“Really? That’s so cool,” I tell him, ignoring the now-customary sarcasm. “So, what kind of photographer? Is it a hobby, or do you do it for a living?”
“Do you ever get tired of asking questions?” he says, looking at me over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s my job, actually. Although it did start out as a hobby.”
I’m slightly surprised by this, but only because it’s hard to imagine a man like Alex Fox having something as mundane as ajob. To look at him, you’d think he spent his days writing poetry, and listening to Leonard Cohen, while thinking very deep thoughts about…. whatever it is someone like Alex thinks about. He just has that kind of intensity about him, somehow. The more I think about it, though, the easier it is to see a career as a photographer blending in quite nicely with all of that. Itisartistic, after all. I expect he has a house filled with tasteful black and white prints of objects you can’t quite place at first, but which have a deeply profound meaning, if you’re clever enough to figure out what it is.
“So, what kind of things do you photograph?” I ask, following him down the stone path that leads to the largest of the rocks. “I’m assuming it’s not always volcanoes?”
“No,” he says, crouching down and producing a different lens from his bag, which he expertly switches with the one on the camera. “Not normally. I wish it was, though. It’d be a lot more interesting.”
He starts clicking away again, and I turn slowly around, taking in the view. From where I’m standing, it’s almost impossible to tell how high up we are. The rocky surface of the crater seems to stretch out in all directions, looking like the set of an old Western movie, sun-bleached and sepia-toned. If it wasn’t for the noticeably thinner atmosphere — and the fact that I distinctly remember ooh-ing and ahh-ing along with everyone else as we passed through the clouds onthe way here — it would be easy to believe we were still at ground level, and a few centuries back in time. Off to one side, the cone of the volcano rises into the sky, providing the perfect backdrop for the many photos everyone around us is taking of it; Alex included.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I remind him when he straightens up at last. “What do you take photos of?”
“Ooh, is young Alex here a photographer, then?” asks Rita, joining us. “That’s lovely, that is.”
“Er, yeah,” Alex admits, looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. My spidey-senses tingle. “I take photos of… of people. And events.”
He starts fiddling with the buttons on the camera again, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.
“Events?” I ask innocently. “What kind of events? You mean like awards ceremonies and stuff? Conferences? Concerts?”
“Something like that,” he mutters, not looking at me.
“Hmm,” I say, thoughtfully. “Whatotherkinds of events are there, I wonder? What kind of event would require a professional photographer?”
“Ooh! I know!” says Rita. “Weddings! He could be a wedding photographer!”
Bingo.
I manage to hold in my laughter for almost five full seconds before it bursts out of me in the — slightly embarrassing — shape of a low chuckle.
“I don’tonlydo weddings,” Alex says defensively. “That’s just what pays the bills. I do a lot of other stuff, too.”
I can tell he’s glaring at me, even with the dark glasses still in place.
“Sorry,” I say, biting my lip. “It’s just the idea ofyou— the dark dementor — taking someone’sweddingphotos. It’s like finding out Darth Vader worked in a pre-school, or took ballet lessons.”
“Didn’t you say you hated weddings, though, Alex?” says Rita. “On the plane? I’m sure you said that.”
“He did,” I confirm smugly. “He said they were a waste of money.”
“They are,” mutters Alex, replacing the camera in his bag. “Trust me; I would know.”
“You must be a real joy to have around at one,” I observe dryly, imagining him skulking around behind the happy couple, scowling and sighing as if he’s there under duress. “Especially with that attitude.”
“I don’t have an ‘attitude’,” he retorts, zipping the bag closed with a little too much force. “I’m just not taken in by the fakeness of it; all the emphasis on flowers and dresses and place settings, when you just know they’re going to end up divorced in five years’ time, anyway. It’s so pointless.”
“Oh, comeon,” I tell him, exchanging glances with Rita. “That’s a bit much, even for you, don’t you think? Not all marriages end in divorce. Some people actually do get to live happily ever after, you know.”
“Yeah?” he says, snorting. “It figures you’d believe in ‘true love’ and all that nonsense.”
“Right; and youdon’t, I suppose?” I reply, needled. Alex just shrugs dismissively.
“Not really,” he says. “Like I said, it’s all just for show. Most of the couples I photograph only really care about the photos, and what they’ll look like on Instagram, or whatever. They barely even seem tolikeeach other. It’s all about appearances; trying to be somethingthey’re not, just so they can fit in with everyone else around them, who’re all trying to be somethingthey’renot. It’s so… unauthentic.”
I think about last night at dinner, and how I felt like I was pretending to be someone else.
But it’s not the same thing.
