“I guess that would be true,” she says, then adds, “I like that phrase. Elemental image.”
But he’s moved on. He’s tapping his chin and mouth with his long index finger.
“You know,” he says, “the work sounds very much like Propp.”
She waits for him to go on and when he doesn’t she says, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand,” he says. “I’m saying it’s most likely a talented imitator. Perhaps a student studying the technique of the master.”
“Propp?”
“You disagree?” he says. “Well, of course, you’ve seen the work. And your description was very generic. You have to understand my specialty is more literary. And classical rather than contemporary. As you can imagine, I’m not very well versed in photography. Always a step removed, so to speak. A passing familiarity with the basics. When I hear shadowy Madonna and child, naturally I think of Propp.”
“Naturally,” she says.
“Are you one of the fans or one of the detractors?” he asks. “It has been my experience that there is no fence-sitting when it comes to Propp.”
She takes a deep breath. If she tries to act like she knows what he’s talking about she’ll only look more foolish in the end. So she exposes her ignorance, her glaring un-hipness. She asks, “Who is Propp?”
Mr. Quevedo is taken aback. He straightens up and uncrosses his legs, leans forward toward her. He’s no longer the school principal, but the understanding priest of Sylvia’s childhood dreams.
He clears his throat, lowers his voice and says, “Forgive me again, Sylvia. I’ve been quite impolite all morning. I forget that simply because someone is legend in the Canal Zone it does not necessarily mean they are a household word beyond our borders. You are not familiar with Terrence Propp?”
“I assume he’s a photographer?”
He nods. “I’m really not an authority. I’m an old man who takes his supper in the cafés. I’ve heard the stories and rumors for so long now that I assume the rest of the world is just as soaked in the myth.”
“The myth?”
“I can give you the names of some who can help you. Very likely, they can look at the photographs and tell you who took them. Propp is their obsession, not mine.”
“You’re using words like myth and obsession. I can’t believe I haven’t heard of this guy.”
He shrugs, gives a smile that’s not quite sheepish. He blinks a few times and says, “Is is so surprising really? There is no single pool anymore. There hasn’t been for some time. Everything has fragmented. Why should culture follow a different road? Propp is a single particle, floating in a narrow vein. Though I warn you, Sylvia, the faithful will tell you otherwise. And quite emphatically.”
“It’s just a little strange,” she says. “I mean, I go to the galleries regularly. I hang around the art sections at all the bookstores. I would think I would have—”
“I once heard it said that Propp is only stumbled upon by those he wishes to have stumble upon him.”
She thinks for a second and says, “I don’t follow you.”
He waves a hand at her.
“It was said by a fanatic. So much cryptic babble. You know the young ones down here, they think their art is some mystery religion. That’s the problem with cultists. They always lose their capacity for humor. Of course I believe in commitment to the work. And yes, Sylvia, there can be fun in the hoax. In gamesmanship. I’m no stranger to the allure. The stunts we used to dream up back at the Tronador. I could go on all day. But there is a difference between walking the dog and being on the wrong end of the leash. Between using the mystery and having it use you.”
Sylvia doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.
“Is there any chance,” she asks, “you could tell me where I could find Mr. Propp himself?”
He erupts with laughter. His knee hits the coffee table and tea sloshes out of his cup. Then just as quickly he brings himself under control, seemingly embarrassed by the outburst. He closes his eyes and works his mouth to calm himself, then he says, “I don’t know what has gotten into me today. I’ve been terribly rude to a lovely guest. My mother, she would spin in her grave if she could see.”
Sylvia sits silently and waits for the explanation and when Quevedo realizes that she’s not going to speak, he goes through another small session of throat clearing, then says, “The truth is, Sylvia, there is no chance I could possibly direct you to Terrence Propp.”
“Is he dead?” she asks.
“I have no idea.”
There’s another round of silence until she says, “Maybe I should go,” and this prompts the old man to stand up with a little difficulty.
“Please, I realize this is frustrating, but it’s simply because you’re not familiar with the history. I truly do not know whether Terrence Propp is among the living or the dead. And believe me, no matter what the zealots say to you, they don’t know either. Don’t be taken in, Sylvia.”
He tilts forward a bit, reaches around to his back pants pocket, pulls out a linen handkerchief and begins to mop up the spilt tea.
“Maybe you could give me the name of one of those people,” Sylvia says. “Someone who could tell me more about Mr. Propp.”
All Mr. Quevedo’s attention seems to be taken up with drying the table.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Sylvia?” He sounds distracted, almost cranky. She wants to say Hey, Mister, you’re the one who dragged me into this store and started the conversation.
“Perhaps,” he says, “you should sleep on it. You could call me tomorrow.”
She says, “You could be with Mr. Derry tomorrow.”
“I’m not going anywhere, my dear. I’m here for the duration.”
“How about that name, Mr. Quevedo?”
He stands there, blank faced, seeming to stare at her with those gauzy, creamy eyes. Then he does a little, stiff march to the front door and opens it, indicating that she should go. She follows him to the door, stops in the entryway and says, “Well, anyway, thank you for the tea.”
He nods, clicks his heels together and says, “Rory Gaston. You can find him at Der Geheime Garten. A little café just a few blocks from here. Der Garten, to the regulars.”
Then he leans forward and plants a dry, withered-feeling kiss on her right cheek, takes her elbow and ushers her out onto the sidewalk. Sylvia turns to thank him, but he’s already closed the door.
10
Sylvia looks up and down Waldstein, then walks back down to Jack Derry’s and stares in the window. She doesn’t know what she expects to see. It’s still deserted and there’s still no trace that yesterday she stood at the plywood counter, surrounded by hundreds of dusty piles of hocked and traded camera equipment, and talked with Mr. Derry and walked back out again with her dreamed-about Aquinas. There’s no sign that the store was ever anything but deserted. That it didn’t fall to vacancy ten years ago rather than last night.
She glances to her left and sees a greasy-looking guy in army fatigues leaning against the stop sign and staring at her, making noises with his mouth that she can’t hear. As soon as their eyes meet, he starts making these horrible, exaggerated kissing sounds and he jams his hands into his coat pockets and goes into a bizarre Elvis impersonation, swinging his hips in a slow circle as if trying to keep a Hula Hoop aloft.
She turns away from Jack Derry’s and starts to head for Voegelin Avenue. A pack of five or six Zone kids run past her in full bohemian colore — leather trench coats, bandanna’d skulls, earrings that hang to the neck. They’re all carrying something in their arms and Sylvia can’t see what it is until one of them trips and sprawls into the middle of the road and gets to his knees, his chest covered with running, yellow yolk, and he starts yelling, “My fucking eggs.” He gets up, starts to wipe at his chest with his hands, gives up the effort as futile and continues on after his friends.