Sepia sunset

Edith, without a second’s hesitation, firmly gripped the camera. Her fingers instinctively found the buttons. «What should we film?» she asked, feeling a long-forgotten sense of excitement and hope awakening in her soul.

«Start from the very beginning, madam,» Jack replied, pushing them toward the basement exit. «Remember how you met. Remember what you felt. And show me… love.»

Chapter 4Lights, Camera… Memories!

Edith gripped the old movie camera tightly, as if it were a talisman, the last ray of hope in the pitch darkness. Her fingers, despite their treacherous trembling, confidently found the start button, as if remembering its location by heart. «Where do we begin, Jack?» she repeated her question, looking at him with hope, seeking approval from a stern director.

«Start filming, for God’s sake!» Jack barked, pushing them forward as if trying to ignite a spark in their cooled hearts. «Improvise! Remember! Feel! Forget all the bad stuff, like scenes cut from a film, and show me the love you once felt! The one you lost! And now… run, before we all get shot like in a gangster movie!» And a thought crossed Edith’s mind: Well, here goes… «Action! Camera! Roll!» – only instead of an assistant director, we have armed gangsters at the door.

He flung the basement door open, and they ran out onto the dark, rain-soaked street, like escapees from a cinema where a gangster shootout had just ended. Black-and-white Chicago of 1948 unfolded before them in all its noir glory, like a living page from a Raymond Chandler novel:

Wet pavements reflected the dim light of streetlamps like molten silver, and the bright lights of neon signs beckoned to «Club 99» and «Luigi’s Place.» Misspelled signs shouted about jazz, liquor, and cheap cigarettes.

The air was thick with the smell of tobacco mixed with cheap «Old Crow» whiskey and another elusive scent – the smell of fear and despair, seemingly absorbed into the very walls of the buildings. That year, by the way, Chicago saw a record number of murders, and Edith thought: This smell is probably the smell of death.

The rain poured down as if from a bucket, as if someone upstairs had opened a celestial tap, piercing them to the bone, and Edith imagined frozen homeless people trying to warm themselves under shop awnings, dreaming of a warm bed and a cup of hot coffee. She remembered her grandmother saying: «Poverty is not a vice, but a great misfortune.»

«And where do we run now?» Arthur shouted, trying to be heard over the rain and the deafening jazz from a nearby club. He was completely disoriented.

«It doesn’t matter, old man!» Jack replied, not slowing down. «Just run! And film! Film whatever comes to your mind! Film your memories! Film your love! Film what you want to remember!»

Edith, obeying some inner instinct, like a conductor picking up the baton before a concert, turned on the camera and pointed it at Arthur. The cold metal of the camera felt pleasant against her palm, reminding her of her youthful dreams.

«What do you remember, Arthur?» she asked, trying to speak loudly over the rain and the city’s hum. «What do you remember about our first meeting? What was I like then? Don’t lie to me, Arthur, every detail matters now.»

Arthur hesitated for a moment, as if trying to find any pleasant memories in the labyrinths of his memory, among dusty shelves of forgotten resentments and unspoken words. The rain drummed on the pavement, reminding them of time’s swift passage. Then, as if awakening from a long sleep, a faint smile lit up his face, and he began to speak, stammering, as if he had forgotten how to speak of love:

«I remember… I remember you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. You worked in a little bakery on the corner of our street, I think it was called «The Sweet Tooth,» and you always smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, like a Christmas pie.

I came to you every day for doughnuts, though, honestly, I couldn’t stand them… Just to see you… To see you smile.»

Edith, continuing to film and trying not to drop the old camera shaking in her hands like an aspen leaf in the wind, suddenly smiled, as if seeing the young, lovesick Arthur through the veil of time. A spark of long-extinguished love seemed to ignite in her eyes, like a candle flame lit in a dark room.

«And I remember your ridiculous polka-dot tie,» she replied, laughing through tears that mixed with the rain on her cheeks. «And how you always blushed when I looked at you. You were so shy, like a schoolboy seeing a girl for the first time.» And she thought: My God, am I really feeling something like love again?

Jack, running beside them and constantly looking around, urged them on, not letting them stop: «Faster! Film! Don’t stop! Don’t let them catch you! And remember, your life is a movie now, and your freedom is at stake!»

They ran through the dark, rain-lashed streets of Chicago, like characters in a film noir who know the ending holds either a bullet or bitter disappointment, filming each other as if trying to capture the last moments of life, sensing an imminent parting, remembering the past as if resurrecting ghosts from a distant time, trying to reclaim what was irrevocably lost, trying to revive the love that seemed to have forever left their lives, leaving only a bitter aftertaste of disappointment and regret. And a line from an old song, «The best things in life are free,» which she used to hum while working in that very bakery, echoed in Edith’s head, but she knew that this «free» love, these memories, would cost them dearly, perhaps even their lives.

The rain intensified, turning the black-and-white world into a blurred painting, as if someone had smeared watercolors on a canvas, and Edith and Arthur’s faces glistened with raindrops mixed with tears, as if mourning their lost youth and shattered dreams. They ran, gasping for breath from running and fear, stumbling on the uneven, cobblestone pavement, as if fate itself was tripping them up, and the camera in Edith’s hands continued to capture their chaotic, fragmented memories, like assembling a puzzle from pieces of the past. It seemed the rain was washing away all the excess, all the accumulated husk of the years, revealing only the essence of their relationship, their love and their pain. And Edith thought: Maybe this is why we’re here? To remember that we love each other, despite everything?

«I remember how we went to the movies, Arthur,» Edith continued, breathless from running and effort, as if trying to wrench these memories from time’s grasp.

«You always bought me a huge tub of popcorn, even though you grumbled it was a waste of money, that we should’ve bought a loaf of bread instead. And then you always held my hand, tight, as if afraid to lose me, and I didn’t care what was on the screen – a comedy with Abbott and Costello or a drama with Bette Davis. I just felt safe, just being next to you, like in a cocoon.» She remembered a line from an old film: «Love is when you feel good even in bad weather,» and she thought: Maybe love is that very ’good’ that makes any weather bearable? Now, in this rainy Chicago, surrounded by danger, she understood the meaning of those words as never before, as if she felt it with every fiber of her being.

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