Читать книгу Wildlife Cameraman - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 4

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Jase’s first reaction to his loss was to go after the light-fingered hitchhiker; his second was to tell his troubles to the gas station attendant. On second thought he did neither. He knew that the hitchhiker would be out of sight at the first sound of the jeep. And if he told the attendant, what good would it do? The man probably wouldn’t believe him, and might even report him as a panhandler or a vagrant or something. At least he could pay for the gas with the money in his watch pocket. Yes, that was still there.

“You need a quart of oil,” the attendant told him. “How about it?”

“Okay,” Jase replied reluctantly, doing a quick mental addition. “The cheapest grade will do.”

While the attendant was putting in the oil, Jase concentrated on his problem. Of course a telephone call to the store, charges reversed, would bring him ample funds to get home. But it would also bring a definite end to the summer he had planned. The odds were certainly stacked against any wildlife photography in the Lasher, but they were still better right where he was than they would be if he went home.

There was another factor involved, too. If he had to admit that he’d lost all his money before the first day was half gone, and then sneak home like a whipped puppy with its tail between its legs ... He wouldn’t do it. He clenched his fist, thumped it against his thigh, and wished it was the hitchhiker’s chin.

He gave the attendant his two dollar bills, and leaned against the jeep, staring unseeingly at the filling station. There had to be a way out of this dilemma because there was a way out of everything.

“Here’s your change, bub. Good-lookin’ station, ain’t it?”

Jase snapped out of it and looked around. “Yes. Yes, it is. Nice place.”

“Just opened yesterday,” the owner said proudly. “Figure I can build up a real good business here.”

“Sure you can,” Jase agreed absently.

“Soon’s I get time, I’m goin’ to have some cards printed up and send ’em around.”

Jase’s professional instincts were suddenly aroused. He looked again at the filling station, a conventional white building across the front of which, in foot-high letters, was “Henry Elson, Prop.” Then there were the gas pumps and the wide driveway leading in. If he gave it proper time and thought, any good photographer could produce an attractive picture.

“A photograph printed on your cards would make people recognize your place when they saw it,” Jase pointed out. “There are some good angles here.”

“Some good what?”

“Photographic angles. I’m a photographer.”

“You are, eh? Old Man Jesseray has a photograph store in town, but he’s such an ornery old cuss that I never thought of it. Not a bad idea, young feller.”

Jase tried to conceal his eagerness. “I can take a good photograph for you right now, and give you an 8 × 10 enlargement. I’ve got all my equipment with me.”

“How much?”

“Well, a commercial photographer would charge at least twenty-five dollars for bringing equipment here, taking the picture, processing it, and delivering it. I’ll do it for twenty.”

“How do I know it would be the one I want?”

Jase was now certain that Henry Elson wanted his picture, but he wanted it as cheaply as he could get it, and he wanted to be sure he would like it.

“You can tell after you see it,” Jase assured him.

“You mean you’ll show it to me first?”

“I guarantee satisfaction, or you don’t have to take it.”

“Well now, on those terms suppose you just make me a picture.”

“I’ll be glad to.” Jase hoped his sigh of relief was not too audible. He studied the building.

The sun was at high noon, all glare with little softening shadow. Even if he could make a picture that would satisfy Henry Elson right now, Jase’s photographer’s soul objected to so doing. Though he’d snapped many slipshod pictures, he’d never done so if he could help it.

He needed this commission desperately, only he knew how desperately. Until he got his hands on that twenty dollars, he’d better stay right on the job. And if he stayed on the job, he must appear as though he were working. He was fairly certain that Henry Elson knew nothing about photography, therefore he would not understand why a more interesting picture would result if there were shadow detail in it.

Jase could, of course, take a routine picture of the filling station. He wanted something better and was sure he could get it. Then Henry Elson turned toward him, and Jase noted that he had both a pleasing three-quarter face and an engaging smile. The picture he wanted suddenly began to form in Jase’s mind.

Henry should be at the pumps, preferably pumping gas into a car, smiling and with his face at exactly the right angle. The background would be the station itself with the words “Henry Elson, Prop.,” in sharp focus. Jase frowned. There seemed to be something wrong with that idea, but he couldn’t place it.

Perhaps the filling station owner should merely be standing in front of the pumps, his face at the correct angle, smiling, and with something, maybe a can of oil, in his hand. Jase puzzled. Would lack of cars indicate a lack of business? Or would such a picture, with no cars at all, merely indicate that he was recently opened and ready for business?

Jase had a sudden inspiration. “Do you have any heavy paper?”

“What kind?”

“Any kind as long as it’s dark colored.”

Henry Elson gave him a sheet of wrapping paper. Jase said, “Now if I can borrow a pencil, too. I’d like a carpenter’s pencil if you have it.”

While Buckles slept peacefully and Henry Elson attended to the business that came his way, Jase lettered his paper. He worked carefully, forgetting his misfortune and almost oblivious of the fact that he’d eaten nothing since his very early breakfast. He was doing what he best loved to do, and even though no one but Henry Elson would ever know who the photographer was, if this was going to be a Mason picture, it had to be the best Mason could turn out.

Finishing with his lettering, Jase borrowed a stepladder, mounted it, and worked in front of the building. He descended the ladder, took it away, and stepped back to view his work. Henry Elson came to his side.

“Say! That’s all right! Good idea.”

Henry Elson’s name still stood out plainly. But hiding the abbreviated “Prop.” were Jase’s letters, so that now the sign read “Henry Elson Invites You.” Jase looked at the sun, still too high for shadow effect, and wished he dared go find a restaurant where he could spend what little money he had left. But he had an interested prospect, and if the prospect should lose interest, he might lose the prospect. He’d better stay.

He set up his tripod, attached his 2¼ × 2¼ reflex to it, and squinted through the ground glass for possible picture angles and composition. He moved his tripod and squinted again. That was helpful, but there were only so many possible picture angles and after he’d learned them the readings he took with his light meter were merely a meaningless way to pass time and to impress Henry Elson.

After an eternity the sun dipped low enough for good shadows. Jase, who had determined the exact angle he wanted, set up his camera and posed Henry Elson with a can of oil in his hand. Jase took readings with his light meter, set the camera at the proper f-stop and speed, and went back to squint into the ground glass.

“Your head just a little more toward me,” he called. “No, that’s too much. Back just a little. Hold it. Now smile.”

As Henry Elson smiled, Jase squirmed. His model’s natural smile was warm and appealing; his posed one was reminiscent of a horse trying to rid its teeth of some sticky substance that had adhered to them. But it was up to the photographer to get his picture. Jase continued to peer into the ground glass and kept his voice at a natural pitch.

“Say, you’re handsomer than any movie star I ever saw.”

That did it. For a fleeting second Henry Elson shed his horrible grimace in favor of a natural smile. The instant he did, Jase pressed the plunger on the cable release. He turned his film to the next exposure as Henry Elson walked toward him.

“Go back,” Jase requested. “I want a couple more of the same shot.”

His model was less stiff and more relaxed now. Jase directed him to move his head to the right position, and when it was correctly placed he said, “I’ll bet photographers are more bother than all your money.”

Again the smile and again a picture. Jase took a third shot just to be sure, then waited for a car to come.

The first, a sleek, chauffeur-driven sedan, he passed up. Henry Elson was not going to cater exclusively to the luxury trade. The second, a battered antique with no windows, one fender, and the driver’s door wired on, he did not want either. But the third was a modestly priced three-year-old car which obviously had had care and at the same time much use. It was an average car for an average driver. Furthermore, this driver was a friend of Henry Elson’s.

“What you doin’, Hank?”

“Gettin’ my picture took to put on some post cards.”

“Well now, if you ain’t the cute one! Sure you ain’t goin’ to give ’em to all your girl friends?”

“Didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Henry Elson said roguishly. “Wait until ...”

Looking into the ground glass, Jase listened attentively. For the moment, exchanging banter with his friend, Henry Elson had forgotten the camera. If he would continue to forget it, turn his head to the right position, smile when he had it there—He did and Jase took the picture. He snapped another and another. The remainder of the film he used to take still more pictures from various angles.

“That’s it,” Jase said, winding the film back on its spool.

“You all done?”

“With the picture-taking part. But there’s a lot more.”

Jase removed the roll of film, got his photography box from the jeep, and took out a developing tank, a bottle of prepared developer, and a bottle of hypo.

“Is there a room here that I can darken completely?”

“Just go in the storeroom and shut the door.”

Jase did so, worked the cap from the tank, slipped it into his pocket, and took out the spool. With his pocket knife he slit the seal that prevented the film’s accidental unrolling and unrolled it until he found the emulsified strip beneath the paper backing. Expertly, for he’d done this more times than he could remember, he stripped the film onto the spool and clapped the cover of the tank back on. He tested the temperature of the developing solution, found it at 73 degrees, and didn’t like it. Sixty-eight was the ideal development temperature, but Henry Elson had not yet installed his soft-drink stand, where there would be either ice or ice water, and there was no way to bring this down. He would have to compensate for it with two minutes less development time.

Agitating the tank at frequent intervals, Jase developed the film for thirteen minutes. He poured the developer out and the hypo in, poured the hypo out after ten minutes, and let the processed film wash for half an hour under a running tap in Henry Elson’s washroom. Then he hooked a film clip to each end, straightened the film, swabbed the excess water off with a cellulose sponge, and examined the results of his labors.

He knew as soon as he looked at them that the pictures weren’t masterpieces or worthy of a salon hanging. But they hadn’t been intended as such and all were passable. The one in which Henry Elson had been talking with his friend seemed the best of the lot. While Jase was giving it a minute scrutiny, Henry Elson came to peer over his shoulder.

“Those ain’t pictures!”

“No,” Jase agreed, “they’re just negatives. You make pictures from them. Didn’t you ever take any pictures?”

“Never owned a camera in my life and never aim to. You sure you can make pictures from them little shiny squares?”

Jase grinned. “Not just one, a thousand if you want ’em. But I didn’t bring my printing equipment along. You said there’s a photographer in town?”

“Drive straight into town on this road. Old Man Jesseray’s got himself a place just beyond the residential district and almost in it. It’s about half a mile and you can’t miss his sign.”

Jase rolled the still-damp film loosely, carefully placed it in a dust-proof pliofilm bag, and laid the bag in his box of photography gear. As he got into the jeep, Buckles emerged from the shade of the filling station and came running out to leap in beside him.

Now that he was no longer absorbed in work, Jase’s stomach was forcibly reminding him that it had had nothing to work on for many hours. But it was just as well. If he’d spent his money for lunch when the impulse moved, he would now have nothing with which to pay for an 8 × 10 enlargement. But when he paid for the enlargement, which at the very most should cost seventy-five cents, he wouldn’t have enough money to buy lunch. Jase hoped Henry Elson would not be too hard to please.

He drove slowly into town, a pleasant little city of some twelve thousand inhabitants, and was half a block away from it when he saw the sign, “T. Harlow Jesseray, Photographer.” Jase drew up at the curb, ordered Buckles to watch the jeep, and got out his precious film.

The studio occupied the lower floor of an old two-story house, which couldn’t have had any paint for the past twenty years. The steps were sagging, but here and there in the weed-choked yard flowers struggled to survive. Jase put his misgivings aside. What was inside the studio counted a great deal more than its outside appearance. Jase walked up the rickety steps and entered a room that had absolutely no order.

Boxes of photographic supplies were placed haphazardly on floor-to-ceiling shelves, and among them were old cameras, umbrellas, discarded shoes, rolled-up shirts, dangling neckties, picture frames, and a weird assortment of other litter. Except for some boxes of chemicals, obviously fresh, everything in the place had an air of great age. But nothing seemed older, or more peculiarly suited to such a room, than the man who sat on a crazily tilted chair behind an ancient roll-top desk.

Completely bald, the old man had ears so big that it seemed as though a clothespin would have joined both of them over the top of his head. Looking at his face, Jase thought first of a buzzard and then of a hawk. His hands were like claws, his clothing dishevelled, and his temper obviously bad.

“Whaddaya want?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Jesseray.”

“Who do you think I am? The Governor?”

“I have a film here, Mr. Jesseray, and I need one 8 × 10 glossy—”

“Leave it. I’ll get to it tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or maybe the month after.”

“But I’m in a great hurry.”

“So’s ever’body else and it don’t do ’em no good.”

The old man glared at Jase, then suddenly closed his eyes as if going back to sleep.

“Please, Mr. Jesseray!” Jase pleaded. “It’s important to me.”

The chair thumped the floor, the head turned, the tremendous ears seemed to quiver, and the old eyes burned into Jase.

“What’d you say?”

“Please do it! I’m working on a job and it’s important to me!”

“Ha!” the old man cackled. “Important, eh? All right, sonny. Lessee your film!”

Jase handed him the pliofilm sack. The old photographer tore it open, unrolled the film, looked carefully at each frame. The face he turned toward Jase was noncommittal.

“Which’n you want?”

“Of course I’d be glad to have your suggestions, but number six looks like the best to me.”

“You picked her, sonny, it is the best. Right exposure, too. With all the high-priced gadgets and foofaraw they got now, and didn’t have when I was a kid, half the films I get are under-exposed, the other half are over-exposed, and most of ’em are Aunt Sue at the beach or somebody’s baby. Every negative you got here’s a good one! You just set tight!”

The old man rose and hobbled into his darkroom. Jase waited nervously. Had he made a mistake? There was nothing about this studio to inspire confidence in its owner, and Henry Elson would settle for nothing less than a good picture. But forty minutes later, carrying a dry print in his hand, T. Harlow Jesseray emerged from his darkroom.

“There you are, sonny. She’s all set, and if Hank Elson don’t like that, I personally will put arsenic in his soup!”

Jase looked at the picture. It said exactly what he’d hoped to say. Smilingly efficient, Henry Elson was inviting one and all to come trade with him. It had been a good picture, and real care had gone into the printing. T. Harlow Jesseray might be old and cantankerous, but he knew his business.

“Gee! This is wonderful!” Jase said feelingly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Not a blasted cent, sonny! With all the bad pictures that I have to mess with, it done my old heart good to find somebody who knows what a camera’s for! Didn’t think there were good photographers any more! Guess I was wrong, young feller.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“My pleasure, sonny. Come in again and here’re your negatives.”

Jase drove light-heartedly back to Henry Elson’s filling station. He showed the picture and noted instant approval in the other’s eyes.

“Say! That’s all right!”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I do! I sure do!” He went to the cash register, took out a twenty-dollar bill, and gave it to Jase. He grinned. “When you started talkin’ twenty dollars for takin’ my picture, I figured all you had to do was aim your camera, get a picture, and that was the end of it. But I saw how you worked nigh the whole afternoon. You earned your money.”

Jase made a mental note. Maybe more people would be impressed if they knew of the planning and work that went into every good picture.

Henry Elson cleared his throat. “You say pictures can be made from every one of them little—what do you call ’em?”

“Negatives,” Jase supplied.

“Want to sell them too?”

About to give away the negatives, of no possible value to himself, Jase thought better of it. Work and thought had gone into each one, and obviously they were of value to Henry Elson. “Will five dollars be all right?”

“Right with me.”

Back on the road, Jase stopped at the first grocery he saw. He bought a loaf of bread, oleo because it was cheaper than butter, a chunk of bologna because that was cheap too, some raw carrots, two apples, a half-dozen eggs, a pound tin of coffee, and some cans of dog food for Buckles. Munching one of the apples, he decided he’d better forget about restaurant meals when he could prepare his own more cheaply. When he and Buckles camped that night in a little wooded glade ten miles beyond the town, he wasted no time in fixing them both a hearty meal.

In the middle of the next morning, proceeding cautiously past a sign that warned of road construction ahead, Jase was halted by a man waving a red flag.

“You’ll have to wait,” the flagman said. “Landslide ahead.”

“Will it take long to clear it?”

The flagman shrugged. “Dunno. Will say, though, that we’ll move it faster when we get a bulldozer. Hand shovellin’ is slow.”

“Need some help?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“You’ve just hired yourself another shoveller,” Jase announced.