Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

Overview

In 1920s England, an American photographer is out to capture proof that fairies are real—despite the opposition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

In the 1920s, a country policeman, Constable Michael Walsmear, pushes his way into the London studio of Charles Castle, the world‑famous American photographer, to show him some pictures. What Castle sees in Walsmear’s pictures is incredible. When he goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for verification of the faerie images found on the negatives, Doyle tries to bribe Castle to destroy the pictures. But Castle will not be bought; he is out to discover the truth. And it is truth he finds in the small village of Burkinwell, a village built upon secrets, strange sexual practices, beautiful gardens, and true human nature.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781497632684
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	05/27/2014
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	264
Sales rank:	482,534
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Ohio‑born Steve Szilagyi (pronounced Sil‑ah‑jee) graduated with honors from Columbia University, winning the Columbia Bennett Cerf Award for Fiction for his unpublished story collection The Night Sophia Loren's Dress Caught Fire in a Restaurant. A painter and illustrator, Szilagyi has published drawings in New York magazine and other national publications. Photographing Fairies was his first novel.

Read an Excerpt

Photographing Fairies

A Novel

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By Steve Szilagyi

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 1992 Steve Szilagyi
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-3268-4

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CHAPTER 1

How I Met the Policeman

Yes, tomorrow I am scheduled to die. But as I contemplate this incipient event, I am troubled by the thought that I leave nothing behind. Oh, of course, there are hundreds of undistinguished photographs and some sketches and studies that might have amounted to something if I had worked them up; but for the most part, after thirty-two years of life, I leave a barren legacy. No children to mourn me. No widow in weeds. And, as the only child of now-deceased parents, no family or relations to shame by the manner of my death.

I have been sentenced to hang for the crime of murder. I crouch now in a small, dark cell, with a metal cot, and a smelly little hole in the corner. High above me, to my right, a tiny, barred window admits a trace of dim starlight. To my left is an iron door, with thick, dollopy bolts and a sliding peephole. Behind my cot, the wall is scratched with names and curses, a Psalm, and a home-made calendar. A previous tenant has even charcoal-sketched the familiar stick figure from the game "Hangman," which another has smeared to near obliteration with what appears to be spittle. Beyond the walls of my cell, I know (though I cannot see them) are the grim guard towers, the dusty exercise yard, and the prison garden, its meager blossoms lovingly tended by some of the older inmates. If I close my eyes, it is easy for me to imagine that I am not here — That it is four months ago, and I am in another small, dark room....

* * *

It is London. In this nervous, third decade of the twentieth century. These giddy years after the Great War. I was up to my bare elbows in chemicals, developing group photos of the Kennel Hill Cricket Club. The pictures were routine: a score of white-garbed goops standing in ranks, staring out over each other's shoulders; crossed bats; one wag waving a whiskey bottle ... But wait. Here is a bit of advice for young photographers: Never miss the chance to do this type of mass photograph. Team pictures can be a short road to big business for the commercial photographer. Each head in those serried rows will someday get married or have children, or know someone who intends to do one or the other, and that wedding, christening, and anniversary business can be yours if you are willing to hustle for it. All you have to do is bring a generous supply of your business cards and scatter them among the assembled multitude, making sure that no member of the team, squadron, or enlightened society leaves without your name stuck in his pocket, breeches, or waistcoat.

I, for my part, had forgotten to bring a single one of my expensively embossed business cards to the Kennel Hill shoot, and I was cursing my own stupid forgetfulness as I lifted one of the crowded negatives from its chemical bath.

Suddenly, I was startled by a report and ricochet from without. It was the door to my studio slamming open and hitting the wall.

I couldn't leave the darkroom to see what was going on. So I shouted, "Hello?"

There was no answer. The floor of the studio trembled as footsteps crashed over the boards. Out of the confused noises, two voices rose in loud argument. I recognized the officious tenor of my assistant, Roy. The other was a voice I had not heard before. It was deep, thick, and rough. Its accent was rural, and as redolent of England's farms and fields as Roy's chirp was of its centrifugal capital.

The thick, rough voice was demanding to see me. Roy informed its owner that I could not be disturbed.

"And why bloody not?" demanded the stranger.

"Because Mr. Castle is in the darkroom," said Roy.

"Where is the dark room?"

"Right over there."

I heard footsteps crossing the floor. They stopped right outside.

"Behind this wall?"

"Yes."

I was startled by a scraping sound not far from my head. It was the stranger's hand, probing the wall. I felt strange, vulnerable, removed from it all, floating blindly in a lightless pool.

"What's he doing in there?" the stranger asked.

"He's developing pictures."

"In a dark room?"

"That's right," said Roy.

There was a moment of silence as the stranger seemed to meditate. Finally, he observed, "Well, maybe Mr. Castle could use some light —"

Car-pock! The darkroom wall seemed to explode. A shaft of daylight shot past me. Along with it came a cloud of plaster dust, bits of lathing, shreds of wall-paper, and a large fist. The fist wriggled free, leaving behind a ragged hole, gushing brightness.

My first thought was for the negatives. There was a demure ping from the egg timer, a sigh of relief from me. The period of sensitivity was over: The light would not damage. Wiping my hands, I reached for the door and threw it open.

Daylight dazzled. Restless clouds paced across the bright blue in the skylight; a silvery airplane cut a trim diagonal across the glassy grid. Beneath it, Roy stood in the rolling shadows assuming a boxer's stance before a stranger wearing a loud brown-and-mustard-checked jacket.

Roy was much smaller than his adversary; the battle was over as quickly as it began. With surprising gentleness, the stranger parried Roy's fistic attack and flipped him to the ground. Once Roy was subdued, the stranger sat on his head. From this low perch, he scowled up at me.

"I'm looking for Mr. Charles P. Castle," he said.

"I am he," I said.

"The photography expert?"

"I suppose I'm some sort of expert, yes."

Roy was struggling beneath the stranger's posterior.

"Can he breathe?" I asked.

"What?" the stranger said, as if he'd forgotten all about where he sat. "Oh," he said, looking down, and lifted his rear end enough to allow Roy to slip out.

Roy gasped and rolled across the floor. "I'm calling a policeman," he said, getting to his feet.

"That won't be necessary," said the stranger, dusting his own behind.

"And why not?" asked Roy.

"I'm a policeman," said the stranger.

He was a tall man, sun-browned, with bushy brows and a thick, rubbery scowl. Aside from his checked jacket, he wore a tight bowler hat, ill-fitting green trousers, and bullnose shoes. Noticing that I was studying him, he removed his hat, revealing a low forehead creased with a pink line from the sweatband.

"If you are a policeman," Roy challenged him, "where is your uniform?"

"I don't wear it on holiday," he said.

"Is this some kind of official business?" I asked.

"No, sir," he said. "It's personal."

"Then you have no right to come in here smashing through our walls," said Roy. "It's outrageous. This isn't Russia. What's your name?"

"Please, please, please, Roy," I said. "Let me handle this."

I turned to the stranger.

"I don't believe we are acquainted," I said, trying to put the exchange on some kind of civil basis.

The visitor smirked in Roy's direction. "Walsmear," he said. "Constable Michael Walsmear."

He put his hat up under his arm and offered me his hand. The trip through the wall had made the knuckles look as if they had been passed over a cheese grater. After I shook the proffered appendage, Roy tried to give me his handkerchief. I waved it away.

"What can I do for you?" I asked our visitor.

"I want to know what you think about some pictures," he said.

"What pictures?"

"Some pictures I have here in my pocket."

"What would you like to know about them?"

Constable Walsmear looked over at Roy. Then he looked at me. "It's private," he said.

I could see that he was worried about Roy.

"Roy is perfectly trustworthy," I assured him. "He's my Dr. Watson. Anything you say to me, you can say to him."

"Doesn't look like a doctor to me."

"I didn't say he was a doctor. I meant he was like a doctor — Watson, that is."

"Get him out of here."

Roy laughed and straightened his tie. "I hardly think," huffed he, "that Mr. Castle would take the chance of being left alone with you — whatever you claim you are."

I looked from Roy to the visitor and mused inwardly. Roy was correct inasmuch as I was in no hurry to tête-a-tête with this large, violent individual. On the other hand, Walsmear was refreshingly different from my usual clients; and his mysterious "private" mission seemed like the beginning of an adventure — something I fancied, in my exquisite insanity, I wanted just then.

Recklessly, perhaps, I told Roy not to judge too hastily. "I think I'd like to see what the constable has to show me," I said.

"Do you mean you want me to step outside?" Roy said.

"Not step outside. Nothing like that. I have it. You can go to lunch. It is almost noon. I'll talk to Constable Walsmear here, and when you come back, it will be all over."

Roy stared in disbelief. "He could kill you," he said.

I told him that I doubted that would happen. And after giving the loyal and able Roy a great many assurances that I would take every care for my safety, I was able to get him to agree to leave me alone with our visitor.

"I'll be back," he said, plucking his hat from the rack and giving Walsmear a warning look.

"I may just come popping back a bit early, too."

"Yes, yes, yes," I said, patting his head. "I appreciate your concern, Roy."

He stepped out the door, then pushed his way back in for a moment. "Don't forget," he said. "You have an appointment at one-thirty. Mrs. Skorking."

"I'll remember," I said. "Now go off and enjoy your lunch. And don't worry about me."

Roy started down the five flights from my studio to the street. The stranger did not move until the sound of Roy's footsteps had narrowed to a point and disappeared.

Then he visibly relaxed, and smiled.

CHAPTER 2

How I Was Shaken by Some Photographs

The studio was set up from my session of the day before, when my clients had been a violin duo. Let me note here that the ambitious young photographer would do well to cultivate his contacts among the theatrical and musical professions and among those who aspire to them. Actors and musicians are in constant need of photos and prints to promote their shows and concerts; and many a professional photographer has built an entire career entirely on this trade. In this case, the musicians had wanted a "salon" look for the background of their picture. To please them, I had dug a couple of overstuffed chairs out of my prop room. Behind the chairs, I crossed a pair of ostrich-feather fans over an oriental vase big enough to hide a body in. Then I dusted off a bouquet of fabric roses and scattered the false blossoms around the set to look as if they had been hurled there by an ecstatic audience.

The fiddlers thought it was just the thing.

Now I motioned for Walsmear to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. He tested both chairs with his fingers. Then, throwing up the short tails of his coat, he spun around and dropped heavily into the softest one. Reaching down, he picked up one of the fabric roses still on the floor. He sniffed.

"A fake," he pronounced.

I nodded, asked if he was comfortable; and, with heavy sarcasm, regretted that I couldn't offer him a cigar.

Walsmear said he had a cigar of his own.

This, half-smoked and crushed like a tent peg, he removed from his breast pocket.

Lighting it, he puffed expansively. A yellow cloud enveloped the chair. From within the billows, I heard him smacking his lips.

"Comfortable?" I asked.

"Quite."

"Good."

After a few minutes of silent puffing, Walsmear asked, "You're not English, are you?"

"No."

"Australian?"

"No."

"Canada?"

"American. From Boston. Though I've lived here in London for eight years."

"I met some Americans in France. Didn't think much of them. That was in the war. Were you in the war?"

"Too young," I said.

The smoke was making my head ache. I walked over and opened a window. Fresh air rushed in along with the noise of the street.

"Didn't think much of them at all," Walsmear reiterated.

"Yes, well ..." My voice must have sounded testy.

"But I appreciate you," Walsmear said, flicking ash into the oriental vase. "You're civil. For a Londoner."

"Thank you."

"I've been in London for two days now. And you may be the first civil bloke I've met."

"You may bear some of the blame for that," I said. "I mean, you've got a distinctive way of entering a room. Do you punch holes in walls everywhere you go?"

"I'd apologize for that. Only I make it my business never to apologize. Let me just say I was angry. At your friend."

"My friend? Oh, you mean Roy. Roy's not a friend. We're friendly, of course, but he's mostly my assistant —"

"Not the runt. I'm talking about Doyle."

"Doyle? Who's that?"

"Your friend."

I ransacked my brain. I didn't have any friend named Doyle. Unless he meant Jimmy Doyle, back in school. I shook my head at Walsmear. "I don't —"

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," he said exasperatedly. "The writer bloke. The bloody spiritualist.

The Knight of the bloody Garter, or whatever."

"Oh, him."

"What do you call him? 'Arthur'? 'Artie'?"

"I think I called him Sir Arthur when I took his picture. But that was months ago. And I hardly know him personally."

"He knows you."

"Why do you say that?"

"He had your card in his desk. He told me to see you. He said you could tell me what you thought about — my photographs."

"Photographs, eh?" I said knowingly. "A local blackmail case?"

The policeman eyed me narrowly "What makes you think it's blackmail?"

"Not difficult," I chuckled. "Or should I say 'elementary.' Ha, ha. I simply deduced it, as Sherlock Holmes might have."

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes," I repeated.

"Who's that?"

"You went to see Arthur Conan Doyle and you don't know who Sherlock Holmes is?"

The policeman looked at me blankly.

"Don't you read?" I asked.

"I'm a simple man," he said, jaw tightening.

"Why, may I ask, did you go to see Sir Arthur?"

"To show him," he said, "these."

Setting his bowler on his knee, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a dirty brown envelope tied with string.

"And what are those?"

"The photographs," he whispered.

Once more I tried to guess his business. What kind of crime involving photographs would bring a rural policeman ignorant of Sherlock Holmes to consult with Arthur Conan Doyle?

"Dirty pictures?" I asked.

Walsmear's head took on the color of a red bell pepper. His eyes popped and he leaped to his feet.

"What?" he thundered.

"I meant —"

"Who do you take me for?"

"Really, I —"

"You think I've come down here to London with a packet of dirty pictures to sell? Is that what you think?"

"Not at all —"

"Is that how I look to you? Well, you're no better than the rest of them."

"That's not so," I said.

"It is, too."

"It is not. But please let's get back to your business. If it's not blackmail and it's not dirty pictures, what in the name of heaven is it?"

"Never mind."

"What is it?"

"No, no, that's all right. Never mind. I'll go some place else."

"Please tell me."

"You've had your chance."

This new outburst from the common, seemingly mad policeman made a strong contrast with my recollection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a dignified man, despite his sometimes outlandish views. I wondered at the connection between the policeman and the writer. Why had the writer recommended me? I recalled my brief era of acquaintance with Sir Arthur. I had photographed the eminent author for the frontispiece of his collected works, to be published in Italy. Afterward, there had been some problem with the bill. Who was to pay? Sir Arthur's English publishers? Or the Italian publishers? Or Sir Arthur himself? My invoice went back and forth between the angry parties, until someone mediated a solution that saw the Italians paying, and Sir Arthur and his English publishers saving face for the Italians by blaming the whole thing on my somehow inept billing practices. It was even noised abroad that I had tried to bilk them in some unnamed way.

Was Sir Arthur still abiding by this absurd fiction? Was he taking revenge by sending lunatics to harass me?

"May I ask a question?" I said.

Walsmear sniffed an affirmative.

"What else did Sir Arthur say to you? I mean, besides giving you my card...."

"He said I was wasting his precious time. Then he had me thrown out."

"Why did he do that?"

"He didn't like the photographs."

"What's wrong with them?"

"Said they were poppycock."

"Well, let's have a look."

"After what you said?"

"Oh, come on."

"All right. I'll show them to you. But watch what you say, I don't like to be stepped on."

"You can trust me."

"I may be a fool," he went on. "And if I act like a fool, you can say so. But whatever you say, Mr. Castle, don't you dare —" and here he leveled a long finger at my nose "— don't you dare say a word against those girls."

"What girls?" I asked.

Walsmear's expression grew woeful. "I suppose you ought to see for yourself."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Photographing Fairies by Steve Szilagyi. Copyright © 1992 Steve Szilagyi. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Book One,
Chapter One How I Met the Policeman,
Chapter Two How I Was Shaken by Some Photographs,
Chapter Three How I Came to Be a Photographer,
Chapter Four How I Struck a Deal with the Policeman,
Chapter Five How I Was Late for an Appointment,
Chapter Six How I Vexed a Great Author,
Chapter Seven How I Lost My Valise,
Chapter Eight How I Was Given a Ride,
Chapter Nine How I First Saw the Garden,
Chapter Ten How I Met Esmirelda,
Chapter Eleven How I Went to Church,
Chapter Twelve How I Got a New Darkroom,
Chapter Thirteen How I Photographed the Innkeeper,
Chapter Fourteen How I Met a Fierce Dog,
Chapter Fifteen How I Fell Down the Hole,
Chapter Sixteen How I Was Roughly Treated,
Book Two,
Chapter Seventeen How I Awoke,
Chapter Eighteen How I Photographed the Garden,
Chapter Nineteen How I Scared Myself,
Chapter Twenty How I Discovered the Minister's Strange Secret,
Chapter Twenty-one How I Discovered the Policeman's Strange Secret,
Chapter Twenty-two How I Learned the Girls' Strange Secret,
Chapter Twenty-three How I Met the Fairies,
Chapter Twenty-four How I Met the Little Men,
Chapter Twenty-five How I Returned to the Garden,
Chapter Twenty-six How I Almost Got Arrested,
Chapter Twenty-seven How I Concocted a Useful Experiment,
Chapter Twenty-eight How I Saved the Templetons from Burglars,
Chapter Twenty-nine How I Am Spending the Last Night of My Life,