Double Jeopardy

Five

FiveThe recently elected Senator Hector de Vile paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the photographer’s studio and gestured to the advertising stand announcing Charles Durant’s offer. “Ugly people’s pictures taken at half-price.” He smiled at his twenty-year-old son, taking in the lean symmetry of his face, the sparkling gray eyes under the shock of wavy dark hair. “Guess we’ll be paying full price.”

Alexander’s face flashed with good humor and he started up the stairs. De Vile once again thanked his lucky stars for the luminous young man who bounded ahead, two steps at a time, with effortless grace. The summer recess from Washington’s 41st Congress was giving him a chance to coach Alex in their extensive business interests before he returned to Capitol Hill at Christmas, and he was relishing the time he and his boy were spending together.

Charles Durant’s Pine Street studio sat above the United States Bakery in Nevada City, and the yeasty smell of warm bread permeated the stairs. They were on a mission to get some cartes de visite, the calling cards that had become popular during the Civil War, when soldiers had sent them home as poignant mementos. Hector needed some taken for his senatorial work, but he also planned to get a father-and-son sitting done together. It was time Alex started assuming a more prominent role in the business, and about time he had his own card anyway.

They stepped into the airy studio, and de Vile saw that Durant’s newspaper advertising was well justified. “Special attention in the construction of light, which enables the operator to take likenesses of the children in one, and of grown persons in two to four seconds,” it claimed, and the set up did not disappoint. One corner of the room was boxed off — he guessed that was for the dark room — but light flooded in from several overhead skylights onto the rest, comfortably set up with armchairs, a sofa and an occasional table. In the center of the room stood a finely polished, mahogany-cased camera on a tripod.

A bespectacled man emerged from the dark room wiping his hands on a small towel in jerky abrupt gestures that mirrored the harassed frown on his pale, lined face. He checked his movement as he recognized de Vile. “Ah, Senator. A very good day to you.” He looked from de Vile to Alex and back. “Tell me, how can I be of assistance this fine morning?”

“You advertise good prices and fine-quality reproduction on cartes? I believe your ads claim ‘No two-dollar work done in this establishment’ and ‘Cartes de visite at San Francisco prices?’ My son and I wish to take advantage of your offer.”

Durant beamed and dropped the towel onto a cupboard by the darkroom door.

“Delighted to help. Do take a seat.”

It was magic. There was no other word for it. Alex shivered with the thrill of seeing the image appear before his eyes in the photographer’s solution, a cloudy mass swiftly resolving into the sculpted lines of their two faces, his father’s stern and authoritative, and his — well, he had an inner glow that was directly related to his fascination with the whole process.

From the first moment Charles Durant had begun to explain what was involved in taking their pictures, he’d been enthralled. It all happened so fast. Within fifteen minutes Durant had his father posed, pictured, and was ready to move on to the next study. The secret of the wet-plate process he was using — the one everyone used these days — was speed. You had to move fast or it dried too soon and the image failed to take. With an experienced flick of the wrist the photographer poured the collodion solution onto the glass plate for the next image, a steady elegant stream first pooling in the center, then adeptly tipped to each side in turn, until the plate was evenly covered. Flowing the plate, he called it. The chemicals had a sickly-sweet smell, and Alex didn’t think he had ever seen anything as remarkable, ever. He had to get one of these cameras and start taking pictures himself.

“Your turn now, Mr de Vile, and then we’ll take one of you both together, if that’s what you wish.”

Charles Durant stood waiting for him to assume the seat before the lens.

“Mr Durant, do you ever take pupils? I mean, give instruction? I admit I am fascinated. I would love to learn more.”

Charles Durant glanced nervously to his father. “I’m not sure …”

“Alexander, you’ve got plenty to learn without taking on photography, surely.” His father frowned. “Leave that to the technicians. I’ve got a brilliant future planned for you in business.”

“Yes, of course, Father. The business is extremely important. But surely, no harm in taking up a hobby? I find the whole thing completely mesmerizing.” He laughed self-consciously. “You’re crazy about your horses and racing. I guess it’s just that photography does it for me.”

Charles Durant cleared his throat noisily. “Gentlemen. Conversation to be resumed. Now Mr de Vile, settle down and concentrate. Portrait number two is under way.”

“Can I watch you pour the solution on?”

Durant looked doubtful. “I usually prefer my clients to get themselves settled—”

“I’ll sit immediately. I promise. I just love the way you do it.”

Durant nodded reluctantly, and a fluttery, empty feeling gripped his innards as Alex followed him into the darkroom to watch the process begin all over again.