Thirty-Six Lamps

Alma walked to the end of the pier every evening. She liked the hour before dark. The lamps came on one by one. Each lamp drew a round yellow spot on the water.

Her days were busy, but nobody needed her in a special way. On the pier, she needed nothing either. That was the whole point.

This evening, a small black tube lay on the last bench. Alma picked it up. It was a case for camera film. Neat blue writing covered a label on its side.

"Lamps one to thirty-six. Do not lose," she read.

She smiled a little. Someone lost it anyway.

She opened the grey lid. A roll of film sat inside, tight in a metal case. She shut the lid fast. Light can spoil old film, she knew.

"Lamps one to thirty-six," she said quietly. "One picture for each lamp."

She turned and counted the lamps along the pier. There were exactly thirty-six. Each iron post had a small white number near the bottom. She walked here every evening, but she never saw the numbers.

Alma did not own a camera. She did not know the owner. But the roll felt heavy in her hand. It was like a letter without a stamp. She put it in her pocket. Then she walked back toward the town.

The bait shop stood at the start of the pier. It was still open. A woman in a blue coat sold hooks and worms there.

"Excuse me," said Alma. "I found this on the last bench."

The woman took the tube and read the label. "Film," she said. "Nobody uses that now. And lamps? What a strange thing to photograph."

"Do you know who lost it?"

"No. But ask the man with the yellow bucket. He sits near the middle. He sees everyone."

"Thank you."

"Tell the owner to buy a better case," said the woman. "That lid is loose."

Alma walked out along the pier again. The lamps were all on now. The boards made a soft sound under her shoes.

The man with the yellow bucket sat on a folding stool. Three lines hung over the rail. A small radio played soft music near his boots.

"Good evening," said Alma. "Is this yours?"

He looked at the tube for a while. "No. I only catch fish," he said. "But I know this writing."

"You do?"

"A young man came here all year. He stopped at every lamp. He took one picture, and then he wrote in his notebook." The man shook his head. "I thought he was a little crazy."

"Did you see him today?"

"I did. He sat on the last bench for a while. Then he ran down the stairs to the beach. He looked like someone who forgot something."

Alma looked at the stairs. The sky was almost black now. The air smelled of salt and old rope. She could go home. The tube was not her problem.

But she thought about thirty-six lamps. She thought about a whole year of evenings. It sat in her pocket, small and light. For once, something needed her. She sighed. Then she went down the stairs.

The sand was cold and hard. Under the pier, wooden legs stood in rows. They looked like tall, quiet people. A small light moved between them. It went left, then right, then low to the ground.

A man walked there with a torch. He bent over often and touched the sand with his hand. He talked to himself in a low, worried voice.

"Hello?" Alma called. "Are you looking for something?"

The light jumped toward her. "A roll of film," said the man. "It is in a small black tube. I looked for an hour."

"Does the tube say 'Lamps' on the side?"

He stopped. The light shook a little.

Alma held up the tube. The man did not move. Then he took it with both hands, as if it could break.

"Where?" His voice was thin.

"On the last bench. By lamp thirty-six."

"I sat there to take it out of my camera," he said. "Then my phone rang. I went down to the beach to talk. Later my pocket was empty. I looked under the pier for an hour. I never thought of the bench." He pressed the tube against his coat. "My name is Naveen. I am sorry. I cannot say anything clever."

"I am Alma. You do not have to."

Naveen laughed, a short and shaky laugh. He sat down on the sand. After a moment, Alma sat beside him.

"The town will take down the old lamps next month," he said. "They will put up new white ones. Plain ones. Nobody asked me."

"I did not know."

"Most people do not. They are only lamps." He looked at the tube. "But number nineteen has a bent arm. Number four always has a gull on top. Number twelve hums when you stand close. I wanted to keep every one."

"One picture each?"

"Only one. I have no money for more film. Every lamp got one chance." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Without this roll, the whole year is gone."

Alma looked up. From the beach, the pier looked different. Thirty-six small suns stood in a long line over the water. Each one was a little different from the next.

"I walk here every evening," she said. "I never saw the numbers until tonight."

"Now you know them."

"Now I know them. I will look at number nineteen first."

They stood up and brushed the sand from their coats. Naveen held the tube in both hands again. He did not open it. He only held it close.

"Is it all right?" asked Alma.

"It is perfect." He smiled for the first time. "Every lamp is in here. You saved my whole year."