, eventually even the Christmas cards stopped.

And here we were again, twenty years later, traveling in the same direction. Nothing could have prepared me for this. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She was wearing an asymmetrical electric blue tunic over a long kaftan the colour of crushed raspberries. The limbs and head that emerged from this colourful mass were exceedingly beautiful. Bangles of varying sizes, embossed with outlandish designs adorned her forearms; long, thin spirals of silver wire dangled from her ears; in contrast, her fingers and neck were bare. Her radiant face had the fullness and softness of a ripe peach. Not a crease, not a blemish. The smooth, rounded features were framed by blond curls that accentuated her cherub looks. I was awed.

She glanced up from her book and recognized me. She smiled. I smiled back, walked over to her side of the carriage and sat down facing her. We started talking and soon enough we were reminiscing about our schooldays. She hadn’t forgotten my harmless pranks and I could still remember the names of the sweets that her father kept in glass jars behind the counter of his shop: sherbet lemons, humbugs, gobstoppers, black jacks… and her favourites: rosy apples and bonfire toffee! ‘You remember that?’ she said, raising her right eyebrow.

She was returning from a visit to a knitwear factory. I gathered that she was some kind of designer. She obviously didn’t wish to go into details and I didn’t press her. She was, however, curious about my work as a professional photographer: unless seen through the prism of the lens, I explained, little made sense to me nowadays. As we spoke, the sense of awe never left me. Her size, enormous at it was, added to her beauty beyond all measure and all imaginings. I kept staring at her, intent on gleaning some understanding from her arresting blue eyes. There was a new depth there that I did not recognize and could not fathom. She was simply out of this world. In another time, in another place she would have been worshipped as a goddess.

I gave her my telephone number before the train stopped and rushed off. As I reached the end of the platform, I turned round to give her a parting look: two members of staff, dwarfed by her vast body, were struggling to help her off the train ­ this reminded me of a poem I’d read long ago about an albatross unable to walk, hampered by its gigantic wings.

Two months later, I received a call: she was offering me some work ­ a one-off job, she said, a strictly professional deal with cash in advance. I was being hired for a half-day shoot in an apartment close to the centre of town. I was to bring all the necessary equipment and charge her for all costs, except for developing and printing, which had already been arranged. On the morning of the given date, I received a package that contained a generous amount of money and the keys to the place. A brief handwritten note read: “I’ll be there. Go in, and see for yourself. Phoebe.”

The apartment was on the first floor of a nondescript building. The landing was quiet. No one in sight. I let myself in. Soon I was standing in a long, narrow passage. Ahead of me, at the far end, a shaft of light was beckoning. I walked towards it, pushed the door open and, as I entered, the brightness of the room startled me. It must have been facing south. The full blast of the sun was reflected on the lemony yellow walls, the carpet was unremittingly blue and the bed, unsurprisingly, the colour of crushed raspberries. She lay there on her left-hand side, her black oriental robes loosely gathered around her slightly curled body. Her head was resting on her outstretched arm. A dozen multicoloured pear drops were scattered on the floor, they must have fallen from her hand when she let go. A bead of pink saliva was poised at the corner of her mouth.

It was perfect. There was no holding back. I set to work furiously. I tried everything, every lens and every angle, even filters. I took several rolls of films. But without getting any closer. In my eagerness to grab what had eluded me when we met in that train, I’d thrown myself into the job with an unnecessary sense of urgency. I paused. This was no ordinary shoot.

The stillness was unnerving. Not a movement in the room. Not a sound either ­ earlier on, I thought I’d heard a slight moan but it might have been my imagination. I kept looking at her, questioning. There was something comforting in her repose. Gradually, I felt drawn in. She obviously knew more about photography that she’d let on. I could see it now. She’d placed herself in such a way that I could work in natural light and as the afternoon wore on, the light on her face softened, the shadows fell away from her. I set to work again, calmly this time, confidently. I never stopped until all light had ebbed away.

And then it was over. I placed the films on the floor next to her amidst the scattered sweets, gathered my belongings and hurried to the door. All I remember now is her face when I turned round for a final glance: there was no colour left in her cheeks.

Mireille Ribière

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