The Buyer Sent His Terms And Asked For Our Silence

Felix Saye's lawyer answered Ruth's return request with a five-page letter.

The first page called him a good-faith purchaser.

The second said he had possession of three reels and a contract for nine more.

The third offered to settle if we delivered the rest and surrendered all scans.

"Surrendered?" I said.

Beatrice turned to the attached agreement.

Nadim had promised twelve original reels from The Last Shift, together with every existing copy under the seller's control. The buyer would have sole power to show, copy, or withhold them.

The remaining payment was $69,000.

"He sold the right to make them disappear," I said.

"He promised a right he may never have held," Beatrice replied. "That distinction matters."

The archive was still in the estate's custody. The will hearing would decide which documents governed it. Until then, Ruth had the duty to protect it.

She hired me for a written condition survey at my normal rate. Twenty hours meant $480. I tracked each quarter hour. I needed the money, but I also needed a record nobody could call a favor.

On each form I marked shrinkage, torn perforations, warped edges, and old repairs. Under ownership, I wrote: Estate Of Salma Azzi, Subject To Pending Proceedings.

It was a long answer. It was the true one.

The nine reels still in Providence went into suitable cool storage under Ruth's control. We photographed the seals. I left four clear frames before each new leader splice so a later worker could see where my work began.

Nadim complained about the $1,200 storage estimate.

"You're draining the estate to make yourself useful."

"The estimate includes a full year," Ruth said. "Your freight bill was $1,450 for one trip."

He asked to speak to her alone.

She said the records would stay in the room.

Meanwhile, Beatrice checked the buyer's claims. Felix was a private collector with a small screening room and a large paid storage unit. His lawyer confirmed the signature on the delivery slip was his.

He had wanted his name kept off the sales pages because he disliked bids against him, the lawyer said.

"Then why keep it from the person caring for the films?" I asked.

Beatrice added that question to her notes.

Felix agreed to one call with Ruth and both lawyers present. I joined to explain the condition risks. He spoke as if every minute had been priced.

"I've put substantial money down," he said.

"Which Mr. Haddad received," Ruth answered.

"That's between your family members."

"It's an estate matter. Where are the three reels?"

"Secure."

I asked for the temperature and humidity records.

"They were old when I bought them," he said.

"That doesn't answer my question."

He asked if I was a lawyer.

"I'm the conservator."

"Then let the people with authority speak."

I looked at the copy of the codicil beside my notebook.

"I'm here because storage conditions can't wait for the hearing," I said. "Are the cans near a heat source?"

He ended the call.

Afterward, Ruth asked me to write down exactly what I had asked and what he'd answered. The absence of an answer went into the record too.

That evening, an older woman named Nora came to the archive's locked door. She'd worked at the dye works and appeared in Aunt Salma's film.

"I heard somebody bought us," she said.

I let her sit in the little office, away from the stored film.

"The sale is disputed. We're working to bring the reels back."

"Salma promised our library could always show a copy."

I found the release folder. Each worker had signed a plain permission form. Salma's promise of a community screening copy was written beneath it.

Nora touched her own name.

"I kept mine too."

We copied her paper and gave her the original back. It didn't decide the will, but it showed one more promise Nadim had sold without reading.

"Is keeping all this paper part of fixing film?" she asked.

"It is if you want to know who can show it."

She nodded toward her own name on the release.

"Then keep that one flat. My hands weren't shaking when I signed it."

Near closing, Beatrice called. The people named as witnesses on the November will had received requests for statements.

One name belonged to a moving-company dispatcher. The other belonged to a delivery driver.

"Did they know Salma?" I asked.

"That's what we asked them."

I put the release folder back in its box. Outside, a bus hissed at the curb, then pulled away.

My phone rang again. An unknown number.

"I'm the dispatcher," a woman said. "My signature is on that will. But the only paper I signed for your cousin was a receipt for empty shelves."