I’m conducting interviews with a few women — pretty long, thorough interviews, the photographer said in an accent Nadine couldn’t quite place, the words going fast and their ends hard, and then, you know, hopefully I’ll find the best fit for the project, and hopefully she’ll want to go ahead and work together … She laughed what must have been a nervous laugh, but it didn’t sound nervous, and Nadine would later learn that nothing Mia did appeared nervous. If the photographer chose her, Nadine would be photographed and then, if all goes well (Nadine wasn’t quite sure what that meant), the photographs would be on display at some gallery for the world to see. In the shower, Nadine imagined an old Jewish couple, a young babysitter, a professor at Columbia; they were all at the gallery, looking at Nadine’s body in the pictures, and even though Nadine had never met them, they now possessed an intimate knowledge of her, because that’s what photographs do, isn’t it? Reveal.
* * *
A photograph: Nadine is standing in her small kitchen, waiting for the water to boil. There’s a yellow and tired quality to the room. Her back to the camera, Nadine is looking to the side, the left half of her face visible. She is about to make tea for herself and for Mia: green ceramic cups to Nadine’s right, empty and waiting. There is nothing suggestive in the picture, nothing that tells the viewer how Nadine earns a living. What you can see is something like disappointment, and this you can see in Nadine’s posture and, if you look closely, in her facial expression. Nadine is disappointed because Mia already has her camera out. All that clicking. How can you talk to someone who just click-clicks all the time? How can you get to know someone who reaches for the camera every time she feels something? You cannot. There is a brief moment in which this understanding sinks in, and the camera captures it.
* * *
Sometimes Mia forgets to ask permission. She moves things in Nadine’s apartment to better situate herself — the couch, the seashell sculpture, even the TV. Nadine tenses when Mia touches the sculpture — it was made especially for her, years ago, by a man who could make anything with his hands, a man she hoped to marry — but when Mia lifts the TV with ease, Nadine feels light. She smiles, but another thing Mia sometimes forgets is to smile back. This happens when she is deep in thought. Then she catches herself. The knowledge that she was rude always passes through her like a wave, sudden and tall. By now, Nadine knows to wait for it: something like sadness in Mia’s eyes, and then her spine curves, which looks a bit like she is shaking something off. Then the laughter, quick. Then, sometimes: What can I say, I’m Israeli, aggressive by nature. The only other Israeli Nadine knows is a client, a man who sells rugs on Long Island for a living. He is gentle and weak and likes to be pinched hard.
* * *
When Mia pushes the limits, Would you be comfortable taking some of your clothes off, she looks at Nadine with soft eyes that say I will look at you all the way to yes.
* * *
Maybe next time, Nadine says, because she doesn’t want the eyes to stop.
* * *
One thing she wishes she could explain to Mia: she doesn’t mind the moans. Or more honestly, though this embarrasses her: the moans are her favorite part. When seeing a client for the first time, that is what she’s curious about, and she waits for that one moment, when the animal in him speaks to her. When the moment comes, she listens carefully — through the sound, through the exhale of it. There is information there, knowledge, for her to collect. She does. Later, when she uses this knowledge, the men moan more deeply, openly, air coming out through their throats, their teeth, their pores. This reveals more information, and so on, and so on.
* * *
She has something like a playlist in her brain; double-click on a man’s photo and you can hear the sound he makes. How can she explain — to Mia, to anyone — that she understands these moans better than she understands words?
When people speak, they say things like: It is what it is, and I believe her, but I also don’t believe her. Ridiculous, absurd things. But with sound you get something that language can’t hide. With sound, you get the feeling underneath the words.
* * *
Feeling, for Nadine, is the place you go to when nothing makes sense. For example: a night spent on a beach, a man with salt in his hair and hands of magic, a man she loved. She said This is the end, right? And he said Not even the beginning, Deenie. As it turned out, they were both right.
* * *
All of Mia’s questions are the same question. Something something sex worker something something choice something. Nadine always pauses before she answers. It appears as if she is thinking hard, she knows that. But the pause is the time when she says with no sound, Ask me something real. Every time, she waits for Mia to hear. When Mia doesn’t, Nadine answers.
* * *
Would you mind repeating that, Mia asks sometimes; I’d like to record you.
* * *
A recording:
No, it’s not that I don’t like the question, it’s just … easy to be seduced by the idea of “what if.” You know? So I try not to do that.
Pause.
Sure I think about it, yes. I’d have made a good social worker if I stayed in school, I think. I’d have helped people. I mean, as I’ve said before, I think I am helping people. But maybe I’d have helped more that way, and maybe I’d have enjoyed that job more. And I wouldn’t feel … I’d be more proud. Of what I do. And I’d have more friends, probably. I had some good friends in social-work school. But when I dropped out and started … working more, we just lost touch.
* * *
When Mia is recording, when the camera is away, she is listening. Nadine wants to talk minutes and hours, talk until there’s no way for Mia to leave, talk until the buses have stopped running. One thing she hates about New York — the buses never stop running.
* * *
A moment: Mia and Nadine are eating, sitting on the floor. (Can we take a break? Nadine asked. I’m hungry.
Of course, of course, Mia said, but kept shooting.)
* * *
Nadine is thinking maybe she should leave the furniture in the other room like that for a while, maybe she should eat all her meals on the floor from now on. Something about it feels like a fresh start. She wants Mia to say nice things about the quiche she made, and when Mia doesn’t, Nadine asks, and the sound of her own voice is soft, too soft. How’s the quiche? Good, Mia says without looking up. Then she nods a few times. What did she expect Mia to say? This quiche has changed my life? And if she said that — if she looked right at Nadine for once and said, Is it possible for a quiche to change someone’s life? Because I think this is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth and nothing will be the same after this moment — what would Nadine do?