For me, a picture was the paltry price of my soul.
Others would have held out for money or power, perhaps, but it wasn't their soul to sell. It was mine and I let it go for a Polaroid.
It began with the strange man who came into the bookstore I worked at. It was ten minutes to closing when the bells chimed, announcing his arrival. I groaned inwardly for I recognized his rumpled, shabby type immediately: here then was a traveling salesman, a peddler of cheap pens and worthless watches and neon fanny packs and who knew what else. He was here to sell, not to buy in other words; and in brazen violation of the 'No Soliciting' sign which he smiled at upon entering.
Hoping he would make his pitch so that I could kick him out and close up, I waited at the counter for him. He shot me the same insolent smile he had given the sign as he approached, brandishing a battered briefcase that doubtlessly contained his wares.
"Good evening, Bookseller," he said with the slightest nod. His voice was cold and strangely sterile; like fluorescent lighting it got the job done, but the effect was far from pleasant.
I shrugged noncommittally in reply, as though my duties prevented me from knowing-one way or the other- what sort of evening it might be. I held my silence and waited for his pitch but it didn't come. In that same dispassionate voice he asked for Marlowe. And Irving. And Chekhov and Wilde and Bradbury, until a tidy pile of books lay between us. When I rang them up and read the total he laid his briefcase on the counter beside them.
"I read on the sign outside that you accept trades," he said.
So that's how he meant to play it, I thought. Inwardly fuming over the time I had wasted finding his books, I said "We trade books for books, two-for-one generally; but we don't accept stuff that's trashed and we never accept romance. Books," I added firmly.
"Alas," he said as his hands undid the briefcase clasps as one, "I have no books to trade. I have only Beauty."
He opened the case and my eyes followed the motion - fully expecting to see junk and trinkets, knick-knacks and cheap souvenirs. My eyes were surprised, therefore, and the rest of me a moment later when it registered that the briefcase was empty save for a single Polaroid picture laying on the bottom. The contrast between the black of the briefcase and white of the picture frame was striking; in much the same way that great art is elevated by a gallery wall, so to did the Polaroid profit from the context of its sparse surroundings.
The picture itself was blank; a milky white as though the picture had been taken only seconds before and was still developing.
Before my eyes the faint outlines of a human figure appeared, female -and, as the seconds passed and the image swam closer to clarity- visibly naked. Her face couldn't be made out yet, but it was framed by long, raven black hair; a tattoo sat astride a pair of perfect teacup breasts.
The tattoo, that of a heart flanked by angel wings, was the first part of the picture to fully develop; I had just long enough to recognize it from memory when the lid of the briefcase slammed down, severing the picture from my sight.
"Wait-!" The word was torn from me before I was even aware; I heard it without registering it as mine.
"Ah," said the man, "see something that catches your fancy, do you?"
I nodded wordlessly, though my gaze never lifted. It was as if the briefcase had acquired an enormous gravity in the past few moments and I clung to the countertop desperately. If I let go for an instant I would fall towards it, I was certain.
"So maybe we can arrange a trade after all, yes?"
Again I nodded, my sluggish brain still wrestling with the various surprises and desires that had been sprung on it.
"Who- who was that?" I managed at last. "Who is the girl in the picture?"
"The most beautiful girl in the world, for you," the man replied, confirming what my heart swore was the truth but that my stubborn brain refused to believe. Simply because it was impossible.
"How-" I began again, but could think of no coherent way to phrase the question. He waved it away as if he could hear it regardless, and considered it irrelevant.
"Nine times out of ten," he said, "I open that case and it's empty: the person I'm showing it to just hasn't the capacity to see the... type of beauty I have to offer. But every now and again I'll meet a special soul -like yourself- whose life is a desert in its loneliness; whose heart is dead enough, empty enough that it can be quickened and filled by desire alone."
As before I heard every word without hearing a single one; they floated in my ear like individual bubbles and popped into nothingness inside my head.
"Take the books," I said in a voice that was pained and pleading.
"Now, now," he said softly, gazing at me with a touch of pity, "we both know the rules. Books for books, you said. For your hearts desire..."
He trailed off and for the first time I looked at him and saw not a salesman but something inhuman and supernatural. And I felt so cold, cold as I have never felt; not even in the darkest depths of winter. The only source of warmth in the world it seemed, was the briefcase - in my fevered imagination it glowed between us like a pot-bellied stove.
His eyes held mine and I nodded. Then he nodded and something inside me switched off forever. He opened the briefcase once more and laid the Polaroid face down on the countertop.
"A pleasure doing business with you," said the man who was not a man, and he closed the case and departed to the sound of chiming bells. Though it was now past closing I made no move to lock up. My eyes were fixated on the photograph and the words which were written upon its back in an ugly scrawl: See you in Hell.
For a long time I stared until finally, I could stand the sight no longer. More to hide those terrible words than anything, I flipped the Polaroid over.
It was blank.
