by Cat Bruno
For the rest of the night, I was congratulated and queried about how I had chosen such ancient subjects. To each, the answer was the same: statues have an immortality that none of us will ever know. What set the image apart, I admitted, was a stroke of divine intervention. Of course, that comment was met with much laughter.
Yet, my photograph – taken at the Temple of Apollo in Pompeii – was only half-true. If you are ready to remind me of my earlier decree on imagery and truth, then I must defend myself in full. At the center of my picture stands Apollo, arms raised as he holds an imaginary bow and poised to shoot what we must never know. The sculpture itself, bronze and life-sized, is a replica, which is why I describe the moment as not entirely authentic. I have also photographed the original, which has been reconstructed and moved to a museum in Naples. I have returned to Pompeii twice, but I doubt that I will be gifted again with such a moment of visual surprise and dazzling happenstance.
I had named the winning image A Father’s Punishment. From where he stood, on a block of stone perpendicular to the temple’s entrance, Apollo watched over the grounds. The complex, which had once been covered in nearly twenty feet of soot and ash, is a vast rectangle, as most ancient temples are. Across from Apollo his sister Diana once stood. Like her brother, she readied for a battle and her hands wrapped around a now-missing bow. Only her upper half remains at the site, but it is enough to remind visitors of her fierceness. One day, I hope to return to allow my gaze to linger upon hers. Goddess to goddess.
Apollo, sacred to both the Greeks and Romans, was the son of Jupiter, or more commonly known as Zeus. Like those of most young men, his father disapproved of his actions far too often, and mythology is filled with stories of how his father reacted and the punishment meted out. And let us not forget that his father was king of the skies, a god of thunder and lightning.
When I study my photograph, I am still surprised at what is found there. The sun had set hours before, softly drifting like a lullaby behind a row of stone columns. Around me, the air had cooled as storm clouds neared, the work of Jupiter no doubt. I had wanted to focus my day’s work on the reddening shadows of sunfall, but the gathering storm offered an even greater promise. In those next hours, the skies above glowed with chards of fire, and I nearly believed the ancient city had been blessed with a divine guardian. Vesuvius did not threaten to erupt anew; yet the darkened sky twinkled with bits of red. Alone, since the temple had closed hours before and I had been given written permission to stay, I admired the scene above with true piety.
That night I remember wondering if the gods warred, and it was their spilled blood falling like lasers from their immortal home. Red lightning, I have heard it called, although now I know the scientific term is sprites.
The moment was fleeting, as the most life-changing ones often are. My fingers had never moved so swiftly as I snapped hundreds of frames in those short moments. Seconds later, the rains began, forcing me to gather my things and run swiftly to my car. Once back at the hotel, I searched for what it was that I witnessed, knowing that it was not Zeus or Jupiter who had cast the red streaks. Or perhaps it was the ancient gods who burned a message to me across the midnight sky.
Sprites are little more than electrical discharges that break atop clouds during thunderstorms. However, what makes them so rare is how difficult they are to observe. On most occasions, they cannot be seen from the ground. I had two cameras with me that evening and luckily had fitted one with a fast lens. It was mostly coincidence that I happened to be snapping as the sprites appeared. Aside from reading some articles on lightning photography – which is what I had hoped for that night – I had no experience with the art.
As I drove back to the hotel with the slanting rain following me, I squeezed my camera between my legs and attempted to scan through the images. I gave up after I nearly drove off the road and forced myself to wait until I was back in my room to examine the rest. The hotel was in the Spanish Quarters of Naples, an area that was cheap because of its reputation for crimes against tourists. But I was traveling at my own cost, so I ignored the warnings. Not that it mattered much since my cameras nearly always act as a shield and protect me better than any weapon could. Although it greatly saddens me when I hear of a photographer or photojournalist killed in the line of work.
It is not always an easy thing to search for the truth. Photographers are our modern-day philosophers questing for knowledge of what is true and real. And with that journey comes danger and violence, even for a small-time crime photographer like myself. The threats I face are inconsequential to those that my peers must encounter while covering wars, uprisings, and the like, and I admire and honor their commitment and resolve. A statue has never come alive under my gaze, and Apollo and Diana did not aim their bows at me while I was in Pompeii. Had they, it would be my death that the city of Columbus mourned instead of William’s.
Stripped of my rain-soaked clothing and sitting cross-legged on the bed in little more than an oversized t-shirt, I cried aloud when the images of the red flashes above Apollo appeared. With shaking fingers, I scrolled through nearly a dozen images where the sprites could be clearly seen flaring high above the replicated statue. They did not appear as typical, yellow-dyed lightning bolts. Instead, the sprites were thicker and less defined, like some sort of divine flame. Apollo stood small in the corner of the frame, with crumbling columns and broken stones toppled around him. As if his father had struck down the temple, and only the weaponless god of music and light remained. The last guest at the party now stood immortalized in his loneliness.
Days after I took that picture, I met William. Only a handful of days. Do you not yet believe that the gods offered me a warning? My mistake was ignoring them. We do not know better than those who cannot die, dear readers. Oh how I wished I would have realized that sooner.
The winning photograph was the cleanest version of the lot, without any blurring of the red lightning or shadows across Apollo. The blood-orange angling bolts shot across the sky like flaming arrows, angry and hot. Apollo waited, unmoving in his stone shackles and paralyzed by his father’s wrath. The gods were vengeful ones, even to their own kin, and Apollo’s love for mortal women often resulted in tragedy. Was I Apollo’s next target, saved only by Jupiter’s intervention? I dare not believe such, for hubris regularly resulted in the downfall of ancient heroes. Regardless, the picture I submitted was truly one of a kind, and I might not ever be so lucky again.
Toward the end of the banquet, one of the committee members who had judged my photo approached me with sincere admiration. He begged to escort me around Paris the next day and show me the hidden gems of his city. I had planned on visiting the Louvre for its evening session and did not hesitate to accept his offer. Antoine was nearing sixty, but spry and chatty, with no hint of slowing down. For most of his career, he had been employed by the BBC as their head photographer, a job that brought him some amount of fame and required him to travel extensively for most months of the year. An ailing mother, who did not have much time left he confided, had brought him back to France.
The rest of the night offered no surprises, although I departed with a purse full of business cards and promises of future engagements. For hours, I had not thought of William and did not check my phone to see if he had called or texted. I had become enraptured with so many talented people around me, each with a desire to pursue truth and beauty. In those waning moments of the night, when the conversations quieted and the wait staff began to make themselves seen, I realized that my time at the Gazette would soon end. In Europe, a land with ruins at all turns, I could prosper. It was too tempting of a thought to dismiss, despite the large diamond on my finger.
Had I never learned of Elizabeth, I might not have considered such a career change. Or much else.
Antoine arrived just before ten, and we spent an hour at a café before heading to Paris’s most famous catacombs. Antoine’s reputation granted us access to areas normally unavailable to tourists, much to my delig
ht and effusively admitted gratitude. My favorite had been named Le Carrefour des Morts, or The Crossroad of Death, and was piled high with bones. Long femurs lay atop craniums, giving the name an ironic double meaning. The blue glow from our cell phone lights cast a calming peace across the bodies, and both of us paused in shared mourning. It felt strange to photograph the scattered bones, yet, at Antoine’s urging, I did take several pictures before we moved on.
Those images still fill me with a surprising combination of stillness and remorse.
Next, we visited Parc Monceau, a public park designed in the late 1700s by an eccentric duke. Equal parts fantastical and nonsensical, the park was nothing short of a marvel. There was a colonnade – deliberately constructed in an arced half-circle – a miniature pyramid, a windmill, a Chinese fort, and several sculptures. While the stone pieces had not been old or fascinating enough for me to take notice of on previous trips, this time I photographed them with glee.
After a brief respite for pastries and coffee, we walked to the Louvre. Our arrival was unannounced, yet we were treated extraordinarily once more. Had Antoine not been at my side, I would not have been permitted to hold the most glorious piece of marble I had ever encountered so closely.
And so I met Nemesis.
But my first glance had been no different than the millions of others who walk by her where she stands atop her pedestal. Creamy, as if carved from butter, and distant, she beckons those who dare fate. Her glance is not unkind as she gazes off to her right. Wings jut softly from her back, feathery and narrow, for in her contemplation, she rests. Her arms are the thick arms of a woman who has spent years soothing those around her. Her chiton is a standard Greek robe, tied beneath her breasts and falling in drapes to her sandaled feet. A large slit allows the robe to fall open across her right leg, revealing a muscled leg that has traveled far.
It is not until the bottom third that Nemesis shines.
In her left hand and resting on a globe, is her wheel of fortune. What better way to symbolize her control over destiny than such an object exists? The globe, of course, shows how far her reach extends and proves that none can escape the hands of justice.
Just below her right sandal – delicately laced and climbing up her legs – is the body of a sinner. His expression is pained and his body unmoving as he lies flat in supplication. With his mouth falling open, his soul seems to escape with a screamed last breath. He will not survive her crushing vengeance.
That bearded man looks nothing like William, but it was his face I saw chiseled there.
One of the curators fitted me with white gloves before I was permitted to hold the tiny statue. While it lay across both of my palms, I nearly wept. Had I been alone, I would have.
Just then, I was Nemesis, that goddess of consequences. And I knew what I must do upon my return to Ohio with a certainty that would no longer fluctuate or fade.
There is more I could tell you of my time in Paris, but instead I will offer this brief lesson in mythology. Many describe Nemesis as the goddess of retribution, and I do not seek to dispute that, for what is retribution but an evening of the scales of justice. In each painting or sculpture, she is depicted with wings, which allowed her to travel hastily when the gods had need of her, especially when mortals believed themselves to be superior or beyond reproach or when those scales tipped heavy to one side. She punishes the wrongdoer and seeks balance so that life may continue. In some paintings, she holds the scale between clenched fingers, leaving little room to disagree with her decisions. If one dares to challenge the justice she has rendered, then Nemesis draws forth the sword at her hip and death is decried.
Was it hubris or human folly for me to compare myself with such a divine being? Having studied myths for as long as I have, I know the answer to be a worrying one. Which is why I flew to Greece shortly after William’s murder to make amends.
More on that later.
Two days later, I returned to Columbus, where William greeted me as if I was the love of his life.
The Wedding Dress
Let’s talk about my dress. It was the one item that I actively took an interest in, which might seem vain or selfish. Toby and I visited several shops in late May, a few weeks after I returned from the Omnis. Our appointments had to be delayed a week while I recovered from a bout of William’s anger, enflamed by my disinterest in something he had said after returning home from happy hour. That had been the first time that I had bled. Like some sort of sacrifice, my blood had spilled from a slice across my back and onto the bathroom floor. Underneath me lay the glittering shards of the mirror that had once hung from the wall.
He never dared to touch my face. A black eye? Never. The thought so crass and pedestrian, he could not have forgiven himself. No, he pushed and choked. He did not hit me, not really.
Even then, it was such a rare thing, and so many women have suffered more than I ever will. Do not think of me as a victim or read my story with pity. I am a criminal, a murderess. But I was getting married and did quite love my dress.
We told none who William was– my one request of Toby that day.
“He can have the day,” I confessed as he drove south out of Columbus. “And the attendees will mostly be his. But I want the dress to be of my own choosing, without influence from him or his aspirations and without a consideration of what the press or public might think.”
Once we arrived at the boutique we were greeted by an overly enthusiastic woman dressed in a crimson suit and lips the shade of rose petals.
“Which of you is the bride-to-be?” she asked.
Her smile, open and toothy, suggested that she fancied herself quite clever, and Toby played right along with her.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” he purred. “When I marry, it will be in a tuxedo so tight that they will have to cut if off of me.”
She looked toward me and cheerfully said, “Let’s get started then! We like to ask our brides a few questions before we begin. First, have you thought of what style you like best?”
Before I could answer, Toby saved me.
With a wave of his hand, he said, “Have you seen this woman? She can wear anything.”
“Not everything, Toby,” I laughed. “I am a B-cup at best.”
“I noticed,” the woman teased.
Through no real effort of my own, aside from my half-hearted attempts at yoga and jogging, I have always been thin. I’m taller than most women, too, with long arms and a long neck. Even so, I did not have a dream dress in mind, which Toby knew. At the first shop, the attendant kept steering me toward strapless dresses, all of which were loose across my chest. After the fourth one, Toby had whispered advice through muted giggles suggesting I become a runaway bride. I took that advice, and we gathered our things while the woman searched for more dresses. The second shop had offered a better experience, but most of the gowns were cheaply made.
“I love you, Dandelion, but I will not let you buy anything made in China,” Toby had growled playfully.
Emily, our newest hostess and dressed entirely in black elegance, asked me several more questions about the style I preferred and price range I was considering. When Toby shushed her inquiries over costs, Emily understood and became even more exuberant, which I had not expected to be possible.
“Look around a bit,” she suggested. “I will return with a few that I think will look just smashing on you.”
Toby rolled his eyes toward me before Emily was more than a few steps away, and I covered my mouth with my hand to prevent the laughter that threatened.
“You’re so bad,” I gasped.
“Did you see how green her kohl-thickened eyes got when she realized how much you have to spend?”
His question required no answer, so I followed him toward the front of the shop, where several ivory-colored gowns hung. Within moments, he held a lacy, deep-cut gown for me to inspect. The fabric was gorgeous and so thin that it appeared both delicate and ethereal, but not cheap or poorly made. The sleeves were
capped, and the train arced wide where it slid onto the floor.
“You must try this one on,” Toby insisted as he examined the lace pattern without looking away.
I nodded, but continued searching. When Emily rejoined us, I overhead Toby ask her where the designer gowns were.
“You should aim to look unforgettable, Dandelion,” he told me as he half-dragged me to the fitting room.
It was mid-week so the shop was mostly empty. Emily had called for her assistant, a young, blond woman who smiled politely and nodded her head at nearly everything her boss said. She was exactly the type of woman you would expect to work at a bridal salon, and Toby mocked her endlessly with raised eyebrows and hushed asides. I do not think she took much notice, to be honest, and her smile remained, framed by her coral-colored lips. She helped me undress and lifted the lace gown that Toby had chosen over my sloping head. As it flowed over my narrow hips, I marveled at how lightweight the dress was. Once it was in place, I reached for my neck and ran my fingers along the opening.
“It reveals so much,” I breathed.
“Are you some demure flower?” Toby cracked.
The dress split in two and hung open to my waist in a triangular cut. It was striking and fitted me intimately, but it did not suit me, I feared.
After trying on the three gowns that Emily had chosen, I still had not decided. One was far too traditional and the other two hung heavy with adornment. Shimmering beads, crystals, and sequins had been sewed tightly and in expansive patterns across the bodice and curved down toward my feet.
“I don’t think sequins are my thing,” I slowly admitted as the assistant stripped the last one off me.
“Why not try something avant garde?” Toby asked.
