I came home in the afternoon, at the usual time. I
got my usual newspaper at the deli next door, checked my
usually empty mail-box and hurried up the stairs to my
apartment, where I lived alone. It was August-mid-summer-the
worst time of the year as far as I was concerned, and I
didn't like to stay outdoors more than I had to. I started
the air-conditioner, took off my clothes and rushed into the
bathroom to take a cold shower.
When I came out of the bathroom, the apartment was already
cool and hospitable. I had my usual supper and quickly dealt
with the dishes that the supper had produced. Those were the
last two necessary routines of my day. I pulled a can of
beer out of the refrigerator and sat down in the armchair
for my usual relaxation period. For all intents and
purposes, my day was over.
I lit a cigarette and reached for the newspaper. A large
photograph at the center of the front page caught my
attention. It was a photograph of a young woman leaning over
a man who lay on the ground. The woman was staring directly
at the camera when the picture was taken. She was a
beautiful woman. I looked at her, for a while unable to move
my eyes anywhere else. The photograph was of low quality,
but even that couldn't destroy her beauty. I was
overwhelmed.
The story in the article below the photograph was amazing.
On the previous afternoon, the woman and her husband had
been coming out of a restaurant where they had had dinner.
At exactly the same time someone was stealing their car from
the restaurant parking lot. The thief drove the car towards
the exit, not knowing that the owners of the vehicle were
walking straight at him. The husband, recognizing his
Mercedes, realized what was going on and began shouting and
waving his hands. That, in turn, had probably confused the
thief, as the car suddenly accelerated, hit the husband, hit
a parked car and zigzagged with squealing tires out of the
parking lot.
These details were given to the newspaper reporter by a man
who had happened to be walking by the parking lot when it
had all occurred. The man also had happened to have a camera
with him, and it was he who had taken the picture seconds
later. The article also said that the husband died from his
wounds and that he his wife had come to live in town just
one month earlier, shortly after they had been married.
I looked at the photograph again. The woman was looking at
the camera while her husband lay dying on the ground right
below her. There was no expression on her face, only a stare
that I couldn't understand.
The photograph reminded me of a similar photograph I had
once had hanging on a wall in my apartment. It was a picture
that had been taken during the violent anti-Vietnam
demonstrations at Kent State University, of a girl leaning
over the dead body of her boyfriend. That picture later
became one of the symbols of all anti-Vietnam
demonstrations.
I began feeling uncomfortable with the whole subject. I put
the paper away and spent the rest of the evening drinking
beer and smoking.


        The following morning I got up with a dry mouth,
and disturbed. I cut the photograph and the article out of
the newspaper, put them in my pocket and went to work. I
held a job as a gas station attendant in a service station
not far from my apartment. It was a very hot and sticky day,
and my eight-hour shift did nothing to better my condition.

When my shift was finally over I got into my car, and,
instead of going straight home, drove to the newspaper
office. I suspected that the paper had probably bought the
photograph from the man who had taken it. I wanted to have a
bigger and better quality print of it.
The lobby of the newspaper building was crowded with busy
people, rushing everywhere across the floor. I found my way
to the information desk and was told by a secretary that it
was not possible to buy photographs from the newspaper but I
should go downstairs to the basement and talk with the
librarian. She warned me, however, that since I did not have
an appointment the librarian might not have time to see me.

The librarian, an aged man, was sitting on a stool behind a
large counter, reading a newspaper and not looking very
busy. I approached the counter and stood there waiting for
him to notice my presence. He didn't seem to realize, or
care, that I was there.
"Excuse me, sir," I said after a few silent seconds.
Without moving his head the old man raised his eyes above
thick-lensed glasses that were hanging loosely on his nose.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" he said, studying me.
I took the photograph out of my pocket and put it on top of
some papers on the counter right in front of him.
"Can I buy the negative of this photograph from you?"
Still not moving his head, he lowered his eyes back down
and looked at the photograph through his glasses.
"We don't sell our negatives to anyone," he said
authoritatively. "That's from yesterday's paper. What do you
need it for?"
He looked up at me again.
"I just think it's a beautiful picture, sir," I said
nervously. "I want to make a good quality enlargement of it
for myself, that's all. The story behind it is of no
interest to me."
He picked the photograph up from the counter and examined
it closely.
"Lucky chap," he said. "We paid him two hundred fifty
bucks, the guy who took this picture. Young kid about your
age. Came to visit our town from the West Coast, went down
the street, and the next thing you know-he's two hundred
fifty bucks richer. I call that luck." He handed me the
newspaper clipping. "Yes, this is a nice picture."
"So can I buy the negative from you?" I asked him again.
"I've got money, I can pay."
"We don't sell our negatives to anyone," the librarian
repeated his answer and looked up at an electric clock on
the wall. It was four-thirty in the afternoon.
"I'll get you a print of it. How's that?" He got up from
his stool and started towards the back of the room before I
had a chance to reply.
"Sir," I called after him, "sir, can you make a large
print?"
He stopped and turned back to me. "What was that?" he
said.
I hesitated.
"I just said, can you make a large print of it?"
"How large?"
"Well. As large as you can."
He took a deep breath and whistled the air out of his
lungs.
"Wait here," he said and disappeared behind a shelf loaded
with papers.
I didn't know what to expect from that old man. I didn't
know what to expect from myself either. As I stood there in
the basement of the newspaper office waiting for his return,
I felt surprised at having gone that far. I wasn't the kind
of person who would go knocking on doors, pushing his way
through to get what he wanted. I didn't deal with the
outside world very much. I lived alone, and the people in my
life were all my own creations. My interactions with them,
our happy moments, our conflicts, our expectations from each
other, were all entirely up to me, the whole
business-everything.
The librarian returned about a half an hour later, to my
relief. He appeared from behind the shelf, holding in his
hand a large cylinder wrapped in old newspaper.
"Here," he said, handing me the cylinder over the counter.
"I made the print myself. Used to work in the labs when I
was younger, you know?"
"Thank you, I said to him. "Thank you very much sir."
"Yes," he said and smiled. "Came out pretty good. I still
got the touch, I guess. Came out real nice in color."
"You made it in color?" I asked, astonished.
"Yes, it was a color negative. Go home and take a look at
it. Call me tomorrow, tell me what you think of it."
"I will sir, of course," I said. "Do I pay you?"
He started arranging papers on the counter.
"You don't pay anyone. Go home take a look at it."
I looked at him in disbelief. He ignored me, continuing to
adjust papers on the counter. I thanked him once again and
left the room.


I entered my apartment and collapsed in the armchair, not
knowing what to do next. The picture in the wrapped cylinder
was too important to be touched right away-I couldn't treat
it casually, had to give it time. But there wasn't room in
my mind to build an appetite for anything else. I began
pacing the living room back and forth, counting my steps out
loud.
At step five-hundred, nothing mattered to me. I grabbed the
cylinder and unwrapped it hastily. The photograph was rolled
up neatly inside. I pulled it out and straightened it on the
floor, putting books on all four corners so it won't roll
back.
It was a huge print of about newspaper size, and she was
even lovelier in color. I could see very clearly the details
of her appearance-her short black hair, her big blue eyes,
the full lips of her closed mouth, her slender hands, her
delicate body in a white dress. But she was still
expressionless. There wasn't terror in her eyes, nor was
there sadness. Certainly not cheerfulness. It was just a
look-a penetrating stare-that had captured me, and didn't
let go. I sat there, on the floor in front of those eyes,
and looked at them, and looked, and looked. Until I saw it.
Until I saw the quest in her eyes, the quest that had once
been comprehensible, and in time had become an unrewarded
look. That was it. That was the stare-a vanished quest-that
I had mistaken for some kind of indifference.
Exhausted, I crawled to my bed and pulled the blanket over
my head. I began to cry. Tears came down my cheeks, wetting
the pillow underneath my head. The last time I had cried
alone was years before, when my father died.


In the morning I called my boss at the gas station and told
him I won't be coming to work that day. I copied the woman's
name and address from the original newspaper story, got into
my car and drove to her house. She lived in the suburbs, in
a small red house with a small front yard and a driveway.
There was a white Toyota parked in the driveway. I parked my
car across the street from a house next to her house and lit
a cigarette, wondering about my next move. I knew only that
I wanted to see her, alone.
It was a cloudy day, with occasional rain. I had no idea
how long I would be sitting in the car and felt fortunate
that at least I wasn't getting boiled under a hostile summer
sun. The house was quiet, its windows and curtains closed.
It looked deserted. But I couldn't be sure about anything in
that house, so I sat in the car smoking more cigarettes and
preparing for my confrontation with her. I wanted it to be a
good encounter, as good as it could be under the
circumstances. I wanted to make sense to her. I wanted to
look into her eyes and tell her what had happened to me
because of her eyes. And I wanted her to understand me.
I sat in the car for more than three hours. Around noon the
front door opened, and she walked out. She got into the
white Toyota and drove away. I started my car and followed
her. She drove out of the neighborhood on to the main road
leading downtown, and after a few miles got off the main
road and continued her way along side roads. I kept
following her attentively, as she made numerous turns. It
was very exciting for me to drive behind her car in those
narrow streets.
She never stopped. She got back on the main road, drove a
few blocks and got off again, repeating an undecided pattern
of driving. I began wondering what she was doing. Her
pattern was undecided, but the driving itself was very much
decided-she didn't stop, she didn't get out of her car, she
never even slowed down as drivers unsure about their
whereabouts would do. I didn't think she got lost, but if
she did she probably didn't care about it. I also
entertained the idea that her whole intent was to drive
aimlessly for a while, something I myself used to do in the
winters, when it wasn't so hot. I felt good, thinking about
that possibility.
          After an hour or so we ended up back in her
neighborhood. She stopped near a post-office, got out of the
car and walked into the building as I pulled a safe distance
behind her car. I remained in my car, waiting for her to
come out.
She came out about ten minutes later, holding a large
envelope. I got out of my car and walked towards her. We met
in the middle of the footpath.
"Mrs. Donaldson?" I said.
She stopped and looked at me with wonderful blue eyes.
"Can I talk to you for a moment?" I asked her, and
swallowed saliva in my throat from excitement.
"Who are you?" she asked, staring at me.
Light rain came down on us as we stood there facing each
other.
"We've never met before," I said, "but there's something I
have to tell you."
"OK," she said. "What is it?"
I looked up at the gray skies, then back at her.
"It's raining," I said. "Maybe you want to-"
"I don't mind the rain," she broke in, still staring at
me.
"Well," I said hesitantly. "I saw the picture of you in the
newspaper yesterday. Your name was there too, and I decided
that I had to see you. It's only because of that picture,
because of your eyes in it, actually. Because of the way you
looked at the camera."
I paused. She smiled. Her black hair was already wet from
the rain. So was her black dress. She was beautiful. I
swallowed saliva again. I needed a cigarette, but my
cigarettes were in the car.
"That's it?" she asked.
"I'm the one who killed your husband, I was the driver," I
said, and looked away.
"You're kidding," she said laughingly.
I gave her a quick look. She didn't seem shocked at all.
"No, Mrs. Donaldson, I'm not kidding. And I want you to
know that I'll do anything I can for you, anything you ask
me, as long as I can."
"You're kidding," she said again.
"No."
"OK. Get down on all fours and lick the ground."
"What?" I cried.
"Just kidding," she said. "So go to the police. What do you
want from me?"
"I want you to turn me in, if you want to."
"You want me to turn you in?"
"Yes, if you want to."
"I'm not going to turn you in," she said. "And you want to
know something? I really don't give a damn."
"But I killed your husband."
"That wasn't a nice thing to do," she said. I heard
contempt in her voice.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"No, try something else." She smiled.
I wanted to laugh, laugh out loud, but the thought made me
feel sick.
"Look," I said. "Let me give you my name and address, in
case you change your mind."
She didn't say anything. I took a piece of paper out of my
wallet and tried to protect it from the rain.
"If you want me to have your name so much you can get into
my car and write it down in there, it's right there," she
said, motioning with her head.
I obeyed, as if it was the natural thing for me to do. We
walked over to her car and she opened the door and threw the
envelope to the passenger seat inside. I knelt down, put the
paper on the seat and wrote my name and address.
"I'll be there," I said, handing her the paper, and without
delay turned and walked away.
          She was still standing in the rain looking at me
when I drove away.


          I entered my apartment and locked the door behind
me. The large color photograph was on the floor in the
living room, where I had left it the night before. I glanced
at it, feeling nothing. My mind was completely blank. I took
off my wet clothes and dragged myself into the bathroom.
The cold shower woke me up very quickly. A reality hit me.
The shower I was taking might be the last one-anything I did
from then on might be the last thing I ever did before
someone knocked on my door. I suddenly didn't have time.
I rushed out of the bathroom and immediately launched into
the most rewarding thing I knew-celebrating with my
imaginary friends. And I had a new friend, a beautiful woman
by the name of Sarah Donaldson. I pinned her picture to the
wall so that everyone could see and appreciate her. Everyone
did. I put on some music and we danced. We had a great time.
Then Sarah and I went into the bedroom and made love. We lay
in bed, smoking cigarettes and listening to the music coming
from the living room. We didn't talk. I rested my head on
her breasts and she began caressing my hair. I fell asleep a
few moments later.


          Nobody knocked on my door that night. I got up in
the morning, had breakfast and went to work. Nothing special
happened in the gas station, and as I got back into the
routine of filling up cars, washing windshields and checking
under hoods, I felt a sense of disappointment churning
inside me.
My life, since I'd gotten out of college, had been nothing
more than a very predictable set of habits. I could recite
without difficulty what I did each hour of the day, any day.
I could give not only a broad outline but a detailed
schedule of times, places, and functions. There were never
changes, only slight adjustments. But the last couple of
days had given way for some not so predictable events,
events that were certainly not a part of my preplanned daily
activities. Things were now beyond my control, it seemed,
but there I was, waiting on cars again.
I came home in the afternoon at the usual hour, hoping to
be welcomed by somebody. My hopes were not fulfilled. I took
my usual shower, ate my usual supper, and performed my usual
collapse in the usual armchair. The photograph was on the
wall in front of me. Looking at it, I thought of the man who
had caused my father's death. My father had been killed in
active service, when the jeep he was in hit a land mine. A
few months later, someone from the military called my mother
and told her that they had caught the guerrilla man who had
laid that mine. I could have attended his trial, seen how he
looked, how he behaved. But I didn't. He got life in
prison.


It was already dark when I went outside. I got into my car
and drove to Sarah Donaldson's house. Her white Toyota stood
in the driveway and lights in the house were on. I parked my
car behind the Toyota, walked to the front door and rang the
bell with no hesitation. It didn't matter to me whether or
not she was alone. I just wanted to see her again.
She opened the door, looked at me and smiled.
"Hi," I said, smiling back.
"Hi," she said. "It's you again."
"Yes," I said. "You didn't change your mind, did you?"
"No."
"Why?"
She leaned against the door-frame and closed her eyes. I
could smell her scent-fresh-as after taking a shower. She
was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. I wanted to touch her.
"Why don't you believe me, Mrs. Donaldson?" I asked her.
She opened her eyes and looked at the dark skies.
"Do you have cigarettes?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, puzzled.
"Good. I ran out of cigarettes. Come in and I'll tell you
why."
We went in.
As I followed her to the living room I noticed that the
house was not completely furnished. They probably didn't
have time to get everything they needed yet, I thought,
remembering they had arrived in town only a few weeks
earlier.
I offered her a cigarette and lit it for her.
"Do you want anything to drink?" she asked me and took a
puff.
"No, thank you," I said.
"OK, let me just get me a pepsi," she said and went into
the kitchen.
I sat down on the sofa. The sofa, a rocking-chair, a
coffee-table and a television set were the only things in
the rather large living room. The house was quiet; no one
else seemed to be there. The place distressed me.
She came back a few minutes later with a bottle of pepsi,
sat in the rocking-chair and began rocking.
"Are you from the area?" she asked me.
"I've been living here the last three years," I said.
"Where are you from?"
"The east."
"Where in the east?"
"Look, Mrs. Donaldson," I said, growing impatient. "I'm
very flattered by your interest in me, but I really want to
know first why you don't believe me."
"Are you in a hurry?" she asked and sipped from her
bottle.
"No," I said and stood up. "But the whole damn thing is
driving me crazy."
"What's driving you crazy?" She looked up at me.
"You are driving me crazy."
"Me? What did I do?"
"Just tell me, please, why you don't believe me," I said in
a much lower voice.
Her face became serious.
          "Please sit down, she said.
          I sat down and lit a cigarette.
          "I'm sorry, I said.
"It's very simple really," she spoke slowly. "I could see
it in your eyes. I could see that you are not telling the
truth."
I blushed and looked down at my hands. They were shaking.
"And what about yesterday?" I said.
"I'm talking about yesterday," she said.
"Then what about today?"
"Why aren't you looking at me?"
I gave her a quick look. She was smiling.
"I'll know who killed my husband when I see him," she
said.
"Well you're wrong," I said, "because I killed your
husband."
"OK," she moaned. "Let's call the cops if that's what you
want."
I said nothing and she got up and went to the kitchen. I
heard her dial a number on the telephone. There was a
silence for a few seconds.
"Hi," I heard her say. "Detective Romano? This is Sarah
Donaldson."
          There was a pause.
         "Yes. I'm fine, thank you. Listen, there's a guy
here who says he killed Dan."
         Another pause.
  "In my house, yes.
         "No, I'm fine. He wants you to come and pick him
up."
"OK, Detective, thank you. We'll be waiting for you."
She hung up and came back into the living room.
"I called the detective who's working on the case," she
said. "They'll be here in a few minutes."
My eyes were locked on the cigarette butts in the ashtray
on the coffee-table. I didn't say anything. I heard her
sitting back in the rocking-chair and beginning to rock
again. The chair squeaked.
"Want to know what I really thought you were doing
yesterday?" I heard her say. My eyes stayed on the ashtray.
"I thought you were making a pass at me. And I liked it. It
was a very creative way. But now you're so serious."
I didn't speak or move. I couldn't do either.
"Are you alright?" she asked me.
I managed to get up on my feet. My body tottered. I started
slowly toward the front door.