***

– I really like this shot, but that tourist ruined everything that could be ruined. – I sighed irritably, showing my model the ruined shot.

A bloody stranger in a bright yellow jacket had unexpectedly and unexpectedly appeared in the frame at the very moment I pressed the button. And now, behind the beautiful Aisa, his bloody jacket was a distinct ugly yellow stain. But, noticing that his presence was clearly spoiling our photo shoot, the hapless tourist hurried away.

– I'm sorry, but you'll have to take another pose in the same spot. – I looked at the girl. – I'm sorry, I know you're cold, but this is very important.

Aisa. Nineteen-year-old Icelandic girl. Beautiful and tall. Exactly the kind of nurse I'd dreamed of shooting since I first saw her in the café of her small hometown. I immediately met her, took her details and, with her permission, took a couple of shots of her beautiful white face. Her white hair, eyebrows and eyelashes are completely white as snow. But white in a different way than albinos. Her beauty is the very embodiment of the North, its beauty and power. This is exactly how I think the inimitable Scandinavian goddess of beauty Freya, who was reborn in the guise of the magical young Aisa, should look like. Today I shot her against the backdrop of a sullen ocean shore full of large sharp stones. Dark blue, almost black waves crashed into those rocks and crashed in an icy rain behind my modern-day Freya. Twilight. The girl is wearing a translucent black dress that almost blends in with the surrounding gloomy dark beauty of this place. Her snow-white skin barely pokes through from beneath the fabric of the dress, and her hair seems to be frozen in mid-air, obeying the wind. Aisa embodies a lonely ghost, an ancient spirit, a Freyja who has descended to earth in search of peace.

It's six degrees centigrade. I feel sorry for Isa.

But this girl exceeded my expectations and stood firm against all my demands, the cold and the icy spray of the ocean. She was so obedient and meek that I gave myself my word not to kill her. Aisa is too beautiful, too sublime. Even for me. Especially for me.

After the shoot, I hurriedly wrapped this heavenly creature in a warm blanket, put her in the car and we drove to her house where I handed Aisa over to her anxious parents. I was invited to dinner, but I declined, citing my already purchased tickets to London, where I was scheduled for my next shoot and interview with Colour world, one of the most famous English reportage photography magazines. I bought the tickets three days before the meeting with the editor-in-chief so that I could print my best photos. After all, even though I was shooting models, in my spare time I was shooting the world. Ordinary mortals. Airports. On the platform. In subways. On the street and in cafes. Children and old people. The beautiful and the not so beautiful. The ugly. Cripples. Life itself in all its contradictory diversity. But also Death. Three years ago, I managed to capture it. In Toronto. A guy jumped in front of an incoming train. And I did it: the suicidal man was left hanging in the air, right in the centre of the train's huge iron nose. Unaware of what was happening, the driver, frowning his bushy eyebrows, stared silently ahead. A second before the train crushes, blows to pieces the body of the suicider. The mouth of the girl opens in horror, reaching out her hands to the one who has decided to end his Life. Probably his girlfriend. Now an unofficial widow. Best shot I've taken in all the years I've been into photography.

***

– I'm impressed, Miss Mroczek. You should open an independent exhibition for your photos," said editor-in-chief Bernard Attick. He looked very impressive.

We were sitting in his large office, bright from the four large desk lamps, tastefully furnished but slightly dishevelled. The editor's black wooden desk was cluttered with dozens of folders, an open notebook, many sheets of paper, letters, and a small white coffee cup lurking on the very edge. One wrong elbow movement and it would fall to the bare parquet and crumble to pieces. But the editor-in-chief seemed so accustomed to having that particular cup in exactly the right place that I wasn't worried about its safety.

Mr. Attick was a professional. And I respected him. I respect very few people. But his sense of smell and flair and taste were beyond reproach. It's true he had a funny last name. But it's kind of cute.

– Isn't it? – I said modestly, knowing exactly why he was so impressed.

– Yes… Your photos… I've never seen anything like them. And you do modelling, don't you? – Bernard looked at my photos for the second time. – This one. It's magical.

I looked at the photo: Oh, yes, a random shot in a little cafe in Liverpool. A little boy is discreetly feeding a fat, short-legged dog a boiled sausage while the boy's mother sits at a table, concentrating on her mascara. The woman's mouth is wide open, as if it were aiding her in her occupation. Black and white photograph. Early 2000s.

– Nice, very nice. So what do you reckon? – Bernard muttered, still contemplating every detail of the photograph.

– To what? – I asked, waiting patiently for Mr. Editor-in-Chief's excitement to subside and his brain to start working.

– The exhibition.

– You're not kidding? – I marvelled. What a twist! My own exhibition in London!

– Your work is damn good, Miss Mroczek, and I don't want you to go looking for recognition in another magazine.

– I'm all yours, Mr. Attick," I said jokingly. – In what time frame?

– For now, our gallery is busy with Najada Olivecka's exhibition. Fathers and children. Are you familiar with her work?

– You bet! As far as I know, she's recognised as the most influential photographer in Eastern Europe.

– Her exhibition ends in a fortnight. It'll take about a week to organise yours.

– That's a three-week wait. That's not so bad!

– But I need to show your work to our sponsor. He'll have the final say," Mr. Attick said suddenly.

I grinned. Shit. It's always like this – just when you're excited, your joy is killed with just one sentence.

– Who's your sponsor? – I asked. – The same one who sponsors Najada Olivecka? Then he has excellent taste. By the way, can you tell me where I can meet Najada herself… – And at that moment my smartphone rang loudly in my purse. – Damn, I'm sorry. – I took the smartphone out of my bag. – I'll just be a minute, it's an important call.

– Don't trouble yourself, Miss Mroczek," Mr. Attick smiled benignly.

I smiled back and went out into the corridor.

– Yes, Mum, hi," I said quietly into the phone. – I'm busy right now, is it an emergency?

– Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. It's just that you haven't been calling, and I want to know how my girl is doing.

– Your girl's business couldn't be better. I'm in London and the editor-in-chief of Colour world wants to put on an exhibition of my work! – I said with a note of happiness in my voice.

– Oh, that's great! Congratulations! When? Me and my dad will definitely fly down for the opening!

– That's great. But let's talk later. I'll call you back when I'm free.

– Yes, of course. But that's great news! Congratulations.

– Thank you. I'll call you later.

– Yeah. Kisses.

I smiled. No doubt Mum would be calling all the relatives now.

Back in Mr. Attick's office, I found the latter drafting the contract.

– I've called our sponsor. He'll be here in a couple of hours to look at your work. – Mr. Attick smiled broadly. – 'But between you and me, Miss Mroczek, I'm absolutely certain of a positive decision.

– That would be delightful," I smiled too, still not happy that my work needed some mortal's approval.