| OCR Text |
Show 15 at nothing. Garrett works in his garden. Faint lines of green-carrots and peas and lettuce-appear on the face of the earth. Ahmed buys two more photo albums, fills them. Late at night Garrett hears him, in his room, dictating into his tape recorder. Garrett begins to wish that he could understand the language, so that he might know what he is talking about, across time, to his sister, in Athens. June creeps on and it finally turns hot. If there is a breeze it blows hardest on the hill across the road, through the cemetery, and at sunset Garrett often walks there. One evening Ahmed joins him. "It's a pleasant place this time of day," says Garrett. "Trish and I used to come here a lot. Then she said she didn't have time, had to clean the house." "I haven't photographed it," says Ahmed, "but it's perfect. Just what I need." He pushes at a headstone which has fallen over, tries to right it but cannot. "I will shoot it tomorrow," he says, "at exactly this time." When Ahmed's week of vacation is up he does not go back to work at the lab. "I need a little more time," he says, "then I'll be done. Then it won't matter. They can fire me if they want to." The photographs of the cemetery turn out nicely, the fallen red sun lending a rose patina to the white stones. The green grass combed by the late afternoon breeze, and the fields stretching with new life toward the horizon, provide a perfect backdrop. In half the shots, Ahmed has framed himself, center and forward; in the rest |
