Klara and the Sun

The Mother steered the car off the street into a small yard enclosed by wire mesh. There was an anti-parking sign fixed to a fence, but she stopped the car facing it beside the only other car present. When we got out, the ground was hard and cracked in many places. Josie began her cautious walk beside the Father towards a brick building overlooking the yard, and perhaps because of the uneven ground, the Father took her arm. The Mother, standing at the car, watched this and didn’t move for a moment. Then to my surprise, she came up to me and took my own arm, and we began to walk together, as though in imitation of the Father and Josie.

There were no other adjoining buildings to either side, and I designated it a building rather than a house because the brickwork was unpainted and dark fire escapes rose up in zigzags. There were five stories ending at a flat rooftop, and I had the impression the reason there were no neighbor buildings was because something unfortunate had happened, and they’d had to be cleared away by the overhaul men. As I stepped over the cracks, the Mother leaned closer towards me.

‘Klara,’ she said quietly. ‘Remember. Mr Capaldi will want to ask you some questions. In fact, he may have quite a few. You just answer them. Okay, honey?’

It was the first time she’d called me ‘honey’. I replied, ‘Yes, of course,’ and then the brick building was there before us, and I saw that each window had within it a graph-paper pattern.

There was a door at ground level beside two trash cans, and when Josie and the Father reached it, they turned and waited, as though it was up to the Mother to lead us in. Seeing this, she let go of me and went up to the door by herself. She stood there quite still for a moment, then pressed the door button.

‘Henry,’ she said into the wall speaker. ‘We’re here.’

—

The interior of Mr Capaldi’s house was nothing like its outside. In his Main Room the floors were almost the same shade of white as his huge walls. Powerful spotlights fixed to the ceiling shone down on us, making it hard to look up without being dazzled. There was very little furniture for such a large space: one large black sofa, and in front of it, a low table on which Mr Capaldi had laid out two cameras and their lenses. The low table, like the Glass Display Trolley in our store, had wheels to allow it to move smoothly across the floor.

‘Henry, we don’t want Josie getting tired,’ the Mother was saying. ‘Maybe we can get started?’

‘Of course.’ Mr Capaldi waved towards the far corner, where two charts were fixed side by side to the wall. I could see, on each chart, many ruled lines criss-crossing at various angles. A light metal chair had been left in front of the charts, and also a tripod-stand lamp. Just now the tripod-stand lamp wasn’t switched on, and the far corner looked dark and lonely. Josie and the Mother gazed towards it apprehensively, then Mr Capaldi, perhaps noticing, touched something on the low table and the tripod-stand lamp came to life, brightly illuminating the entire corner, but creating new shadows.

‘This will be totally relaxed,’ Mr Capaldi said. He had a balding head, and a beard that almost hid his mouth. I estimated fifty-two years old. His face was constantly on the brink of smiling. ‘Nothing strenuous. So if Josie’s ready, let’s maybe get started. Josie, if you’d care to come this way?’

‘Henry, wait,’ the Mother said, her voice echoing in the space. ‘I was hoping to see the portrait first. What you’ve done so far.’

‘Of course,’ Mr Capaldi said. ‘Though you must understand, it’s still work in progress. And it’s not always easy for a layperson to understand the way these things slowly take shape.’

‘I’d like to take a look all the same.’

‘I’ll take you up. In fact, Chrissie, you know you don’t need my permission. You’re the boss here.’

‘It’s kind of scary,’ Josie said, ‘but I’d like to take a peek too.’

‘Uh uh, honey. I promised Mr Capaldi you wouldn’t see anything yet.’

‘I tend to agree,’ Mr Capaldi said. ‘If you don’t mind, Josie. In my experience, if the subject sees a portrait too early, things get messy. I need you to remain totally unselfconscious.’

‘Unselfconscious about what exactly?’ the Father asked, his voice loud and echoing. He’d kept on his raincoat, even though Mr Capaldi had twice invited him to hang it on one of the pegs inside the entrance. He had now drifted towards the charts and was studying them with a frown.

‘What I mean, Paul, is that if the subject, in this case Josie, becomes too self-conscious, she may start posing unnaturally. That’s all I was meaning.’

The Father kept staring at the wall charts. Then he shook his head in the same way he had in the car.

‘Henry?’ the Mother said. ‘May I go now to your studio? See what you’ve been doing?’

‘Of course. Follow me.’