by Amy Cross
I can't help but smile. I guess this photography business might not be as hard as I'd feared.
Today
"I hope you realize how many strings I had to pull to get this for you," says Violet as she climbs stiffly from her stool. "Wait here a second," she adds, before turning and shuffling over to the shelves where she keeps reserved books. Her arthritis is clearly getting worse; I hope it doesn't get so bad that she has to retire, or I'll be really screwed.
"I appreciate the effort," I reply. The truth is, my heart is racing at the thought that I'm finally going to get my hands on the book. I've been waiting so long, I almost started to doubt that it would ever happen.
"There was only one copy of this book in the whole country," she says as she brings the plastic delivery case over to the counter and sets it down in front of me. "Another university in Pennsylvania had it, but it wasn't in their main collection. The librarian had to go down to the basement and dig it out of storage. That's why it took almost six months for them to respond to my request. To be honest with you, I had to keep prodding and poking them, 'cause I think they were hoping I'd just give up, but slowly and steady wins the race so..." She unzips the case and slides the old, leather-bound book out of its protective cover.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out to take the book.
"Wait!" Violet says, pushing my hand away. "There are certain rules". She reaches under the desk and grabs a small pouch. "They were very reluctant to send it at all, and they attached a whole lot of strings. First, you're to use protective gloves when you're handling the book, at all times. They're very worried about acid and moisture from our fingers causing damage. Second, you're to avoid breathing directly onto the pages. I doubt that'll be too much of a problem, but they're being extremely fussy. And third, I'm afraid there's simply no way you'll be allowed to either take the book away from here, or to make copies of the pages".
"Not even photocopies?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "We have the book for one week, and you're welcome to come in and go through it during our normal opening hours, but then we'll have to send it back. I'm afraid there's no possibility of that period being extended. I know it's crazy that they're so protective over a book that just sits in their basement, but its age means it probably gets listed as a tangible asset on their stock lists. I think they're worried about whether their insurance will cover any damage. You know how bureaucracy can be, right?"
Smiling, I stare at the pentagram on the cover of the book. "It's fine," I say after a moment. "I'll just sit in the study area and make notes". Grabbing the pouch, I take out the plastic gloves and start putting them over my hands.
"One more thing," Violet continues. "If anyone asks, you're here on a secondment to a visiting professor from another institution. You got that? Technically, I'm not supposed to go borrowing books from other libraries for former students, especially ones who didn't even graduate, especially ones who left on bad terms with their faculty. If someone finds you here and kicks up a stink, I'll cut you loose, you understand? I'll deny all knowledge and I'll claim you tricked me". She smiles. "Now go read your precious book, Kate. And remember, closing time's at five but you'll have to start packing up at quarter to, okay?"
"I can only stay an hour today anyway," I tell her as I pick up the book. "I have to be somewhere at three". Heading through to the study area, I find to my relief that it's mostly deserted. There are a few students over in the corner, busy working on essays, but I'm able to grab a table away from the window. I always feel kind of self-conscious when I come back to use the university's facilities. For one thing, I have bad memories of my time here; for another, I'm in my thirties whereas pretty much everyone else here is in their late teens or early twenties. Even if they all assume I'm a mature student, I still feel as if my mere presence is drawing attention to what I'm doing, and that's the last thing I want.
Taking a deep breath, I stare at the book and realize I'm actually a little scared to start going through its pages. I've been trying to track it down for so long, ever since I first found a reference to its author while I was doing some other research. Amin Bell was one of the foremost researchers of Satanic rituals in twentieth century America; even if his work was widely ignored by mainstream critics, and roundly ridiculed by members of the church, he conducted some hugely important experiments and he came closer than anyone else to lifting the veil that separates this world from the next. My hands are almost trembling as I open the book, and the spine creaks as the pages are disturbed for the first time in many, many years. It's almost as if this is some kind of sacred moment, even though I know deep down that it's nothing of the sort.
"Now that's an old book," says a nearby voice.
Startled, I look up and find that there's a smiling man wandering over to my table. He's got his hands in his pockets, and he has the general demeanor of an academic. At least he's not one of my former tutors; I'd be embarrassed to hell if anyone recognized me while I'm here. All my tutors were fusty old men, though, while this guy is closer to my own age, and to be honest he's a lot more attractive than the average person you see around the campus. In fact, he's the kind of guy I usually avoid talking to, since I really don't like social interactions unless there's a specific reason for making contact. I've learned over the years that if I 'put myself out there', I just end up making myself look like an idiot.
"Sorry," he continues. "I didn't mean to disturb you". He pauses for a moment, smiling awkwardly. "I guess I should come clean," he says eventually. "I've been kind of keeping an eye on that title, to see who ordered it, and I just happened to spot you picking it up just now from the counter. That's quite an obscure text you've got in your hands".
"Yeah," I say, trying to stay calm. This is the absolute last thing I wanted. Every second of conversation is coming out of the time I have with the book. Why can't I just sit here, in silence, without interruption, and do what I came to do?
"My name's John Dagwood," he says, extending a hand for me to shake. "I'm a junior lecturer in European History". He stands with his hand outstretched for a moment, before putting it back in his pocket. "Amin Bell's not exactly mainstream," he continues. "Apart from my old grad school professor, I've never even met anyone else who's heard the name. Do you mind if I ask what piqued your interest enough to go to the trouble of tracking his work down?"
"Nothing," I say, before realizing that there's no way he's ever going to believe such a weak explanation. "I mean, I just thought it might be interesting".
"Amin Bell was one of America's foremost experts on Satanism in the twentieth century," he continues, "and this book is one of the most detailed accounts of the practice ever produced, although it certainly has a few unusual theories thrown into the mix. Bell traveled the length and breadth of the country, joining various groups and trying to understand what drew people to these types of groups".
"That sounds fine," I say, forcing myself to be polite.
"Of course, the thing that marked Bell from his contemporaries was that although he was a fine academic, he had the unfortunate distinction of believing some of the ideas he covered. He debunked ninety-nine per cent of the groups he encountered, but the ones he couldn't debunk, he tended to promote as being genuine. He was a man of extremes; everything was either true or false, with no shades of gray in-between. There are stories about him -"
"I've heard," I say. "I mean, I know a little about him".
"I guess I don't need to give you the whole lecture," he replies. "I just don't often meet anyone who shares my interest in Bell's work. I work in the English Lit department, so most of my colleagues wouldn't know the first thing about Bell, other than that he's a figure of fun". He reaches out and picks up the leaflet from St. Abraham's, which was poking out from my folder. "Interesting church," he says after a moment. "Do you have some kind of academic interest in the place?"
"I was just curious," I say quietly, grabbing the leaflet and tucking it back into my bag. This guy really doesn't s
eem to be picking up on the fact that I want to be alone. In fact, he's being so pushy, I almost feel justified in being a little rude to him. At the same time, the last thing I need is to draw attention to myself. As Violet reminded me, I have no business being at the university, and I could easily get kicked out if this guy realizes that I'm not a student.
"Well, you sure went to a lot of effort to satisfy your curiosity," he continues. "Bell's untitled books have fallen into almost total obscurity. There was even a campaign by certain members of the church to have as many copies burned as possible. The few people who've heard his name these days would probably try to excommunicate you from the academic world for even considering the possibility that his work's worth reading. Do you mind if I ask what motivated you to want to explore his writings? Apart from curiosity, obviously".
"I'm just doing some research," I reply, hoping to keep this conversation as vague as possible while trying not to sound too defensive. Whoever John Dagwood is, can't he tell that I really don't want to talk to anyone? Glancing at my watch, I pause for a moment. "I'm sorry," I continue, "but I'm kind of pressed for time. I just need to make some preliminary notes before I head off, so..."
"Right. Yes. I'm sorry, I've rambled on for long enough. I'll leave you alone". He turns to walk away, but then he looks back at me. "Actually, if I could ask one small favor... It's not much, really, but it's the reason I came to bother you. To be honest, I noticed that Bell's book had been ordered, and I was pretty curious about it myself. University policy means that when a book's ordered in like this, only the person who made the request is able to access the title. Without permission, anyway. So I was wondering if you'd allow me to take a look at it sometime. When you're not using it, of course".
I take a deep breath. I really don't feel like sharing the book, but at the same time I figure it can't do any harm and it might be an easy way to get this guy to leave me alone. "Sure," I say. "Do what you want".
"Thanks," he replies. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name".
I pause. "Kate," I say finally.
"Well, thank you, Kate," he says. "I'll not bother you again. Good luck with your work". With that, he heads back over to the counter, and I'm finally left in peace. Checking my watch again, I see that I've got barely half an hour before I have to set off for my appointment with Robert. I guess I'm really just going to have to get a general sense of the structure and contents of Amin Bell's book today, and then come back bright and early tomorrow in order to start my work properly. Why the hell do people think they can just come wandering over and start a conversation with someone they've never met before? This is a study area, after all. Conversations should be completely off limits.
For the next ten minutes, I try to examine the book in more detail. Bell wrote extensively on Satanic cults operating in New York in the first half of the twentieth century, and his research included some direct experience with gatherings across the city. Pages and pages of the book are filled with detailed accounts of various rituals that he witnessed, including the names of those who were involved. There are even murky, poorly reproduced photos of various items of regalia. The material in the book comes across as being almost unbelievable, and this was one of the qualities that led most of his contemporaries to dismiss his work. Still, I believe every word of it. Bell sounds like he was a lot of things, but a liar isn't one of them.
"There are groups within the city of New York that represent the very worst qualities of mankind," Bell writes at one point. "They are venal and self-serving, and they are happy to mock and attack others if they believe it will be to their own benefit. The more violently loud they become, however, the easier it becomes to ignore their stupidity. The truth is that those who actually have something to hide, and whose purpose is something other than a desire to gain notoriety, are more interested in keeping quiet and slipping between the shadows. As this book will show, those who are hardest to track are, at the same time, the ones who must be followed into the night".
As I keep reading, however, I find my attention starts to wander. Eventually I have to concede that John Dagwood's intervention has permanently derailed my train of thought for the day. Rather than get off to a bad start with the book, I carefully place it back in the protective case, before returning it to the desk. Today started off pretty well, but this trip to the library has been a bust. Still, at least I've held the book in my hands; at least I know it's here, and I can prepare for a full day of study when I return. I'm confident that Bell's book is going to give me at least some of the answers I need. I guess I'll be spending most of my waking hours in the library over the next week. For now, though, I need to take a break.
"I need to book a room for tomorrow," I say as I hand the book back to Violet. "A private room, from opening to closing. Is that possible?"
"It might be difficult," Violet replies. "You're not exactly a student here, Kate".
"Please?"
She sighs, before checking the computer. "I can book you in under my name, but you're gonna owe me big-time. At least one drink. And I can't promise that some professor won't come and boot you out if he needs the space. I'll enter it as a general reservation, but if anyone starts asking questions, I'll have to pretend I didn't know you were using it".
"Sure". I watch as she types the booking into the system. "Thanks," I add, keen to make sure that I don't appear ungrateful. "I really appreciate this".
"You know, Kate, this would be a lot easier if you just enrolled on a course here. Any course would do, even a night class. Don't you want to learn to cook or something? You'd have full access to -"
"No," I say, "thanks". Turning away, I hurry out the door and into the blaring sunlight, which momentarily dazzles me. After fishing a pair of sunglasses from my bag, I make my way along the sidewalk, anxiously checking my watch to make sure that - after all my comments about his tardiness - I don't end up being the one who's late for the appointment with Robert. I need to work some knots out of my head with him, and then I need to get on with my work. That photo's still waiting for me in the dark room, and by the time I get home this evening, the final part of the image should have developed and I'll know if I've found the face again.
Twenty-five years ago
A little way out of town, the old railroad trestles are covered in moss. Sunlight blinks through the wind-blown trees that overhang the scene, and I take a couple more shots.
With just a few more exposures left on this roll of film, I make my way carefully through the undergrowth, hoping to find the perfect angle. I can't say I'm particularly inspired by the trestles, but they definitely seem like the kind of thing that a proper photographer would be drawn to. I keep imagining Eve Arnold or Jill Greenberg coming out to a place like this. I bet their photos would look beautiful, whereas mine are probably going to be out of focus and poorly composed.
Still, there's time. I'm young.
As I make my way through the brambles, I start to notice a faint pain in my chest, just below my ribs. I ignore it at first, but once I'm in position to take another photo, I instinctively reach down and rub the side of my belly. I'm sure it's nothing, but after everything that's happened over the past couple of years, I can't help but feel a little paranoid. Still, the doctor said I was cured, and I'm not in a position to second-guess him.
Raising the camera, I take another photo.
Today
"Did you cum?" Robert asks breathlessly, still thrusting into me with the enthusiasm of someone who's forgotten our arrangement.
"Yeah," I say, suddenly overcome by a feeling of discomfort. "You can get off me now".
He keeps going for a moment.
"You can get off me now!" I say again, this time more firmly.
"You sure you don't want me to finish this time? I can -"
"No," I reply, gently pushing him away. Getting the message, he slips out of me and rolls onto the other side of the bed. Sitting up, I pause for a moment to get my breath back. I hate the way he always tries to keep g
oing a little longer. Frankly, I think it's a little unprofessional. "You can do it when I've left".
He gently peels the condom from over his penis. "Sometimes I think you're the biggest tease I've ever met," he says, still panting a little.
"I'm not a tease".
"You're the only client who ever turns down the offer of a little free extra".
I shrug.
"Think about it," he continues. "Wouldn't it be kind of fun? All you -"
"I told you what I wanted," I reply, interrupting him, "and you gave it to me. Beyond that, I'm not interested in any extras". I look down at his crotch and see that he's still hard. Of course he is; he hasn't climaxed yet. "In future, I'd prefer it if you don't try to get me to do things that I haven't specifically asked for. You should know by now that I'm very careful to always tell you exactly what I want. The customer's always right, remember?"
"True," he replies, smiling. "Is it okay if I go into the bathroom and relieve myself?"
"Wait until I'm gone," I say, getting off the bed and walking over to the chair where my clothes are neatly folded. The last thing I want is to hear him grunting as he beats one off into the sink. I can tell from the silence that he's watching me, but I carefully avoid looking in the mirror, hoping instead that he'll just keep his mouth shut until I'm out of the room. I've always hated small-talk, but I've learned over the years that other people tend to have this compulsion to fill uncomfortable silences. Suddenly this hotel room feels far too small, and the last thing I want is to hear him grunting away in the next room. I prefer to keep that side of things very much separate. "I thought you were a professional," I add, as I step into my underwear. "Act like one. Don't they teach you these things at... whore school, or wherever you learn the tricks of the trade?"
