The Bridges of Madison County / Мосты округа Мэдисон. Роберт Джеймс Уоллер

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promise: If I decide not to write the story, I must agree never to mention what happened in Madison County[4], Iowa, in 1965 or other events that followed over the next twenty-four years. All right, that's reasonable. After all, it's their story, not mine.

      So I listen. I listen hard, and I ask hard questions. And they talk. On and on they talk.[5] Carolyn cries openly at times, Michael struggles not to. They show me documents and magazine clippings and a set of journals written by their mother, Francesca.

      Room service[6] comes and goes. Extra coffee is ordered. As they talk, I begin to see the images. First you must have the images, then come the words. And I begin to hear the words, begin to see them on pages of writing. Sometime just after midnight, I agree to write the story – or at least attempt it.

      Their decision to make this information public was a difficult one for them. The circumstances are delicate, involving their mother and touching upon their father. Michael and Carolyn recognized that the story going public might result in dirty gossip and affect good memories people have of Richard and Francesca Johnson.

      Yet in a world where personal commitment[7] in all of its forms seems to be destroyed and love has become a matter of convenience, they both felt this remarkable tale was worth the telling. I believed then, and I believe even more strongly now, they were correct making this decision.

      In the course of my research and writing, I asked to meet with Michael and Carolyn three more times. On each occasion, and without complaint, they traveled to Iowa. Such was their eagerness to make sure the story was told accurately. Sometimes we merely talked; sometimes we slowly drove the roads of Madison County while they pointed out places having a significant role in the story.

      In addition to the help provided by Michael and Carolyn, the story as I tell it here is based on information contained in the journals of Francesca Johnson; research carried out in Madison County, Iowa; information obtained from the photographic essays of Robert Kincaid; and long discussions with several wonderful elderly people in Ohio, who remembered Kincaid from his boyhood days.

      In spite of the effort, gaps remain. I have added a little of my own imagination in some instances, but only when I felt I had gained the intimate familiarity with Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid through my research. I am confident that I have come very close to what actually happened.

      One major gap involves the exact details of a trip made across the northern United States by Kincaid. We knew he made this journey, based on a number of photographs published, a brief mention of it by Francesca Johnson in her journals, and handwritten notes he left with a magazine editor. Using these sources as my guide, I retraced what I believe was the path he took from Bellingham[8] to Madison County in August of 1965. Driving toward Madison County at the end of my travels, I felt I had, in many ways, become Robert Kincaid.

      Still, trying to truly understand Kincaid was the most challenging part of my research and writing. He is an elusive figure. At times he seems rather ordinary. At other times ethereal. In his work he was a consummate professional[9]. Yet he saw himself as a peculiar kind of male animal becoming obsolete in a world given over to increasing amounts of organization[10].

      Two other intriguing questions are still unanswered. First, we have been unable to know what became of Kincaid's photographic files. Given the nature of his work[11], there must have been thousands, probably hundreds of thousands, of photographs. These never have been found. Our best guess[12] – and this would be logical to the way he saw himself and his place in the world – is that he destroyed them before his death.

      The second question deals with his life from 1975 to 1982. Very little information is available. We know he earned a sparse living[13] as a portrait photographer in Seattle for several years and continued to photograph the Puget Sound[14] area. Other than that, we have nothing.[15]

      Preparing and writing this book has altered my world view, transformed the way I think, and, most of all, reduced my level of cynicism about what is possible in the arena of human relationships. Coming to know Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid, I find the boundaries of such relationships can be extended farther than I previously thought[16]. Perhaps you will have the same experience in reading this story.

      That will not be easy. In an increasingly callous world[17], I'm not sure where great passion leaves off and mawkishness begins. But our tendency to laugh at the possibility of deep feelings makes it difficult to enter the realm of gentleness[18] to understand the story of Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid. I know I had to overcome that tendency initially before I could begin writing.

      If, however, you manage to suspend your disbelief[19], as Coleridge[20] put it, I am confident you will experience what I have experienced. And deep in your heart, you may even find, as Francesca Johnson did, room to dance again.

      Summer 1991

      The Bridges of Madison County

      Robert Kincaid

      On the morning ofAugust 8, 1965, Robert Kincaid locked the door to his small two-room apartment on the third floor of a house in Bellingham, Washington. He carried a knapsack full ofphotography equipment and a suitcase down wooden stairs and through a hallway to the back, where his old Chevrolet pickup truck[21] was parked in a space reserved for residents of the building.

      Another knapsack, a medium-size ice chest[22], two tripods, cartons of Camel cigarettes[23], a Thermos, and a bag of fruit were already inside. In the truck box was a guitar case. Kincaid arranged the knapsacks on the seat and put the cooler and tripods on the floor. He climbed into the truck box, stepped in behind the wheel, lit a Camel, and went through his mental checklist[24]: two hundred rolls of film; tripods; cooler; three cameras and five lenses; jeans and khaki slacks; shirts. Okay. Anything else he could buy on the road if he had forgotten it.

      Kincaid wore faded Levi's, well-used field boots, a khaki shirt, and orange suspenders. On his wide leather belt was fastened a Swiss Army knife[25] in its own case.

      He looked at his watch: eight-seventeen. The truck started on the second try, and he backed out, shifted gears[26], and moved slowly down the alley under hazy sun. Through the streets of Bellingham he went, heading south on Washington 11[27], running along the coast of Puget Sound for a few miles, then following the highway before meeting U.S. Route 20.

      Turning into the sun, he began the long, winding drive[28] through the Cascades[29]. He liked this country and felt impressed, stopping now and then to make notes about interesting possibilities for future expeditions or to shoot what he called “memory snapshots.” The purpose of these photographs was to remind him of places he might want to visit again and approach more seriously.

      He wished for the thousandth time in his life that he had a dog, a golden retriever, maybe, for travels like this and to keep him company at home. But he was frequently away, overseas much of the time, and it would not be fair to the animal. Still, he thought about it anyway. In a few

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