She decided to change the subject. “I wanted to ask you: Would you mind if I developed the film cartridges I found? They’ve been exposed, but not developed.”
He gave her a blank look.
“In other words,” she tried again, “there might be photos that are salvageable.”
“After all this time?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Old film is resilient; they found some from Shackleton’s expedition to the Antarctic in a block of ice, and developed them one hundred years later.”
“Do whatever you want. What do I care?” He went back to reading his newspaper.
“You’re not curious? There could be photos of your family.”
“Some things are better left as they are.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Take them if you want, but I don’t want to see them.”
“So it’s okay with you if I have them developed?”
He shrugged. “Build a fire with them, for all I care.”
The question was where and how to develop them. What Cady wouldn’t give for access to her old darkroom. France was more old-fashioned than the United States, and Avignon was a fairly large city, so there might still be film-developing services available. But could she trust such precious film to a commercial lab? She longed to do it herself. Just the thought of the chemical smells made her nostalgic for long afternoons spent in darkness, listening to audiobooks as she dipped sheets of specially treated paper into their chemical baths, one after another, watching an image appear where once there was nothing.
Those solitary afternoons had been a salve to her soul: first as a teenager, when she was just learning, and later as an adult, when photography became her living.
“When are you going shopping?” Fabrice asked.
“This may come as a surprise to you, Fabrice, but half the day doesn’t have to be taken up by shopping. A person could buy enough for several days and not go to the store every day.”
He looked at her.
She smiled. “But I had planned to go this morning.”
“I want fish for dinner,” he said, handing her a list.
“Fish it is. Oh, hey, guess who I ran into in town yesterday?”
“I give up.”
“Johnny.”
“Johnny Clement?”
“He’s a Clement? The teenager who was here, throwing rocks?”
“The town’s full of Clements.”
“So I’m learning. Anyway, he’s coming over to work after school.”
“Work where?”
“Here. He’s going to clean up the mess he made.”
Fabrice snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“He’s clearly going down a bad path,” she said to Fabrice. “You need to reach out to him.”
“Why me? He vandalized my place.”
“I know that. But I have a little experience with this sort of thing. I was a bad kid myself. As were you, unless I miss my guess.”
