Chapter 20

20. ALFRED PHOTOGRAPHS IN A PRISON

Alfred was in his element. He had achieved the impossible. Here they were in the maximum security section of the toughest Texas jail on earth, shooting with nothing but the harsh available light of prison, and he had the most beautiful woman on earth in his lens, as well as the cold, hard eyes of serial killers, rapists, spree killers and child murderers, which bulged at Slave with undisguised longing, and whose engorged penises plumped cute tents between their legs. It was almost spiritual, like his hunger series. Only one thing could match this: to take Slave back to Ungungu and photograph her in the detritus of that war-stricken country’s devastation, which had now ratcheted itself up to another notch of terror, because Dr. Mabuta’s enemies had seized a border village, and vowed to hack their way to the capital forthwith. Alfred could see the images dance in front of him. Sleek Slave and broken Ungungu. A wonderfully uneasy combination of esthetics and social comment. For no apparent reason, an image of Mr. Ntsohluvubuhu popped into his mind. The man was laughing. What for? Alfred shook his head and looked at Slave, perfectly slouched in a brilliant pose.

The warden regarded the scene with a big smile. “Everything all right?” he shouted at Alfred.

“Everything’s great!” Alfred shouted back. Click, click. “It’s a privilege shooting here!”

“We’re mighty honored by the presence of you and the young lady!” the warden returned graciously.

“You’re very kind!” Alfred shouted back.

“You’re very welcome!” replied the warden with a bow.

The warden turned to the deputy beside him. “I never knew a black woman could be so beautiful,” he said.

“We should let the boys have her.”

“They’d know what to do with her.”

“Mad Dog Doom, he’d really know.”

Mad Dog Doom had gone on a spree killing, collecting the heads of his family and the employees of one package store, three Taco Bell outlets, and two Gaps, after raping all the women many times. He had kept the heads in the back of his refrigerated meat truck, and eventually planted them on parking meters around a square in Roanoke. He was awaiting execution, but proceedings were held up because of his insistence on being executed by machete. He wanted it to be done by a surviving cousin of his whom he had molested as a youth.

Alfred changed a roll of film. In circumstances like these, he liked to work without an assistant. It added to the spontaneous, monk-like spirituality of the occasion. He experienced a pure connection with reality he didn’t feel when he was surrounded by assistants. In some strange way, he felt it prepared him for the millennium. He came up to the warden.

“I know it might sound ironic, warden, but I feel a great sense of freedom working in your prison.”

“Why, thank you, Alfred. We try to create an illusion of air and light even though these fellas are locked down so tight their shit takes a week to get to their assholes. Hah, hah, hah.”

“Hah, hah, hah.”

“That sure is a pretty girl you got with you.”

Slave was changing inside a loose smock she had brought along for that purpose.

“Yes, she is pretty.”

“Is she famous?”

“Not yet. But after these photos, she will be.”

“Maybe my jail will be famous, too.”

“It will, warden, it will. We need a few shots with you and the deputy too. By the way, who is that big guy with the scar across his nose? He’s very photogenic. He looks like he killed his mother.”

“He killed his sister first. She happened to be in the room when he went postal. If his mother had been there instead, she would’ve been first. He doesn’t much discriminate, know what I mean?”

“What’s his name?”

“Mad Dog Doom. Killed thirty-nine people in three days. Fastest killer in Texas.”

“I’d love a shot of him and Slave together, where she wears the evening dress. The contrast between the formality of fashion and the spontaneity of murder.”

“As long as we get him chained down first.”

“Let’s do it. Slave!”

Slave looked up at him.

“We’re going to do the evening dress.”

Slave shrugged and picked out the evening dress. The smock went over her head and she changed. Alfred smiled. He liked working with Slave. She had no attitude; it only came out in her pictures. Best of all, she never needed a hair person.

“Where do you want Mad Dog Doom?”

“Behind the bars. I want Slave there too, interacting with him.”

“What do you mean, interact?”

“She knows what to do. You’ll see.”

“Now Mad Dog Doom, take it easy. We got three snipers on you. You make one wrong move, and you lose your chance to be executed by a machete forever.”

“Suck the dick of a seagull, warden, how can I make a move if I got chains all over me?”

“Just take it easy.”

“Is everybody ready? Right. Close the door.”

“Mad Dog Doom, you’re cool?”

“I’m cool like an Eskimo’s stool.”

“Mister Stereo, they’re all yours.”

“Thank you. Slave, stand in front of him. Yes, yes. Closer. Yes. Now turn away. Ass out. Shoulders back. A little to the side. Turn. More. That’s right.”

By now they had worked together long enough for Slave to understand his instructions instantly.

“Drop your left shoulder. Great. Mad Dog Doom, lean your head forward. Right. Stand side by side. Good. Lean back against his shoulder. Good. Mad Dog Doom, hold the chain more in front of her. Good. Hold her shoulder. Let go of her neck. Mad Dog Doom, let go of her neck. Can you hear me? Let go of her neck! It spoils the composition.”

“Shoot him!”

“No!” shouted Alfred. Click, click.

“Shoot the motherfucker!”

“No, no!”

Alfred wanted them to shoot, because he’d get great shots that way, but he also needed a few more seconds to cover Slave’s terror and Mad Dog Doom’s brilliant intensity. There were some very interesting veins popping up in her smooth forehead. They added a whole new dimension to her beauty. Click, click. Slave reached down with her right hand. Mad Dog Doom was squeezing her neck like a fluffy bun. Alfred kept clicking away. This might be the shoot of his life. Suddenly the pressure on Slave’s neck decreased.

“Hold it!”

“Don’t shoot!”

A smile spread over Mad Dog Doom’s face. The warden could not remember Mad Dog Doom ever smiling before. Slave’s hand worked away until Mad Dog Doom’s arms fell down limp in their chains.

“You can come out now, lady. We’ve got him covered.”

But Slave did not stop. She kept rubbing Mad Dog Doom. And Alfred kept clicking. He looked at Slave though his camera. This was too good for fashion. This was art. She had managed to turn a fashion shoot into an aesthetic experience of the highest order. She stood there covered in sweat, more beautiful and more excruciatingly regal than ever. Her skin glistened under the harsh available light. Nothing became her more than the stunning evening dress by Domino, its beadwork studded with dark patches of rich perspiration. Her perfect hand moved up and down, as the sweat ran down her perfect features. Suddenly she smiled, and Mad Dog Doom sank to the ground with a sigh. Click, click. At that moment, Alfred fell in love with her.