I tried to ignore him but couldn’t. And he wouldn’t go away. Exasperated, I started to move to a table back from the window but then thought, The hell I will! Why should he ruin my peace? I was on the verge of giving him the finger but got up instead, told the waiter to leave my coffee where it was, and marched out. To his credit, the guy didn’t move. Most photo creeps have no guts when you confront them. They’ll take pictures of you in the nude or having sex or committing suicide, but face them off, and they run like chickens. This guy saw me coming but held his ground. In fact he kept shooting as I steamed across the street, battle flags flying.

I know I live in a Germanic country and am trying hard to adapt, but I still jump into English when I get mad.

I said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

He had a nice face. Mad as I was, I couldn’t help noticing that. Plain, but alive and amused.

“Taking your picture. I don’t often see movie stars.”

“Goody-goody. You’ve got enough, so stop now and leave me alone. Stop sticking your lens in my day.”

His face fell. No, it collapsed in confusion. Then he asked if it really bothered me.

“More than you can imagine. If you know who I am, then you know I’m retired. No more movies, no more public face. No more pictures, okay? Be nice and go away.”

He did something strange: put out his hand as if we were being introduced. He said, “My name is Leland Zivic. I’m very sorry, Ms. Ford. I’ll stop. I only thought—” He was on the verge of saying something more but stopped and shook his head.

“Thank you, Leland. I’d be grateful.” I started to leave, but an ugly thought stopped me. “What are you planning to do with them?”

He held up the camera. “With these? Oh, don’t worry! They’re only for me. I’m not going to sell them or use them. Please don’t worry about that.”

“Good.” I turned and walked back across the street to the café without looking again. When I sat down at my table, I glanced at where he had been standing, but he was gone.

I had so much to do at home that I didn’t think about him again until that night in bed. I hoped he was telling the truth when he said he wouldn’t use them for anything more than a souvenir. But there was nothing I could do about it. Anyway, what difference did pictures of me shopping make?

The next morning I got up early and went outside to walk the dog. Usually we have a good long walk then because Minnie’s full of energy, and if I keep her outside for a while, she’ll race around till she’s exhausted. Then we come back home and she curls up in her bed and sleeps for hours. We went over the vineyards and into the forest where you and I sat that day and talked. Remember?

When we were coming back up the path to the house, I saw a large manila envelope propped against the front door. I live so far away from the main routes that the postman leaves packages out in the open like that without worrying they’ll be stolen. But it was eight in the morning, too early for him, so it had to be either Federal Express or special delivery. But they required signatures when they bring anything. I picked up the envelope, sat down, and opened it on the spot.

There were seven large photographs inside. The first one stopped the air in my throat. The second made me curse, and the rest were so startling that they zipped both my mouth and mind totally shut.

The first was of me through the dirty window of Café Dreschler. One hand’s in my hair pulling it back off my face. That sounds like nothing special, I know, but the art of the picture’s in the framing of the scene and the expression it’s caught. You know me, Rose: when it comes to visual images of Arlen Ford, I’m the world’s coldest, cruelest critic. What was so stunning here was the look on my face and the way the hand was pulling at the hair. It made you think this woman, whoever she was, was going through some heart-searing pain. The head’s thrown back, eyes closed tight. The mouth’s so twisted that it makes you think she’s either crying or snarling. She’s just found out someone she loves has died. Or the man she adores just said fuck off. She looks as if she’s tearing her hair out and being killed by whatever she’s heard. Even crueler, behind her in the café is an old woman walking by with a deadpan face. Outside on the street, directly in front of the window, is a couple passing in the other direction, laughing. Mystery, isolation, and pain all together in one photo! It was so haunting. If you saw it in a gallery you’d want to go forward and recoil at the same time. You’d wonder, Oh, God, what’s happened to her? How was the photographer able to catch that moment of agony and the world’s indifference to it?

When I saw the photo, I was so shocked that for a few seconds I didn’t even realize it was me there; that I was the woman. I didn’t remember pulling back my hair. I certainly wasn’t unhappy in the café that day. Maris and the baby were coming to visit. The only memory I had was of being glad to sit down after shopping and then my annoyance at realizing the guy was still taking pictures. That’s all.

I flipped to the next one. Lainzer Tiergarten the day of the picnic with the Easterlings. I’m offering bread to Mickey Mouse, the boar. We seem to be smiling at each other. Love at first sight. Maris is standing nearby with the baby in her arms. Nicholas has his hands in the air and is laughing. If that first picture was Hell, this one was Heaven. Everyone, including the boar, is happy. I’d been shaken by the first picture, but this one exuded such happiness that, despite myself, I grinned.

As I said, there were five other shots: two on the Johann Strauss the night of the prom, one in front of the Opera, one walking my dog down by the river. The last was of me from behind as I crossed the street back to the café. An old man in a silly hat is watching me and pointing. He’s telling his wife something and they’re both laughing. That son of a bitch photographer took another picture of me five seconds after saying he’d stop! But it was such a funny picture that I giggled; if you didn’t know what was going on, you’d think the old man’s pointing out my ass to his wife. After I’d looked at them over and over, I dropped them into my lap and pulled the dog over to hug. Who was this guy? How long had he been following me around taking pictures? And what pictures! Each one was startling, special. I was suspicious, but intrigued as hell. It was perverse and impressive.

Maris came over later that day. After she put down the baby for his nap, I got out the pictures and showed them to her without saying where they came from. I wanted her first impression. You know how famous Maris is becoming for her model cities. I wanted to hear what an artist had to say before I took any further step.

They were in the original order. She spent the most time on the first, but stopped almost as long on the one of me walking the dog. When she asked if they were done by the same person and I said yes, she said it was hard to believe. One looked like part of the series of me in Vanity Fair by Herb Ritts, but the Opera one reminded her of a 1920s Bauhaus photograph, something by Moholy or Herbert Bayer. The corker, though, was the café shot; it was as good as any picture she’d ever seen. Who was the photographer? She wanted to know if he had a book out because she’d get hold of it.

I told her how I’d met the guy. She shook her head but didn’t stop looking at the pictures. I asked if she didn’t think the whole thing was bizarre and she said yes, but they were brilliant nevertheless. Maybe it was her own strange sensibilities, but she didn’t think the man who took them was strange. I rolled my eyes and said, hey, he followed me around for days, obviously, without my ever knowing it. He was James Bond and Peeping Tom rolled into one! Not to mention a good photographer. How long had he been there before I knew it?