In preparation for 0g, the staff of the MaidenX do their best to tie down all loose objects, to seal the tops of saltshakers, to make sure all the knives in the kitchen are secured in drawers. But even they can’t account for every object in the sprawling vessel. In the ad hoc council chamber, the nameplates of all the countries rise into the air, bobbing out of all logical sequence, the As with the Ms, the Ks with the Vs, observers mingling with member states. The bust of Copernicus bumps its head against the ceiling of the Secretary-General’s room. Ouch, Copernicus says each time, waking the Secretary-General from his floating sleep. Kazakhstan and Mexico play doubles table tennis with France and the United Kingdom, though Mexico is resolutely frustrated in his attempt to keep score. Nobody apart from him seems interested. The Holy See chases after his rosary, which darts like a snake into the wilderness of the cafeteria. In the viewing vestibule, Kiribati and Luxembourg float hand in hand. If you light a candle in 0g, the flame doesn’t taper, she says, but instead takes the form of a glowing sphere, a will-o’-the-wisp. Humans aren’t meant for space, he replies, weightlessness eats away at our bones.
Before the MaidenX switched off artificial gravity, Kazakhstan had thoughtlessly placed the mug given to him by Kiribati inside a bedside-table drawer. He hadn’t considered the tenacity of sand. It steams out of the cracks of his bedside table, forms a cloud over their bunk beds. The grains pull apart. Some drift in a fine mist down the hallways. Others float helplessly into the ventilation, to be circulated around the ship, slipping invisibly among the floating objects and people of the MaidenX. When the artificial gravity is restored, the sand falls to the floor, so diffused as to be imperceptible.
PORTRAIT WITH COAL FIRE
Hello! All I’m getting is a black screen.
But I see you. Hello?
There you go. Hello! What a pleasure this is. And hello to you, too, I assume you’re helping him talk to me.
(Translator: Yes, he asked for my assistance in making the Skype call and speaking with you.)
Okay. Well, it’s a thrill to reconnect. It’s not often—well, almost never—that we have the chance to talk to those we photograph in the field again. I’ll bring the rest of the staff in to say hi to you shortly.
You have a very beautiful office.
Thank you. It’s not really mine, I’m just using it for the purpose of our conversation. Where are you speaking to me from? An Internet café?
You must be very busy …
Oh, no, for you, I have all day—
… so I don’t want to take too much of your time. It was so good of you to send me a copy of the magazine.
Please, it was the least I could do. Many of my colleagues forget that we owe everything to people like you.
When the package came, the postman was so surprised. He’d never been to my street before. He had to knock on all the doors and ask for me by name.
I have to confess that I didn’t know exactly how to write your address.
I don’t, either! Anyway, you’ll find this charming. I waited for all my family to wake up in the morning, and we opened the envelope together, pulled out the magazine, and put it on the middle of the table. What a beautiful thing.
Great.
We had such fun going through it. My children took turns, one by one, flipping through the pages. We marveled at all the pictures, the maps and animals and stars. Your magazine is so wondrous. We’d never seen a fish so big, longer than a man … What is it called?
(Translator: Tuna.)
Tuna. Every day, when she comes back from school, my daughter practices her English by reading that article on tuna.
I’d be overjoyed to send you a couple of cans of tuna.
You’re always too kind. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to say, I got confused and didn’t realize that the advertisements were different from the other photos, but my wife is quite clever, and she could tell one from the other. These give the magazine money, she said, and these the magazine pays for. Women have such a better sense of how the world works.
Don’t they just!
Then there was that picture of the cosmos, of those spots called black holes. My son put his fingers on it and said that it looked like bread hot and blistered off the stove. He thought it was amazing. These powerful telescopes can make the sky resemble roti.
I can introduce you to our science photo editor. Shall I bring him in?
Thank you. But please let me finish this story first, I’ve been thinking about it for some time and trying to keep it straight. And the Internet café might time out the connection.
Of course. I don’t remember any Internet connections in your village or the neighboring ones.
Let me tell the story. By now, you see, our neighbors were already curious and poking their heads in and patting me on the back and even bringing me sweets, like there was some victory to celebrate.
How lovely.
Then we came to your piece. There were the pictures of villages and mines.
I should have said this before: it is so nice to see you again.
And we were awestruck, I tell you, completely wowed.
You’ve no idea how happy that makes me.
It was as if you had stepped behind our eyes and were seeing just as we saw our world. I was stunned. I don’t know how you made the colors so real, even more than real. There is one photo of evening, of the coal fires burning, the blue walls of our houses, the dogs and people looking like black shapes in the smoke. I thought it was beautiful.
You’re too kind.
Everybody else thought so, too. Each day when I come home from the mine, I take out my phone and try to make a picture like yours. They never come out well. Too dark, too gloomy. Here, see. So blurry. Please, show them to him.
(Translator: I’m messaging you these photos he has taken of his own village, inspired by your photos.)
Got them. I’m touched. I’m lucky to have a very expensive camera. That’s the only difference.
No, no, don’t be modest, you have a special skill. You have great imagination. I would never think to climb all the way down into a mine just to take a photo.
That was a very difficult shot. I thought I was going to die on the climb back, that the railings and ramp would give way any second. It’s so impressive that you and so many other people do that trek every day, carrying loads of rock. It’s just remarkable.
It’s not remarkable, it’s what we do.
Ah, so you see, you may think my work is astonishing, but I also think that what you do is astonishing.
Do you?
Yes. That’s one of the reasons I had such feeling for you and your family. Forgive the analogy, I know this is a stretch, but in many ways, my work is similar to yours. I, too, have to go into the mine. For long, dark, lonely hours, I chip away at the coalface. When I come back to the surface, I have thousands of images, the way you bring up so many lumps of coal. Just like you, I spend so much time sorting them, making various piles based on their quality. In the end, my photos are shipped off and consumed by big companies and family households.
I’m not understanding.
(Translator: He’s saying that taking pictures is like mining coal.)
I see. I suppose you’re right, in some ways.
Sorry, it’s just a metaphor. I don’t have to breathe in coal dust, I don’t have to live in all that smoke.
I found a plastic sleeve for the magazine. We keep it wrapped up and under my pillow during the night. I don’t want the pictures to fade.
I can get you as many extra copies as you want. Just say the word, and we’ll ship them to you.
I don’t need any more copies, we already have ours. As I was saying, we all marveled at the images of the village and the mines. There was a man in some other place you went to, standing with his cart deep in the mine, and all the lines on his face and body were swollen and gray, like he was made of rock, and I said to my family, This is exactly it, the more time we spend in the mines, the more we become part
of the mines. Your pictures show that.
Thank you. It’s wonderful to hear your reactions to the work.
My daughter finally turned the page and when I saw it, my immediate reaction was to pick up the magazine and lift it straight to my face, so that I was the first one to look at the picture.
That’s not very generous of you. You should let them share in the moment!
I brought it so close to my face that I could only see myself in parts, so I had to put it back down in front of everybody. They were quiet for a second and then they burst out laughing. It didn’t look like me at all.
I’m sorry. I try to keep all my work as natural as possible.
No, what I mean is, it didn’t look like how I looked like in photos.
Yes, that’s what I mean.
It’s odd to see yourself in a magazine, it’s difficult.
But it must also be a thrill, no?
I’ve looked at the photo so many times now. Each time, I see something new. For instance, there is a man on the left-hand side, right at the edge, in a red plaid shirt, just standing and watching.
I’m not sure I remember.
He’s covered by the smoke, but you can see him if you look very closely. I don’t know who he is, maybe one of the assistants you brought into the village.
My assistants?
(Translator: One of your fixers.)
Anyway, I realized only recently, maybe after the thousandth time looking at the photo, that the stranger is smiling. You can see his teeth, even behind all that smoke.
Smiling.
Yes. And I wondered, Why is he smiling? What is this man smiling about? Nothing that I’m doing in the photo should make anybody smile. I’m stoking a fire that has to burn hot for six hours for the coal to turn into coke, which we need for our house and to sell in the market. I explained all that to you. You see me in the photograph, I’m in pain. The heat is so intense. My eyes are closed, I’m bent over, reaching with the poker in one hand, shielding myself from the flames with another. My clothes are filthy after a long day’s work, my turban dark with sweat and dust. I’m grimacing and my mouth is open, and you can see my gray lips, my thin bloody teeth.
Yes, I don’t know how you could stand the heat. I was several feet away taking the photo and my hands were burning even there.
And this stranger in the photo is smiling at your camera. Why was he smiling?
I don’t know. Sometimes people do strange things in front of cameras, things they don’t mean to do. I just take the photos, I don’t make the people do anything.
Were you smiling?
Of course not. Is this smiling man the problem?
I’m ugly in this picture. I’m supposed to look ugly. That’s why the man in the red shirt is smiling. Because he knows he’s better than me.
No.
He’s wearing a clean shirt. His teeth are white. Is that what people will do when they see this picture of me? Smile and feel better about themselves?
No. Not at all. I reject that. Maybe, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have picked this exact picture of you. But you are not hideous in this photograph. If anything, our readers will look at it and think with admiration about your strength, your perseverance.
You took so many photos, I watched you, so many. Why did you choose this one?
I didn’t choose it. My editor did.
Why did you let your editor choose this one?
Do you want to talk to her? I can bring her into this office.
I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t know her. I know you.
She chose the photo, I only gave her suggestions.
So you suggested it. Why did you suggest it?
It captures a very real moment in your day. It shows you in the midst of your labor. If you want to know, I also thought the coal fire cast a very striking orange light on your body, a light that sparked in the dullness of the smoky landscape, the sad trees, the low houses, the pantsless children standing watch.
Listen, it doesn’t matter to me what my neighbors say. It doesn’t matter that they make jokes about me now, that they say I’m famous around the world for being a dirty miner, that I’m making the rest of them look bad. They’ve always been jealous of my family and my happiness. What upsets me is the way my children look at the photo. I don’t like them seeing me that way.
They know who you are, they know what you do. They shouldn’t think any less of you.
I hope so, but you’re not in a position to know that.
No, that’s true, I’m not.
Your magazine is amazing. It teaches us things we didn’t know about, like the way ice moves, the ancient ships you find in the mud of your rivers, the Indians of your country and how they love their horses, take pride in their horses.
Yes, we have our own Indians.
But your photo made me part of this big world, no? This other place. For my children, the picture is becoming their image of me. Whoever I was before and whoever I am now are less real to them. It’s like my life is less real than the picture.
Don’t be silly.
They look at me now at home, at dinner, in the morning, like I’m somebody else.
Please don’t cry. Why are you crying?
(Translator: Give him a second.)
Excuse me. I love my daughter, she is my biggest hope in life. Do you know what she told me recently? She came to me and she said, Papa, why don’t you have a name?
A name?
(Translator: Yes, a name.)
Why would she say that?
A name. My daughter said, In the magazine, Papa, lots of other people in the photos have names. Some of the animals have names. Even the stars and galaxies have names, and they’re just purple and black and white shapes. But you don’t have a name. The magazine calls you a “miner” or “a man” or “the man” or a “coal tender.”
But we didn’t use your name.
Right.
Forgive me, I understand why this would upset you. What can I say? These kinds of decisions are above my pay grade. I provide the photos, but I don’t get to write the captions. I would say that this was just company policy, but to be honest with you, with the way things are going in the industry, with the morale in the office, I just don’t know what company policy is these days.
I’m not understanding. You knew my name. You knew my family mattered more to me than tending the coal fires.
Of course. That’s why I went out of my way for you. Don’t you remember?
Yes. I’m so grateful for our family portrait.
It wasn’t easy finding a print shop in your district. I spent a full day on the road looking for one that was open and had functioning equipment. I did it for you because I cared, because I admired you, because I wanted the best for you and your family always. Please believe that. I even made sure I got it framed.
It is a beautiful picture. You captured all of us perfectly. The way my daughter has her arm around my son. The way my wife holds the end of her yellow dupatta. Over my shoulder, you can see a little bit inside our home, you can see the shrine we keep, the pictures of our family gods. I’ve just had my morning bath and I’m wearing a clean lungi, my hair is parted to the side. I’m proud and I’m smiling.
You’ve memorized it. I’m touched.
I brought it with me. I’m lifting it up to the camera. Can you see it? Just look at this wonderful picture. This is something beautiful that you made.
Thank you. Look at them. They’re gorgeous.
I’d like the magazine to print it in a future issue.
Publish this photo?
Yes.
That’s a lovely idea, but I’m sorry, I can’t make any promises. To be honest, I don’t think we’ll be able to do that.
Why?
Again, I can bring in the editors, and they can explain to you how it works.
You can explain it to me.
We don’t publish posed photographs like this unless we have a real reason to, unless they’re part of so
me kind of series. The editors probably don’t plan to revisit the subject of coal mines in your region anytime soon. You have to understand that a lot of thought, debate, argument, and competition goes into deciding what’s in the magazine. There’s very little I can do. In the grand scheme of things, I’m just small fry.
Only a little fish? You’re not like tuna.
Right. From my part as well, this is not the kind of photography I do. I capture the world as it happens. My hope is that my camera eliminates the barrier between the viewer and the subject, that the viewer is brought right into the image.
(Translator: He’s saying that he wants his photos to look like he isn’t there.)
Does that make sense? I don’t normally take posed photos like that one. My work strives for a kind of naturalness.
It’s not unnatural, it’s my family.
Of course, but you do understand what I mean? I’m sorry, I don’t want to give you false hope.
Please publish it. I’d like my family to see ourselves this way.
Why don’t you talk to the editors?
I don’t know them, I know you. This is the magazine you sent me. Yes, it’s a bit worn, it’s been thumbed through many times.
If only all our issues were this well-read.
This is the photo of me. There is the strange man smiling. Look, you can see him if you hold the magazine closer to your face. Why is he smiling?
I don’t know.
On the same page, what do you see? Above the photo of me? What is this?
It’s a photo of me.
A black-and-white little square with your face. You are showing your straight teeth. You are smiling. Isn’t this what you call posed? Is it natural?
Swimmer Among the Stars Page 7
