The Burnt Orange Heresy

A trifle self-consciously, he followed my simple directions. After focusing the camera on him, and setting it for "dark," I asked him to lower his arms slightly to make certain his face and beard would be in the picture. The flag of the Miami Herald and Classified could both be read through the viewfinder. I moved forward and touched his hand.

"Now," I admonished, "please don't move or look up at me. I'll take the photo from back there."

This was the last moment to take my premeditated chance, and one chance was all I could expect to get. I forced a loud cough to cover the slight click of my Dunhill, and ignited the paper at the bottom. A moment later, six feet back, I was squinting through the viewfinder. The timing was perfect. The bounce flash bulb worked, and it was only a split second after I snapped the shutter when the flames burst through the paper on his side and he dropped it with an astonished yelp. Berenice, who had been watching with bulging eyes and with her right hand clamped over her mouth, moved forward squealing, and began to stamp on the burning paper. I helped her, and it only took us moments to crush out the flames on the terrazzo floor.

I had expected an angry reaction from Debierue, but he was merely puzzled. "Why," he asked mildly, "did you light the paper?' I don't understand." He looked about bewilderedly as the charred bits of newsprint, caught by the slight breeze coming through the jalousied door, fluttered over his clean floor.

I grinned and held up a forefinger. "Wait. Give me ten seconds, and then you'll see the picture."

I was all thumbs with excitement, but I took my time, being careful as I jerked out the strip of prepared paper that started the developing process and, instead of guessing, I watched the sweep-second hand on my watch, allowing exactly twelve seconds for the developer to work.

As curious as a child, the old artist was brushing my shoulder with his as I opened the back of the camera to remove the print. When I turned the photo face up on the bar, his jarring burst of jubilant laughter startled me.

"Don't touch it!" I said sharply, sliding the print out of the reach of his clutching fingers. "I've got to coat it first." I straightened the print on the edge of the counter and then gave it eight precise sweeps with the gooey print coater. It was the best photo, absolutely the finest, that I had ever taken.

Perfectly centered, the old man wore his wise, beautiful, infectious smile. He appeared to be reading the want ads in the Herald as if he didn't have a care in the world. His face was purely serene, and the deeply etched lines in his face were sharp, clear-cut, and as black as India ink. He had been completely unaware of the blazing newspaper when I snapped the picture, but no one who saw the photo would ever guess that. The entire lower half of the paper blazed furiously away. No professional model could have posed knowingly with a flaming newspaper without a slight twinge of anxiety showing in his face. But the old man, with his skinny legs exposed beneath the flames, with his bland innocent face and the wonderful smile glowing through his downy white beard, appeared as relaxed as a man who had spent a restful night in a Turkish bath.

Debierue watched me coat the print, but he kept reaching for it impatiently. I guarded it with my arm so it could dry.

"Let me see," he said childishly.

"If you touch it now," I explained patiently, "it'll pick up your fingerprints and be ruined."

"Very well, M. Figueras," he said good-naturedly. "I want this photo. It's the most formidable surrealite I've ever seen!"

His exuberance was as great as my own. "You'll have it, all right." I said happily. "In fact, when I get back to New York, I'll send you fifty copies of the picture if you want them, and a copy to every friend on your mailing list."

When Debierue granted his permission for me to keep and publish the photograph, I hurried out to the car and got one of our magazine's standard release forms out of the glove compartment. The mimeographed form (large circulation magazines have them printed) is a simple agreement between subject and magazine to make publication legal, to protect one party from the other. There is nothing underhanded about a signed photo release. Debierue could read English, of course, but the involved legalese the form was couched in forced me to explain the damned thing at some length before he would sign it. Debierue wasn't stupid or willful. He believed naively that his oral okay was enough.

Because of this discussion, the dinners were ready before we knew it. I forgot to look at my watch, and it was Berenice who heard and recognized the faint buzzing in the kitchen as the oven timer,

It was almost pleasant on the screened porch. A light breeze came up, and although the wind was hot, it was relatively comfortable in the darkening twilight as we sat at the candlelit card table to eat the miserable off-brand TV dinners.