Page 54 of Paparazzi

We’re stationed behind a six-foot hedge at the park in front of Lilly and Damian’s house. When we have a nice view of their stairs and entrance, I position the camera and pull out my phone to send a message to my friends.

“So what? What are we going to do?” Iris asks, the curiosity obviously consuming her.

“Wait, they should be in sight soon.”

As if summoned by Iris’s question, Damian and Lilly walk out the door. They look around to make sure there aren’t too many people around but, thankfully, at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, there’s not much going on in a residential, private street in this part of Manhattan. The show begins: they pretend to shout at each other, to fight furiously like two crazy people in the middle of the street. They look like mimes gesticulating, pointing an accusing finger at the other, but not making a sound. As I begin to shoot, I feel Iris beside me, struggling to hold back a laugh. The grand finale comes when Lilly pushes Damian on the chest, he staggers slightly back, then she goes back inside, banging the door behind her, or at least pretending to. Meanwhile, my friend sits on the steps, elbows on his knees and hands digging into his long dark hair. When the scene ends, he gets up, gives us the thumbs up, then goes back inside the building laughing like a madman.

Iris turns to me. “You are completely insane. Can you imagine if anyone had seen them shouting like two idiots without making a sound? They’d take them for two fools! Or call the police!”

I laugh and put the camera away. “They would’ve called the police if they’d really been fighting furiously in the middle of the street. Damian’s voice isn’t meek and mild...and trust me, Lilly can screech like an eagle. I’ve only heard her a couple of times, but I had to run before my eardrums pierced.”

Iris smiles at my story then lowers her gaze, shyly. “Thank you,” she whispers.

I don’t know what to say. I’d do anything for her, she doesn’t have to thank me. But I suspect that if I say that, she’d think I’m a fool, so I stretch my hand out until I grab hers and squeeze it.

“Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

Iris looks at me with her wide eyes, and I have to bite my tongue to resist the temptation to lean in and kiss her right here, in the middle of the street. “Who?”

“Damian and Lilly. Do you really think they did that whole scene without wanting to see the pictures? Those two are so picky that, if they didn’t come out well, they’d make us stand in the middle of these bushes until we shoot something decent,” I explain, and I hear her giggling as I drag her across the street and up the stairs leading to the apartment.

I can sense her amusement but she hesitates as we reach their door and I squeeze her hand. I know she’s nervous, and, in a way, so am I.

When Lilly opens the door, she wraps Iris in a hug that leaves her almost disoriented. I see her wide her eyes, caught off guard, while Damian laughs at his girlfriend’s affectionate gesture.

“So? How did they come out?” Lilly asks when she finally frees Iris from her grip.

“I don’t know. We haven’t seen them yet,” Iris admits in a somewhat uncertain voice.

“We’re here to look at them together,” I explain as the hosts guide us to the sofa.

Iris sits down and pulls out her camera. While Damian hands a beer to each of us, I watch Iris laugh at Lilly’s words, the light-heartedness on her face. It’s a moment that catches me off guard. I could spend my whole life like this, with my best friend laughing and joking along with his girlfriend and the girl I love. The realization comes so sharp, so sudden, that I can’t help but feel almost short of breath with happiness, and at the same time, fear. The only time I loved a woman, I gave her everything and ended up in prison, and the feeling that memory elicits scares me and at the same time excites me. I realize I don’t have the slightest control over my emotions, and I feel lost.

“What are you doing? What are you waiting for?’ Lilly’s voice seems to come from afar as my mind is tormented by thoughts overlapping with each other. How the hell am I going to tell Iris about my past without ruining everything? How can I continue keeping her in the dark about a part of my life that has profoundly changed me? The fear that all this may end as soon as my past comes knocking at my door tightens my stomach in a cold vice. I feel like I might faint.

Sitting on the subway, I smile like an idiot when I think back to last night. The hours I spent laughing and joking with Thomas, Damian, and Lilly, then him taking me home and wishing me goodnight with a sweet kiss at my door. A kiss that became two, then three, and finally a night between the sheets—the memory makes me blush.

I’ve always wondered what rock stars were really like. I’ve made a thousand guesses about their personalities over the years, but I never expected Thomas to be such a sweet, at times insecure, generous person who’s usually utterly oblivious to how the female universe works.

The lady next to me chuckles as she steals glances at me. I must really be smiling like crazy if I managed to cheer her up. When I arrive at my stop and get off, I wave my hand, and she reciprocates good naturedly. I give some spare change to the homeless man huddled with his dog just outside the entrance to the subway, and walk at a quick pace toward the café where I usually meet Ron.

For the first time in my life, I’m meeting him without the weight of guilt on my conscience, without feeling like I’m losing part of my soul by selling the photos. I called Agata, the editor of a competing newspaper—the other shark in this tank—who has no qualms about running gossip stories. There was a period, between 1990 and 2000, when the paparazzo profession was at its most profitable. Some of those celebrity photographers became famous for their shots and their reckless behavior. The newspapers went out of their way to go after photos, until it got to a point where people were put in life-threatening situations. Celebrities were forced to flee from photographers at top-speeds, and at all hours of the day or night, endangering ordinary people who happened to be in their way.

Photographers and newspaper editors came together and honored their consciences, took a step back, and put a limit on what was allowed. Since then, the decline of the paparazzo profession and its earnings has been slow but steady. Everyone in the media was at that meeting, but Ron and Agata were clearly elsewhere. Although they stick to this non-harassment agreement by buying most of their photos from the agencies, they still pay generously under the counter for great shots. To raise your fee, you just have to involve both of them, and the bid rises with each phone call. Thanks to editors like them, I sometimes manage to get prices that compete with the golden years of our profession.

For what I’m going to sell to Ron, Agata has offered me seven thousand dollars. I’ve never received such a large proposal. With him, I can play the game of buy low sell high. Worst case scenario, I can go back to that despicable woman, though I was almost tempted to raise the price on her to avoid coming here. I also considered accepting her money and not contacting Ron so I didn’t have to see his face. But then I thought back to the satisfaction I’d feel getting the money for a job that’s nothing more than a setup. It won’t hurt Damian, Lilly, or the Jailbirds’ career—they’re just fake photos.

I enter the café, and the aroma immediately makes my mouth water. I notice Ron at a table in the corner waving at me, but I take my time, letting him sit on pins and needles. I approach the counter where a new girl smiles and asks me what I want. I order a coffee and a piece of cake, enjoying the luxury of eating more, since I’ll be leaving here decidedly richer than when I entered.

“Take your time. It’s not like anyone has work to do,” Ron says as I sit down, the irritation in his voice making me sneer, satisfied.

“I’m working. Aren’t you?”

“Don’t come in here and play Miss Know-it-All with me. Let me see what you have,” he demands, his tone implying this had better be good. I move slowly on purpose, pulling out my old, run-down iPad with the photos, and slide it in front of his eyes.

His eyes immediately light up like a child at Christmas time, but he quickly recomposes his poker face to hide his true reaction. He’s been doing this for so long he probably can’t even recognize his own emotions in front of the mirror anymore.

“I’ll give you five thousand for those.”

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