Magic Lantern

MAGIC LANTERN

Jan brought along his father’s old Polaroid camera when called to dinner. His father had used the camera just one summer and subsequently confined it to a cardboard box with other relics. The camera still contained unused film; and the box, Polaroid film in its original wrapper. 

Rain, which had fallen during the time his wife was preparing dinner and he going through the memorabilia, had ended. When dinner and the conversation about the neighbors that attended it were almost over, they looked out the window. 

A brilliant rainbow from one end of the horizon to the other stood out against a blue sky. Jan picked up the Polaroid, marched out, and snapped a photograph of the wonder, for which he was quite accidentally prepared by having gone through old keepsakes.

When the camera completed the development of the photo, he was astonished but also confused by the clarity by the photograph. He looked out the window, and what remained of the rainbow was much less vivid and on the edge of disappearance.

    “Ursula, look at this.”

    “Where did you get that?”

    “I just took it.”

    “But this is a double rainbow. We only had a single.”

    “That’s what I thought. You certain we saw only a single rainbow?”

    “It’s possible we both missed it.   Maybe we focused on the dazzle of one and missed the other.”

    “I might have missed it, but you, with your hunter’s eye, not likely, unless.”

    “Unless what?”

    “Unless it can pick out something more than the human eye can. I had forgotten what a clear, sharp, picture this old Polaroid could take.”

    He held up the camera to take a photograph of Ursula, who quickly put out her hand before the lens and exclaimed: “No you don’t!”

    “Why not?”

    “My hair’s not properly combed. You save what film is left for a more appropriate subject.”  

    The next morning Jan was again in the solarium when he saw something in the paper that startled him: a replica of the photo the Polaroid had taken. One of his former students worked at the paper. He would call him the next day and have the mystery explained.

    When he did, he found out several staff members had climbed to the roof to view and photograph the double rainbow. It began at 5:25 and lasted for only fifteen minutes, at which point the lower arc was the only one in the sky.

    That evening Jan examined the camera to determine if it was possible the old Polaroid had somehow photographed not what he was seeing at 5:40, but rather what had occurred at 5:30. He would have to complete an experiment to answer that question.

He set a digital clock which read 6:00 on a book shelf. The time of the development seemed an eternity, but when Jan pulled the photo from the camera and looked at it, his patience was rewarded. The clock in the print read 5:45. 

Was it possible the camera photographed past rather than present? Is that why his father had stopped using it, because he could never quite capture the moment he sought? What was the point of catching the moment prior to that one wished to freeze? Or was there something of value to be found in photographing the moment prior to the one before one’s eyes. 

Surely there were times when one’s reflexes lapsed, when one wound up with the time succeeding the precise moment one wished to capture. Then, such a camera would be a prize. Were fifteen minutes as long a period as his Polaroid could photograph from time past? Could it be longer? Surely then such a camera would be a prize. But his father had consigned the camera to a box full of memorabilia. Why?

He checked to see how many shots were left in the camera. There were only three.  Another former student was a police detective. He placed a call and shortly had a promise of a call on the next reported crime. The next night he received it: a co-ed had been raped and robbed in her dormitory room. Although sorry to learn the crime had occurred on his campus, Jan was pleased because he had access to the crime scene.

He insinuated himself and his Polaroid among those covering the investigation and photographed the crime scene. Not wanting to develop among the investigative team, however, he quickly exited and went to his office. There he extrapolated the photograph from the camera and was delighted to find the camera had indeed photographed a young college athlete forcing himself on the co-ed. The athlete’s face was clearly visible in the photograph.

Jan’s immediate impulse was to hand his student the photograph, which might be enough evidence to launch an investigation, if not a conviction. He immediately checked his impulse: the police would confiscate the camera. That, he did not want. And there was yet another factor to be considered and tested: was it the camera or the film that had the power of a magic lantern?  In either case, camera or film, he did not wish to relinquish that power just yet.

He compromised. He anonymously mailed the photograph to his former student and allowed events to take their course. Meanwhile, he once more questioned why his father confined the camera to the memorabilia box.  He called his brother, who could recall family matters he had completely forgotten as though they had occurred only yesterday. 

Erik had a definite recollection of the time his father last used the Polaroid, during one of their last summer holidays at the lake with Uncle Benedict and his family. Those outings were always a glorious week, in which he, his brother, and his cousins enjoyed kayaking about the lake like the autos in the bumper rides at the local amusement park, colliding with each other as often as possible, and where the adults, especially his father and uncle, played a great deal of gin rummy.

Erik had scanned all the photographs his father had ever taken, committed them to a CD, and sent the file onto Jan. In one Polaroid photo, the entire family assembled before the lake for a photograph. That one was immediately followed by a snapshot of his mother sitting inside on the window sill of the stone cottage. She seemed very sad, and he wondered why his father had even taken the photograph.

He clicked back to the previous image in the collection, the one of both his and uncle’s families assembled before the lake. He looked very carefully this time for, but could not find, his mother in the photograph. But neither could he find his father, but of course his father was taking the picture. There was only one other person not in the photo –- his uncle. Jan immediately got on the telephone to speak to Erik.

“Erik, those Polaroid photos usually have a number on them to indicate where in the sequence of photos they fit.  I can’t find them in the reproductions on the CD you made.  Do me a favor and retrieve those photos from that holiday at the lake. I want to ask you about a couple of those numbers if they’re there.”

“Hold on; I’ll get them.”

While Erik was away, Jan found himself angry with himself for what he suspected about the photographs but more astonished by the magic of the camera.

“I’ve got them. What do you want to know?”

“The number in the sequence of the photo of the whole family assembled before the lake.”

 “It’s number five.”

“Now, look for the one of Momma by herself sitting before the window and tell me the number of that one.”

 “It’s number seven.”

Jan hesitated before he answered.

“Thank you, Erik.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I just wanted to see if they were all there.”

“You mean the missing six?”

“Yes!”

“I never had that. Pop must’ve thrown it out. Probably didn’t come out to his satisfaction.”

“Thanks; I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good night.”

But it was not a good or peaceful night for Jan. Had his father been aware of the absence of his uncle and mother when he took the family photo? Did he seek out his mother afterwards to take her photograph and did he snap deliberately as soon as he found her hoping not so much to capture her alone on the sill but her perhaps not alone minutes or seconds before? Was that the reason he never used the camera again?

Upset by his suspicions, Jan contemplated returning the camera to where it belonged, to where his father had condemned it, to a box of forgotten memorabilia. Should he repeat the action of his father or should he try to redeem the cursed camera and once more use it, this time perhaps to catch a killer or a thief. He decided at last to have fate determine how to use or disuse of the Polaroid. 

The next day he packed it away with his papers and texts into his book bag and started out on the one minute walk from his home to his college office. He had advanced no farther than one block, when directly before him a Ford Mustang coming from the west collided with a Chevrolet Station Wagon coming from the north. It seemed to him in that split second the wagon had already advanced a few feet into the intersection when the Mustang broke in.

Several pedestrians came running to see if anyone were seriously injured. In a short time a police car showed up at the intersection. While each of the two officers was interviewing one of the two drivers, Jan took out his Polaroid and snapped his photograph. While waiting the film to develop, he watched the ambulance arrive to see if either of the drivers needed to be taken to the hospital. When the photo finally emerged from the camera, it was evident not only had the Wagon entered first, but also the driver in the Mustang had his one hand cupped over his eyes to block out the sun which was still near the horizon that morning and obviously streaming into the eyes of that driver.

Once again, in order to protect his camera, Jan stepped away from the accident, and, when he was certain all eyes were diverted toward the gathering at the center of the intersection, tucked the photograph under the windshield wiper of the police car. Upon his arrival home, Jan discovered, however, the photograph of the collision was the final one of the roll now completely spent in the camera.  Curiosity about whether the magical properties were in the camera or the film overcame his remorse for the missing photograph from the past. 

His colleague at school, Hans, had long ago asked him to join him for the Preakness Stakes at Pimilico. He would load the other roll of film into the camera, bring the camera along, and see if he could photograph the finish of a race minutes after it had ended. If the Polaroid captured the photo finish prior to the time he took the photo, he would know it was the camera with the magical power and not the film and perhaps have a better idea of what other use he could make of the camera. He, consequently, found the package of unused Polaroid film, loaded the camera, and was ready for a day at the races.

He and Hans managed to find a place along the rail near the finish. It was a day in which nature had given many of the women in the stands another reason for wearing their stylish hats other than to complete with the women who attended the Kentucky Derby. The sun shown bright in the blue sky and down upon many glancing toward the track to watch the race. The wide brims of the women’s hats kept the glare of the sun from obscuring their view.

Hans had wished to stand at the beginning of the home stretch run, where, he insisted, the most exciting leg of the race began. Jan wanted to be close to the finish line in order to test the camera and the new film. Jan was on a mission, and Hans did not get his wish this day.

The former decided to try his new film immediately after the first race. It was a close race in which three horses finished almost neck and neck. One of those horses Hans had bet to win and was delighted when it was announced it had indeed won by a nose. While Hans went off to claim his winnings and place their bets for the next race, Jan took out the Polaroid and took a photograph of the finish line as the people standing close to him stared.

When the film finally developed, Jan made certain none of the onlookers near him could see what had emerged. What had appeared was indeed a mystery. It revealed the winning horse ahead of its closest rival by nearly four lengths. Jan was not certain whether it was good or disappointing news that apparently his magic lantern not only could take photos of things in the immediate past, but perhaps in the distant time past. He would have to check the number of the horse his photo revealed against the results in today’s paper or yesterday’s paper. Or would he have to go back further than that?

Hans returned from collecting his winnings and handed Jan his waging ticket for the next race. The latter, who knew almost nothing about horse races and nothing about gambling on their outcome, had been impressed with the name of one of the horses in the next race, Magic Lantern. And so he had placed five dollars on it to win. Having returned his camera to his book bag, which also contained something to eat and drink during the long afternoon, Jan was ready to devote all his attention to the race. Hans confided to his colleague.

“I hope you’re right about this Magic Lantern. I took ten dollars of my winnings on the first race, and placed it on the nose of your choice.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. I’m just going on a hunch about the horse’s name, not the horse itself.”

“No problem. I also placed another bet on a horse based on her record, not her name.”

Starting from gate number nine, Magic Lantern got off to a fair start in the middle of the pack as he passed the two colleagues standing near the finish line. Being shorter than his colleague by eight inches, Jan had to rely on Hans to keep up with the race along the back stretch. Judging from his excitement one of the horses Hans had bet on was in contention. As they rounded the run into the home stretch, Jan could make out the colors of Magic Lantern running third.

Halfway down the stretch number nine was in second place. Only a few furlongs away from the finish line, she was passing the lead horse. At the finish she was at least five lengths ahead of the horse which placed. Hans was euphoric for he had winners in the first two races. Jan was excited not only because he thought he had intuitively called the winner of the race but also because for a second an image from the first photo of the new film crossed his mind. He would wait while Hans went to collect their winnings and then check to confirm his suspicion.

“You comin’?”

“You go ahead. Here’s my ticket; you collect for me. I want to wait and take some more photos with this ancient camera.”

“Don’t you want to place a bet on the Preakness?”

“Yes, of course. You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in time.”

Hans left and Jan took out from the inside pocket of his sports coat the photograph he had taken. He examined it closely. He could not be certain, but it did appear to be replica of the finish of the race he had just witnessed. 

“Hey, you caught that finish beautifully.”

The comment had come from a passerby looking over Jan’s shoulder at his Polaroid snapshot. Was it possible one kind of film photographed the immediate past and the other the immediate future? Was it only the film that was magic? Would that film work with any other Polaroid camera of the same model? Where had his father purchased the camera? Where, the film? Why had he decided not to use the first roll ever again? 

He thought he knew the answer to the last question. Would his father have made the same decision with this roll of film? Did other rolls of film like it still exit? Should he do some research and see if some old collector had such rolls? This one had only nine more photographs in it. How should he use those nine opportunities?

Intruding on his ruminations was a reminder that Hans was probably waiting on line to make their wages for the Preakness. He started to walk off when it suddenly occurred to him that he could afford to test the film one more time and then think more deeply about how to use the remaining eight shots. He took out the camera and once more took a photograph of the empty track at the finish line and decided to use the time it would take to develop the film to hurry to join Hans on line. If his camera were indeed a magic lantern, should not Hans share in that magic?