XXXI

Slowly, slowly, Vanya walked toward the darkroom. Six. All he had were six photographs. Six chances.

They’d used albumen, egg whites, to increase the quality of the images. Up close, the coating smelled both sweet and sour. He tried not to hold on too tight, to cause any damage. He opened the door to the darkroom, pulled the curtain aside, and stepped in. It took a moment to adjust to the lack of light. His eyes teared at the tang of chemicals. Clay was already bent over a series of trays.

Vanya carried the glass plate he cradled over to the table and submerged it in the first tray, the one Clay had already used. He sloshed the solution over the glass. Back and forth. He tried to be patient, but it wasn’t working. “Come on,” he mumbled to himself. Then Dima crashed through the door. Vanya jumped, splashing chemicals.

“There’s a villager outside,” Dima said in Russian, then in English, Vanya presumed.

Clay and Dima began arguing over something. Dima turned to Vanya to explain. “He thinks the villager is here to deal with the animals, because they made so much noise. But he’s missing my point.” Dima’s voice was serious the way it had been the time they’d come up against the soldiers in the alley in Riga. “It’s Vadim. He says his cows fell over dead because the moon swallowed the sun. You need to speak to him. Now. He’s very angry. And scared.”

“We can’t talk now,” Clay called.

“Tell him it’s just an old superstition, animals dying during an eclipse. It couldn’t have happened because of it,” Vanya said.

“But it did. Call it superstition or belief, but it happened. His cows are dead. I saw them,” Dima said. “Vadim says it was magic that forced the darkness. Your magic.” The skin on Vanya’s arms prickled. The solution in his tray continued to slosh. “The whole barn is dead.”

“Every cow?” Vanya asked.

“Every one.”

“Tell him to come back later,” Clay ordered. “Go!” Dima closed the door behind him with so much force, dust fell from the ceiling. Vanya leaned over the trays to protect them. He and Clay examined the liquid developer to make sure no contaminants had fallen into the medium. Vanya swished the tray faster. Clay worked with him, in unison. They brought their trays up and flattened them.

Vanya transferred the plate to the next bath. Then there was a thud at the door. Vanya jumped and liquid splashed over the sides of one of the trays. Clay said something. Vanya understood he wanted him to ignore the door; his voice was high, excited as he pointed to the glass. Had the photo come through? Vanya tripped, trying to get a better look, and just missed disturbing the table. In the tray Clay held, the black splotch of moon was clear. So too were the sun’s limbs, stretching out from behind. But where the sun’s rays should have been straight, they blurred. There were no clear lines. Vanya couldn’t make out the Zeus cluster. “No good,” Vanya said. Clay shrugged as if to say Vanya could be wrong. He continued moving the tray up and down.

There was a voice outside the darkroom. Someone yelled. It was a woman. She sounded hysterical but Vanya couldn’t make out her words. “Damn it. No, it’s still out of focus,” Vanya said, pointing to the image in Clay’s hand. Only five more chances.

The door cracked behind them. Wood splintered. Someone crashed into the darkroom. Vanya threw himself over the plate he was developing to protect it from the light. His face was wet. His skin burned from chemicals. “Where is the American devil,” a man yelled.

“Get out,” Vanya screamed. He was still bent over the table. Someone grabbed Vanya’s arms and twisted him up. Pain shot through his shoulder. “No,” Vanya yelled. “They’re glass.”

Vadim had Clay. He dragged the American toward the stairs. Even with only one good leg he was stronger. “Let go,” Vanya yelled, and tried to yank himself free. He had to save the negatives. Had there already been too much light? Were the ones in process already destroyed? “Please, close the door. At least close the door.” The man who had Vanya by the arm shoved him, hard, into the wall. Vanya crumpled to the ground while Vadim dragged Clay away.

The door swung partway shut. The hinges were broken. Vanya ran to the table. Both negatives had shattered. “Damn it,” Vanya yelled. He clawed his way up the stairs. There were still four more plates. Four more chances. Vanya hoped Yuri had protected them.

Outside there was a crowd of villagers. Old men and young women, even children, held swords and rakes. They were loud. Vanya ran for the table where he’d left the plates with Yuri but the table was empty. The plates were gone. Where? No shattered glass. No toppled chairs. “Yuri,” Vanya yelled. “Yuri, where are you?”

Suddenly, Stepan appeared at his side. He swung his fist into Vanya’s stomach. Vanya gasped. Convulsed. Pain. All he felt was pain as his gut caught fire and he fell, crashing against a chair. He clawed at the ground.