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Asthey finished exploring the second floor, ready to climb the stairs towards the finished bedrooms,Gabrielsuggested, ‘Whydon’t we abandon the tour for now andI’llmake us some dinner?’Beforeshe said yes or no, he was down the stairs and out the front door heading to the car for the bags of food he’d brought.
Shethought they could spread out a blanket on the floor in the ballroom and have a picnic, light some candles to add some romance, butGabrielhad other plans.Instead, they sat at a wobbly plastic table in his makeshift kitchen and suffered through stilted conversation paired with bread, cheese, olives, salad, and wine.
Afterlistening to him speak at length about insulation, she finally roused the courage to ask, ‘Iseverything all right?’
Hefroze, his eyes turning wary as he tore another chunk off the baguette. ‘Yes…?’
‘Youjust seem a little…’Brooding?Grumpy?Uninterested? ‘…distant.’
‘I’mtired from the drive down.Andeverything.’
Andthen she felt bad because, of course, he’d had a rough night thanks to his nightmare.Hewas probably preoccupied with thoughts ofFatima, the woman he loved, notJess.She’dbeen selfish, only thinking of her own desires instead of consideringGabriel’sstate of mind.Dobetter,she admonished herself.
Afterdinner, he toldJessto wait for him in the library while he cleaned up.Jessobjected, wanting to help, but he insisted.
‘I’lldo it faster by myself,’ he said and so, she left.
Inthe library,Jesssipped her wine and studied the books on his shelves, her fingers prancing over the spines:HenriCartierBresson,PhillipJonesGriffiths,DianeArbus,YannArthus-Bertrand,DorotheaLange…she stopped on a book ofMagnumwar photographs and pulled it off the shelf.Sheread the first paragraph of the forward, which talked aboutMagnum’screator,RobertCapa, who captured the best recorded evidence of theD-Daylandings.Shewondered if her great-grandfather might be one of the shaky figures in his photographs.FromCapa’sbio, she learned that, of the one hundred and six photos he took, only eight survived because an over-excited lab tech accidentally used too much heat on the negatives, melting them.Jess’sbreath caught as she read that; imagine experiencing whatCapawent through and then losing the work.Itmade her feel sick.
Ona hunch, she turned to the table of contents and perused the names.Andthere it was:GabrielSeverin.Herheart beat faster.Puttingher glass down on the side table and turning on the lamp, she sat on the sofa and went straight to his pages.
Shedidn’t know what to expect: pictures of people fighting, she assumed.Hisamazing aerial shots were the only evidence she had seen of his work.Shealready knew he had talent, but she didn’t know how that would translate into his coverage of combat.
Page102.GabrielSeverin.
‘Severin’swork is marked by the personal way he captured the stories of people in conflict.Firstand foremost, he was a human being, treating his subjects as fellow human beings instead of nameless specimens to be documented.Hegot close; he formed relationships; he gained trust.Whetherdocumenting life on anAmericanarmy base, rebels during theArabSpring, or children affected by war inSierraLeone, his portraits always tell a story, giving insight into the subject’s state of mind.Hisphotographs remind the viewer that we are all connected by the very fact of belonging to the same species.Severinretired from combat photography after losing his foot inAfghanistan.’
Apicture of him accompanied the text, credited toFatimaAhmad.Hewas sitting next to a young boy somewhere in theMiddleEast, playing a game of chess.Theboy grinned andGabriellaughed at the camera, as though the person taking the photo said something funny.Hewas younger, his hair fully black, his eyebrow unscarred.Hewas a man in his prime.
Beforeeven turning the page,Jesshad tears in her eyes.
Thefirst portraits made her catch her breath: on the left, aUSsoldier, scared and tired, holding his helmet in his hand and cradling his head in his palm, his skin marked by dirt, and smoke billowing in the distance.Jesscould hear the bombs, feel the fear.Opposite, another picture ofUSsoldiers, relaxed, hanging out in camp, lifting weights and joking with each other.Nextpage.Ayoung boy inCongo, wearing fatigues and carrying a rifle, his gaze hard but his stern countenance contradicted by a single tear falling down his cheek.Opposite: another young man inSierraLeone, one eye missing but his face animated, caught in the act of telling a story.
Jessflipped through page after page ofGabriel’swork.Witheach image, it made her see the man clearer and clearer.Gabrielwas kind.Gabrielwas brave.Gabrielwas loving.Gabrielwas…
…standing in the doorway, staring at her. ‘Whatare you doing?’
Shesnapped the book closed, feeling like a naughty child caught rifling through the teacher’s desk. ‘Sorry.Isaw it on the shelf andI…Ijust wanted to see…um…anyway, you didn’t mention you were aMagnumphotographer.That’spretty amazing.’Shedidn’t know much, but she knewMagnumwas a hard club to join.
Hishands clenched and unclenched.Emotionsflickered across his face: anger, pain, fear.Shesaw he was struggling.Pushingthe book aside, she stood and went to him, gently taking his hand in hers.Helet her.Shepulled him over to the sofa and sat next to him.Shemade sure to position herself on his left because she had noticed over time that he preferred her on the opposite side to his prosthesis.Holdinghis hand in hers, she stroked it, massaging the fingers and palm to help him relax.
Eventually, he said, ‘Sorry.Ihaven’t looked at my old portfolio in a long time.’
‘Yourimages…they’re not whatIwas expecting.’
Heshrugged. ‘Ijust shot things asIsaw them.’
‘Ican see that.Yourportraits are so…so raw.’
Pickingup the book, he gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white and he lowered it onto his lap.Witha determined exhalation, he opened it straight to his page.Hiseyes lingered on his picture, his finger brushingFatima’scredit.Heskimmed his write-up and grunted as he got to the end. ‘Becauseof my foot,’ he read. ‘Theircopywriter makes it sound likeIjust misplaced it.Anyway,Ididn’t quit because of my foot.Iquit becauseIwas done.’
‘Because…because ofFatima.’
Hisbody stiffened, and he nodded.
‘Tellme about her,’ saidJess, curling her feet under herself and smoothing some stray locks of hair off his temple.
Hedropped the book onto the floor with a thud and leaned back on the sofa.Jesssnuggled into him, rested her head on his shoulder, and waited for him to speak.Inher experience with children, they found it easier to talk about difficult subjects during a walk, or sitting on a swing, or any situation where she and the child looked at something other than each other.
