"Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still" – Dorothea Lange
The great part about being a photographer is knowing that giving fucks about life going wrong is by no means useful. You just have to continue taking photos and one is bound to show the hidden realities of the world surrounding you. In my case, I decided I needed a dozen pictures or so to get back on track, two months with barely any payments lengthening up to three. Rent is a bitch even when you have money to pay it, and at the moment I was lacking the income to do so. Life in a metropolitan city has its downsides, but it also has its perks, like the citizens coming out to play after 8 pm, an advantage which kept me up at night until 3 am when I returned home in a drunken stupor, forgetting about my dire situation
I walked its bustling streets, full of people despite the tardy hour; all, without fail, were heading to the center of the capital, Old Town, where hundreds of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs crammed into one another, waiters and seductive women with lace stockings and too little clothes for the freezing night air, yelled at the top of their lungs, in an attempt to reel customers in, take their money and receive a hefty tip on the side as a reward for being all too pleasant and servile. My target was a pub, hidden on Lipscani behind the enormous library I spent most of my days in, failing at finding a book to hold my attention.
The neon bulbs carved an eerie glow on the pavement, my shadow growing restless with every marching minute. I passed the massive bulk of the Unirii complex with is massive windows exhibiting mannequins clothed after the latest fashion. It was closed, despite the nightlife, and I continued to push my way towards the zebra crossings. Were it not for my pitiful height, I would have been able to see the park before me, lit only by a few lamp posts. They forever guarded the sleep of the hobos who found themselves a bench, dropped the spoils of the day, and went to a troubled sleep on the wooden planks.
As such, when the light turned green, I was swept away by a tornado of bodies, the power of the tide too strong to be fought. Struggling to keep my feet planted on the ground, I stormed out of the maelstrom, which was heading towards Old Town, my elbows dashing left and right, landing blows, and drawing not only swears but a few attempts at heavy punches. They ended up landing on everyone else but me, as I slinked away unnoticed, exited the sea of people, and gasped for breath as the broad street disappeared before my eyes, the sodium glow of neons losing the battle against the darkness.
To my left, Old Town hid behind a series of bakeries, cafes and a sex shop open all day long, its flashy LEDs on the window advertising various toys I had never even heard of. I let the tide cross the street and watched as a couple broke off and entered said shop, lopsided grins stretching wide on their ashen faces. The teller had no reaction whatsoever at the sight of customers; he continued to read from what could only be a dirty magazine, scratching the bridge of his nose and nodding when the couple came to ask him a question. A usual scene in this city – at 1 am manners made no difference. If they had rubbed the teller the wrong way he would have thrown them out and closed the shop, despite the bright pink sign, reading Open 24 hours out of 24. As such, they came out on their own, displeased with the cold manner they had been treated with, and left the door open, running as the teller exited to yell out profanities.
I waited for the lights to turn green once more than made my way towards Old Town, dodging flashy signs at the entrance of the restaurants and suspicious-looking street vendors looking out to sell you the next big thing.
The narrow streets were lined with people seated at the tables, eating, swearing, joking, or watching TV; I navigated the maze of the cobbled alleyways, wary of the looming buildings on both my sides, marked off with a red dot; at the next earthquake, the place would be a graveyard. I paid no attention to waiters tugging my sleeves when I didn't answer, or bouncers giving me a cold scrutiny, assessing whether I was a danger to them or otherwise. Sweat trickled on my brow and my camera dangled from my neck, hitting my chest with painful thuds as I entered the petite pub, nestled behind Carturesti library. The alcohol here was the cheapest in town, a well-known fact by the locals who strayed away from it in search of more extravagant divertissements. I cared little for the quality these days. If it warmed me up and helped me forget I hadn't taken a shot in ages then fine by me and to hell with anyone who said otherwise.
The walls were lined with shelves creaking under the weight of various bottles filled to the brim with booze. Save for me, there were only three other people in the pub, not including Bogdan the barkeep who sprayed the tables with a foul-smelling solution and cleaned them with a dirty rag. He had gotten fatter since I'd last been here; his stomach now bulged under his stained t-shirt; his pants were kept firm with a knock-off belt. Only his boots remained the same – black and laced up tightly, they spoke of his rather violent nature. As always, their pristine, shining under the dim lights the owner of the pub had installed inside his little bar.
I patted Bogdan on the back and gave him my camera for safe-keeping. If I got drunk tonight, I couldn't afford to damage it. Lenses did not come cheap anymore.
"What can I get you this evening, Amelia?" Bogdan smiled as he slinked behind the bar, wiping the counter before allowing me to rest my elbows on it.
I smiled at him, indulging his shy flirts, noticing how he leaned towards me and how his hand brushed mine.
"You know me, Bogdan. I like my alcohol sharp."
His smile turned into a taut line. Bogdan did not like his girlfriends to be heavy drinkers and he hated when I drowned my sorrow in booze.
"Did you eat anything before coming here?" he turned his back on me and I stared at his shoulders tensing.
"Of course I did." I hadn't had a meal since morning, but these were personal details of my life Bogdan should never know. "Let's do shots together."
He pulled out a tequila bottle and poured me a shot in one of the minuscule crystal glasses he himself had bought when the owner had refused to replace the dozen broken in a fight. He did not pour any for himself which I took as a personal insult.
"A lady should never drink alone" I chided him and swung the glass, feeling the searing liquid splitting my throat and slithering into my stomach. "Again."
He filled the glass four times until I finally felt the effects of the tequila. My vision started to blur, my head swam, and my cheeks were, with no doubt, flushed.
I was a mess and it didn't pass unnoticed by one of the other customers who sat at the bar, enjoying a glass of whiskey and who muttered under his breath, "The lass can surely drink."
I'm a temperamental person even when I don't drink, having the urge to stab people for the stupidest things. My blood froze in my veins and I felt blood rush to my face as I turned on the stool to stare at the person who had spoken to himself, thinking there was no way I could hear him. His leather jacket betrayed a man of poor taste, contrasting with how well he had brushed his hair and shaved his beard. By no means muscular or overweight like Bogdan, his lanky figure draped on the chair like a curtain, legs kept in their place with the gentility of a nobleman. The profile of his face told me little, save for what I gathered was a crooked nose gained in a fistfight.
"A woman must master all arts" I retorted, biting back a much stingier reply.
"And surely drinking is an art" he sipped his whiskey, without bothering to honor me with his full face.
"There's a fine line one walks between boozing and plain drinking. I'm not surprised you don't know the difference."
Bogdan shook his head and cast a warning glance at me. I disregarded it, curiosity getting the better of me. I wanted to know what hid beneath that black leather jacket: a man of brawn or a man of wit?
"I suppose you're here for the boozing." He stood up and I bit my tongue as I drank in his features; two eyes, the color of freshly roasted coffee, two rosy lips, chapped but not cracked, a crooked nose and a thin scar spread on the entirety of his face, from one corner to the other.
"You're hot."
He laughed my sarcasm away and drew his stool next to me. His glass clinked against mine, a chime that once upon a time I found endearing. Now it made me retch.
"And you're not nearly as drunk as I would like. Rough day?" he asked as I downed another tequila shot.
"More like three months. You?"
"Haven't found work in a year."
My eyes widened – could it be? Another photographer?
"Why not?"
"No one wants to pay me for it anymore. You'd think this was the jackpot, that everyone would need me to show them that life can be different. My job is a work of art" he snorted. "Could you give me what she's drinking?"
Bogdan duly obliged, leaving the bottle on the counter as he shuffled to the back of the pub, like a child ignored by its mother.
"What's with him?"
More observant than I thought.
"He's jealous."
I spilled tequila all over me as my new companion laughed so hard the windows rattled and the glasses clinked against one another. The remaining customers stared at us and when Clint showed no signs of guilt or regret, they swore and slammed the pub door behind them.
"I'm Clint." One hand shook mine as the other tickled the small of my back.
"That's a shitty name." I focused on his eyes to keep my mind off the massage he was now giving to my tense back.
"My old man thought it would be nice if me and Clint Eastwood shared a name."
He flashed a bright smile and we did a shot together.
"My viewfinder is broken too" he sighed, and I patted him on the back.
"I hate when that happens, but you can't have mine. The market is shit right now."
"Don't you just hate it when the person moves, though?" he took a swig from the bottle before I could grab it and gave me a lopsided grin.
"It's horrible. Give me that" my hand reached for the bottle and he pulled it back. I squealed and almost fell off the stool, but he managed to push me back, one of his shoulders hitting me in the chest. "I'm trying to take the perfect measurement and then they sneeze, and it's ruined. The moment has passed, and no angle would fix it. I then have to settle for a mediocre one, knowing full well it will drag down my payment. No one likes a lousy focalization" I rambled as he rested his head on his right hand and watched me talk. "Why can't they just sit still?"
"How much did you drink so far?."
"Does it matter?"
"I was curious what your breaking point was. I hear Romanian women are heavy drinkers."
"You could have just asked me. Although I, as a proper lady, would have denied everything."
"A gentleman makes a point of never interrogating a proper lady. Which I gather you don't think yourself as."
He was right, I didn't. After all, between the two of us, the tequila bottle stood no chance.
The clock chimed 2 am and I yawned. If I had wanted to make it in one piece I should have left, but I didn't, waiting to see what position Clint was in. If all photographers were in as bad a situation I was, a change of jobs seemed the right decision to make.
"In the golden ages, I used to be called four times a day" he jumped over the counter and started selecting bottles, placing them all before me. "Choose."
"This gives me anxiety."
He snorted and picked one for me as I grinned back at him, hiding away how truthful I had been when I told him that. Avoiding decisions was my strong suit and I always made a point of fructifying my strengths.
"I once had three clients ask for me in one day" I pondered all my accomplishments as Clint banged the coffee machine to make it work.
"Bogdan is still here you know. He's going to kill you if you mess that up. Or worse, you'll have to pay for it."
His face turned white and his hands actually shook at the thought. I almost choked on the vodka he had poured for me.
"Anything but that."
"I remember when my client asked me to do a wedding."
"You did it at a wedding?" his scar glinted with sweat by the time he made the machine work, spewing coffee not only in the cup but on his shirt as well. "For fuck's sake" he muttered, and I shoved a napkin in his face which he took with a scowl and dabbed the liquid from his shirt. "Weddings are a bitch. There are so many people, each with a mind of his own... I tried a wedding once and it backfired on me. My client was so mad he sent me death threats for a full month. You must be better than I thought."
My reply was cut short by the buzzing of his phone. I bit the inside of my cheek as the screen cast an eerie glow on his face. His eyes sparkled as he read what I gathered was a text. By the time he was done, I noticed his legs shuffled underneath him. He wants to leave.
"I just got a new client" he whooped and went to the back of the pub, allowing Bogdan to pass on the narrow corridor.
I hid my head under my arms to avoid the angry stares he threw at me as he cleaned up the mess me and Clint had made, without uttering a single word. I had never seen him so furious before – he'd always speak to me, no matter what happened. His jaw was set, and his nostrils flared as he took a sip from Clint's coffee and gagged, then threw it in the sink and started to return the bottles to their rightful places. I watched his every move, how his muscles rippled beneath his skin, how he fought the urge to gaze at me instead focusing on the tasks at hand. I was grateful when Clint showed up.
My mouth hung loose at the sight of the sniper rifle swung across his back. He shook hands with Bogdan and blew a kiss my way before exiting the pub, looking left and right as he pulled a hood on his head, shielding his ears from the cold night air.
"What was that?" I stammered, regaining my composure.
"What do you mean?"
"The- the sniper rifle on his back."
Bogdan looked at me, confusion marring every ridge of his skin.
"I thought – I thought he was a photographer" my mind spun as I tried to make sense of what I had seen. "He told me...he takes shots of people and the most he took in a day was four and he hates when people move, and he was impressed I photographed at a wedding̶" I gasped as our conversation unfurled before my eyes.
Clint was not a photographer. He was a paid assassin.