"I don't look like a dork, do I?" Warren asked.
Max sighed: "For the hundredth time, Warren, you look great!"
The boy had put on a suit and tie, the same one he'd been wearing at Chloe's funeral since it was the only one he owned, and he looked stiff and uncomfortable in it. Formal wear was definitely not his thing, but they just couldn't show up at Monsieur Lacroix's house dressed like their normal selves. Not after Victoria.
The day had not started well for Max. While her hospital stay had provided her with a welcome break from what had become a daily (or rather nightly) serving of horrible nightmares, her return to Blackwell meant the return of said nightmares in full force. So she had woken up in the middle of the night, panting and crying, after being forced to relive Chloe's murder in the bathroom in all of its details, and had to take one of the "magic pills" provided by her doctor to get back to sleep. But the pill did such a number on her frail body that she woke up more tired than the evening before, on top of being so late she barely had time to grab a cup of coffee before class.
And of course, at Photography Class, Victoria just couldn't shut up about what a classy guy their teacher was, and how much fun she and Hayden and Taylor had learning to operate his ancient equipment and tasting expensive wines and cheeses with funny names. Then Monsieur Lacroix showed up and hanged on the walls the four black-and-white portraits they had produced, one of each and a group shot, and of course it was the most gorgeous thing Max had ever seen: while Hayden and Taylor had dressed their best for the occasion, Victoria had somehow managed to find a real Victorian dress with a corset and white lace ruffles along the neckline and the wrists, and she looked hella stunning, like a real 19th century rich woman. Max felt her cheeks and ears turn red hot with jealousy when she saw the portrait. Victoria was so much taller than her, more beautiful, more… womanly, more everything! And yet behind this jealousy she felt something else… cause she couldn't deny it, she found the blonde pretty hot. No, no, no, Max! What the hell? You've barely turned from sworn enemies to semi-friendly rivals in the span of a few days, don't make this complicated by crushing on her!
Anyway, after seeing that, she knew she had to be the next to have her portrait up there, so she booked her shoot with Kate for the very evening. At first Kate was anxious about being just the two of them, two petite girls alone in his house. What if he didn't try anything funny with Victoria or Taylor because Hayden was there? So Max asked if they could bring a friend from outside their Photography group, to which the teacher agreed, and that's why Warren was tagging along. Kate had chosen one of her Sunday outfits, a white knee-length skirt with a white silk bow-tie neck blouse. Max was wearing a black dress, the same one she'd worn at Chloe's funeral. What? Just like Warren, she owned precisely one formal attire, and she had no time nor budget (nor energy) to go shopping for a more elaborate dress. What difference would it make anyway? Whatever she wore, her portrait would look insignificant next to Victoria's. Though she wished she'd at least picked a coat, the sun was setting and it was getting pretty cold.
After a short drive in Warren's car (he had insisted, and Kate didn't feel safe traveling in the Bane), they were now standing in front of their teacher's house. It was a 19th century two-story red brick house with a flight of stairs leading to the white front porch, looking like the kind of upper-class housing one would find in San Francisco. Most of Arcadia Bay buildings were fairly recent wood constructions, but there were still a handful of those kinds of houses in the old town center, dating back to the founding of the town by a Christian mission on what was then Native territory. Max knocked at the door and Monsieur Lacroix opened almost immediately.
"Ah, right on time, kids! Mademoiselle Marsh, Mademoiselle Caulfield, and Monsieur…?"
"Graham," Warren said, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."
"My pleasure! Please come in!"
As soon as they got inside, Max shivered. Puzzled, she looked at her two friends to see if it was in her head, but no, they shivered too. The inside was warmer than the outside, yet it felt oddly cold. The place was spacious but the very dim lighting made it seem smaller than it actually was.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Monsieur Lacroix said. "I hope you do not mind the scarce lighting, I find it more relaxing myself. The living room is this way."
Their feet resonated loudly on the dark, waxed parquet flooring as they walked to the living room. Upon entering it, the three teenagers froze in awe. The thick curtains were closed, but in spite of the darkness, this place was beautiful! The furniture was made of exquisitely carved exotic wood, with the couch and armchairs upholstered with English flowery patterns. The soft light came from a gorgeous, finely chiseled golden chandelier, and the walls were decorated with daguerreotypes of various people, including Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway, Muhammad Ali, Bruce Lee, James Dean, David Bowie and others Max didn't recognize.
"Who's the one with the white beard?" Max asked.
"I'd say, Victor Hugo?" Kate replied while looking questioningly at her teacher.
"That is right," he said, "good job, Mademoiselle Marsh!"
"I take it these are not yours, Sir," Warren said cheekily.
The man laughed at that. "Of course not, that would make me pretty old, would not it? All these portraits are the works of my mentor, and his mentor, and his mentor before him… this one you see here is a portrait of Louis Daguerre himself, taken by his protégé Pierre-Marie de Beaufort in 1844. After the death of Monsieur Daguerre in 1851, Monsieur de Beaufort continued working as a photographer and sought a protégé himself, who later became the master and taught his own protégé, and so on until… well, me. You could say I come from a long line of daguerreotype traditionalists. The portraits on this wall here are my own work."
The three of them turned to look at the direction he was pointing to discover portraits of various people Max imagined were French celebrities, because among the few she recognized were Oscar-winning actors Jean Dujardin and Marion Cotillard. But there were also some American ones, including Taylor Swift and Marilyn Manson.
"It is still early," Monsieur Lacroix said, "shall we have a cup of tea or coffee before we start our session?"
Kate asked for a tea, and Max and Warren went for coffee. Their host then went to the kitchen, leaving the trio alone to gaze at the portraits to their heart's content. Max was lost in contemplation when a blood-freezing high-pitched squeal brought her back to reality. She turned around, startled, to see Kate standing on an armchair, gasping, her face pale, her eyes bulging with terror.
"Kate!" she cried out, feeling her own heart beat like crazy. "What's going on?"
"I saw a rat!" the blonde yelled. "Oh my God it was here, like five feet away, on the floor! It was big and black and ugly and…"
"Okay, calm down!" Max said, grabbing her hands to comfort her, while Warren went in the direction she pointed to check on the rat. "It's okay, we're gonna check that out, alright? It's not gonna hurt you."
"Don't see anything," Warren said.
"Is there a problem?" Monsieur Lacroix asked as he came back from the kitchen and put down on the coffee table a tray with their drinks.
"Kate said she saw a rat," Max explained, seeing her friend was still hyperventilating and in no condition to explain herself.
"Oh, I see," he simply said as he sat down on one of the armchairs, looking unmoved by the event. "That is quite likely, unfortunately. This house is pretty old and I have been warned when I bought it that there could be rats in the cellar. I laid traps, but these sneaky little rascals are pretty good at avoiding them. Sometimes one of them gets bold and makes its way upstairs. I am really sorry about that. If it makes you feel better, they are pretty shy and tend to run away as soon as they are spotted. No-one has ever been attacked."
It took Kate a moment to calm down and settle herself on the couch, sitting cross-legged so her feet wouldn't touch the floor. Just in case. Max sat by her side, holding her still shaking hand. Warren took the other armchair. Monsieur Lacroix lit a thin cigarette for himself and offered some to his guests, who politely refused.
"So, Mademoiselle Marsh, Monsieur Graham," the teacher asked, "what is your craft?"
"Our craft?" Warren asked, confused.
"Yes, your… thing, as you may say. I already know Mademoiselle Caulfield's reputation as the Blackwell queen of Polaroid selfies, a well-earned reputation indeed… don't blush, Mademoiselle Caulfield," he added with a smile upon seeing the brunette's reaction, "I am simply stating the obvious, you are extremely talented and it makes no doubt you have a bright future as a photographer ahead of you. However, I understood Mademoiselle Marsh has other artistic ambitions?"
"Yes, Monsieur," Kate said, a bit uncomfortable at being the center of attention but happy to turn her mind away from thoughts of evil rodents lurking in the shadows. "I took this photography class because I'm curious about all forms of art, but I'm more into drawing and painting."
"Any professional aspirations?"
"Oh, yes, but…" Kate blushed and looked down. "It's a bit silly," she mumbled. "I, uh… I want to write and illustrate children's books."
"Now, why would I think this is silly?" the teacher asked, confused.
"Well, it's just… children's stuff, you know. Not real art."
Monsieur Lacroix smiled warmly and pointed to one of the portraits on the wall: "I don't think my good friend James Barrie would agree with that. There is a regrettable trend among the… Beaux-Arts crowds, so to say, to look down on the popular arts. Snobbish gatekeepers decked in overpriced outfits, a glass of champagne in their hands, pretend that there cannot be real art outside of their pristine galleries."
Max had to refrain from laughing at what she interpreted as a jab at his friends, the Chases, who fit the description perfectly.
"Yet," the teacher continued, "what will touch the hearts of an entire generation? A boring, self-absorbed novel praised by the academic elite but that will be read by exactly no-one outside of these circles? An experimental film that is all about obscure imagery and convoluted interpretations that will draw ten people at best in theatres? Or the works that are scorned as 'pop culture'? I will give you an example, have you heard of a movie called 3 Women?"
The three teenagers shook their heads.
"It is a 1977 avant-garde film, a complicated piece that received critical acclaim for its non-linear narrative, surreal imagery and psychological explorations. A good film indeed, but that same year there came a little film from an obscure director that was panned by critics for being a silly fantasy meant for children. A film called Star Wars. Now, between the two movies, which one managed to capture the hearts of an entire generation and become a timeless classic, and which one is today all but forgotten?"
Kate smiled at these words. "I think I see what you mean," she said shyly. "I shouldn't be ashamed of doing art that is not meant for galleries, because it is still art?"
"I only mean that if you create a great book, you can impact an entire generation of children who will grow up with fond memories of your work and pass it to their own children. You can achieve immortality, while the artist who devoted all his life to gaining academic praise may only be remembered after their death… as a footnote on a university thesis. Never let anyone tell you what real art is. Real art is art that touches you, as an artist, not art that is produced to gain approval from your teachers or parents or whoever else. Sorry, I am getting preachy here, but to conclude, yours is a noble endeavor and I will be happy to see what you write and draw, if you want an opinion."
"Thank you," Kate said, blushing even more.
"Now, Monsieur Graham, how about you?"
"Well, I'm not an artist, so that's settled."
"Oh, really?"
"Warren is a science nerd," Max said with a smirk.
"A scientist! But that is admirable! You know, art and science are like brothers: the artist dreams what could be, the scientist makes it possible. What is your favorite discipline?"
"I like all fields of science, really, but if I had to choose I'd say my top two are IT and chemistry."
"Even better! As photographers, we would not exist without the discoveries of chemistry. The daguerreotype is actually a fascinating chemical experiment, as you will see."
"Can I ask you a question, Sir?" Warren asked.
"Of course."
"I was wondering… what pushes a successful artist to take a teaching position? Obviously it's not the salary, I guess you make much more as a photographer than a teacher…"
Monsieur Lacroix snorted. "That could not be more true! Obviously it is not the salary, I do not really need the extra money…"
He paused, musing, then lit a new cigarette and continued: "You see, I told Mademoiselle Marsh about immortality, about how art can make you immortal. Art itself is immortal, but not eternal. It can still die of old age if not frequently infused with fresh young blood."
"Like a vampire?" Warren asked cheekily.
There was a moment of uneasy silence, as if that joke had caught the teacher off-guard. He gazed at the young man awkwardly, then slowly, he forced himself to relax and smile.
"Like a vampire, yes, you could say that. So I believe that if he truly loves his art, every successful artist should devote at least a year of his time to teaching, in order to prepare the young blood that will keep the art alive. Like I said, I come from a line of photographers with a tradition for taking disciples who could then pass the knowledge along to the next generation. So far, I have been too focused on my work to consider taking a protégé, but it is now time to seriously think about it while I am still young… or at least, not that old. And what better place to start looking but a photography class in a prestigious academy? Now, I see we have all finished our drinks, shall we get to work?"
The shooting chamber was a small room on the second floor, containing a single armchair in front of a purple curtain that covered a whole wall. Facing the chair was a bulky wooden box mounted on a tripod, and next to that box was a table holding thinner wooden boxes, rectangular silver plates, and a set of other unknown tools and accessories. There was a lens sticking out of the big box, and Max felt a wave of nerdy excitement when she saw it. So that's the daguerreotype! I can't wait to get my hands on it! There was another door in this room, leading to a cabinet with no windows that was lit only by a red safety light. The darkroom, of course. Monsieur Lacroix explained to his guests the operation of this machine, from the polishing and swabbing of the silver plates to their sensitization, exposure and development.
"And finally," he concluded his exposé, "after development the image is fixed by arresting the light sensitivity of the plate. And how could we do that, Monsieur Graham?"
Warren, delighted to work on a chemistry problem, replied: "Well… sodium thiosulfate is known to dissolve silver halides when used in its aqueous state, so I guess it could be used to desensitize the plates."
Monsieur Lacroix smiled. "Excellent! This is indeed the chemical we use. Louis Daguerre first used a hot bath of common salt, but then thiosulfate was found to yield better results. And as a finishing touch, it is customary to 'glide' the plate, that is to treat it with a gold chloride solution to reinforce the image and give it a warmer tone. Now, what I suggest is that one of the ladies should be our first model, while I use the other one and Monsieur Graham as my assistants, and then we all take part in the development process before switching roles? Oh, and before we begin, an important safety notice: as I said, mercury fumes are used in the development process, and it goes without saying, these are very dangerous. I have gas masks in the darkroom, make sure to put these on before we proceed with the development! Now, who should be our first model?"
Kate turned to Max, an anxious, almost pleading look in her eyes. I'm hella excited to work on the machine, Max thought, but Kate doesn't look okay with being the first model. I guess if I'd been through what she has endured, I wouldn't be in a hurry to face a camera again...
"Alright, I'll go," she said, much to her blond friend's relief.
"Great," the teacher said, "take a seat then. Oh, about that, uh… punk necklace, you may want to take it off?"
"No," said Max, grabbing the bullet necklace with her hand in a defensive reflex. "If you don't mind, I'd rather keep it. Sentimental value."
The teacher smiled warmly and asked: "Your first boyfriend?"
"No," Max said, looking down, struggling to swallow back the lump that was forming in her throat. "Someone… much more important."
"I respect that. Keep it."
After a couple hours of demanding but fascinating labor, they had produced four gorgeous pictures, one portrait of each plus a group shot on which Kate was sitting on the chair with Max and Warren standing behind her. They spent some time admiring their work, blushing under their teacher's congratulations, and then went back downstairs for a dinner party consisting of different wines and bites of cheese, French delis and canapés. The three students froze, uneasy, when they were served wine.
"You know we're underage, right?" Max asked.
"You mean it is still 21 in America?" Monsieur Lacroix asked, surprised. "I cannot believe it. I mean, come on! You guys are old enough to buy a gun and join the military, but not to have a sip of wine? Ridiculous!"
Much to their surprise, Kate was the first to try a sip.
"What?" she asked with a cheeky smile upon seeing her friends' stunned looks. "I drink wine at church already. And it's really excellent!"
Okay, Max thought. If Kate can do it, I can do it too! So she grabbed her glass, and took a sip. Yuck! Why do classy people drink this? It's so bitter!
"It's, uh… yeah, it's very good!" she lied, but to her great shame, her teacher's smirk indicated he didn't buy it.
Warren asked for water or soda instead, being the designated driver. Monsieur Lacroix told him he respected that, then joked about what a lucky guy he was, driving two beautiful tipsy girls home, but be a gentleman and don't take advantage of them, boy! Right after that joke, he apologized profusely to Kate for being insensitive, he forgot about it, but the Christian girl insisted it was nothing. They spent hours caught in food, drinks and lively conversations, and it was very late when they said goodbye and were back in Warren's car, on the way to Blackwell. Max was so excited she just couldn't shut up.
"This was so awesome! I thought I was retro with my camera, but this daguerreotype machine, it's a whole new level! Having to do everything yourself to see the picture come to life in your hands, it's… wowzer! Think I'll become a daguerreotype specialist too!"
"Yeah, I loved how you have to combine all those chemicals to create a picture," Warren added. "And I get all the fuss about this Lacroix now, he's a great guy! Bit of a show-off, but real nice."
"You bet he is! I think I have a crush. Not a romantic one, but like a nerd crush. Like I love photography, and I'm suddenly facing the final boss of photography. What do you think, Kate? You're pretty silent."
Kate shrugged and stared at the dark road ahead, sullen.
"I don't think I like him," she said.
"What?" Max asked, surprised. "But why? After all those nice things he said to you? Is it because of the rat, or the bad joke?"
"It's not about the bad joke. It hurt, but it's not like it was meant to… after all, I can't expect people to always keep in mind what I've been through, so accidents like that are bound to happen. Other than that was very nice and sweet, sure. And for the rat, well yeah it's not easy to feel safe knowing there are things like that that could be crawling between your feet, but it's not about that either. It's… I don't know, it's like he's not… like there's something… okay, didn't you guys notice it's cold in his house? But, like, not really cold, but you still shiver?"
"Well yeah," Warren said. "Now that you mention it, I know it was rather warm inside, but I still had the goosebumps."
"Me too," Max said. "Dunno why…"
"I don't know either," Kate continued. "And it's very dark, when we arrived the sun was setting but it was still daytime, isn't it a little early to draw the curtains? And his furniture…"
"What about his furniture?" Max asked. "I thought it was beautiful, and classy."
"It was, yes, but that's the problem. It looked more like a museum or a set from Downton Abbey than an actual house. His house looked just too nice and neat, like it wasn't really lived in."
Max sat back, thoughtful, her enthusiasm somewhat tainted by her friend's wariness. "I dunno," she said. "Everything you're saying, it's not like, red flags, you know? Just…"
"Yes I know," Kate said, a little harshly. "Just impressions, but still, I feel it in my guts, it's hard to describe… oh, and one more thing: is it just me, or did he really not eat anything during dinner?"
"Oh, come on!" Warren said. "We all saw him drink coffee, and then wine…"
"Yes, he drank alright, but I don't recall every seeing him put any food in his mouth."
"So what, you think he tried to drug us with the food or something? Not very effective since we're on our way back and still doing okay."
"I never thought he'd try anything like that, that's why I didn't hesitate to taste the wine and food. After all, Victoria was there last night, and everything went fine, so there was no reason… But still, it felt like something was wrong…"
"Kate," Max said in a soothing voice, "I'm sure you're imagining things. He was so kind and warm to us all, and remember how supportive he was of your career projects?"
Kate sunk further in her seat and said somberly: "Yeah, well, Jefferson was very kind and warm to us all, at first. Call me crazy, but I'm telling you, there's something not right, I don't know what it is, but there's definitely more than meets the eye with Monsieur Lacroix."
"I'd never call you crazy, Kate," Max said, feeling a little hurt by her friend's reaction. She wanted to add something, but she didn't know what to say. She had a very good point. Jefferson was a renowned photographer, and the kindest person Max had ever met. She admired him without any reserves, she eventually came to see him as a sort of artistic father figure. She suspected Victoria had a crush on him. Never did she think he could hurt a fly. And then the ugly truth was revealed. So if Kate suspected something, then… could it happen again?
The brunette's enthusiasm had completely evaporated by now. Silent and gloomy, she put her forehead against the window and watched the night outside as they were nearing the Academy. Sébastien Lacroix, she thought. What is it you're hiding from us? What is your… thing?