The People in the Photo (7 page)

Paris, 17 January (email)

Dear Stéphane,

I don’t know how to tell you this. I know I must write this message and find the courage to send it, but I am already dreading the consequences.

I had another nightmare last night – a jumble of photos, my mother’s wedding ring, snippets of conversations we’ve had and in particular something you said about an image being the twin of another – and I think I have worked out what Sylvia was trying to say before she died.

The child is me, and the ‘forgotten birth’ is where I come from.

Not geographically. Genetically.

If you think about it, it all adds up. Our parents had known each other at least ten years. We’re almost certain they had an affair. Both happened to be in the same place in the same year: your father took hundreds of pictures of Brittany in 1968, and he passed through Saint-Malo. The photo of my mother pregnant was taken in Dinard, which is a few minutes away by boat
or car. And it must have been taken by Pierre. That’s why there are two copies: the one Vera showed me and the one in the ‘Brittany 1968’ album.

I dug out my father’s sketchbooks and started doing some calculations. I was born on 10 September 1968, which means I must have been conceived in early December 1967. Yet my parents were only married on 1 February; we know that from the wedding ring. Not only that, but the series of drawings my father made in Nouméa, New Caledonia, begin on 13 November of the previous year and carry on until
mid-January
(I suppose he must have come back to get married) at the rate of two or three entries a week. Therefore he was not in Europe at the beginning of that winter, yet in the picture taken the following August, my mother is clearly right at the end of her pregnancy.

There are two possible explanations: either I was born prematurely, or Michel Hivert is not my father. And if not him, who else could it be but Pierre Crüsten? Everything seems to point to him. Might Nataliya have confessed the truth at some point, or did a physical resemblance give the game away as I was growing up? That would explain everything: the shame surrounding her memory and the severity of your parents’ marital problems, assuming your mother had found out (an affair can be forgiven, but a child is another matter). Not to mention my father’s aloofness towards me which, if he knew I wasn’t his daughter, suddenly makes sense.

I’m trying to reason with myself, to convince myself this is nothing but a mesh of ludicrous theories. I’m afraid of being proved right. The implications would be just … unthinkable.

Help me to see clearly.

Hélène

x

Ashford, 17 January (email)

Dearest Hélène,

You’re mistaken. What you say is not true. It isn’t possible. My father had many faults, but he would never have abandoned a child (you in this case). And even less after your mother’s sudden death. Your theory doesn’t hold water for a second.

You are not my half-sister and I am not your
half-brother
. You must get that absurd notion out of your head. I understand that you’re very upset by what you have discovered and by Sylvia’s death, but don’t allow yourself to get carried away by ridiculous suppositions. They only tarnish the memory of our parents and are not at all helpful. And if that’s the kind of conclusion we’re going to come to, perhaps we’d better stop now.

Stéphane

Paris, 17 January (email)

Message received and understood. If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t exactly keen to be your sister either – I’m past the age of fantasising about long-lost siblings.

Hélène

Ashford, 31 January 2008

Dear Hélène,

January is drawing to a close and I’m ending the month with a heavy heart. I’ve been turning the words over and over in my mind for days on end without being able to find a way to express what I want to say.

I apologise for what I wrote to you two weeks ago.

My reply was terse and hurtful, and you didn’t deserve that. What’s more it was a stupid thing to say, since we are both certain that our parents had an affair, so why not a child together? We are gradually piecing together their story, and we can’t pick and choose only the bits we like.

To tell you the truth, the idea that we could be related caused me great disappointment. Disappointment at the idea that my father could have been a selfish, thoughtless man and a liar, who refused to take responsibility for the child he had fathered. An affair, I could imagine, but that, no, not at all.

Disappointment too, as I thought about all that pointless suffering: mine and Philippe’s (ultimately,
were we not merely obstacles to my father’s happiness, a family as a sort of stop-gap or a source of regret?), your father’s, if he realised the situation, and your own.

And, above all, consternation at the thought that the bond that has been growing between us these past months should so abruptly have to switch to a different kind of affection.

Now, I, too, have had time to think. And I still believe that you are wrong about the chain of events. Agreed, all the clues stack up. But that does not rule out the possibility of another explanation! Sylvia said something to you about birth and a child, I know, but she was dying, and suffering from Alzheimer’s too: how lucid is a person in that situation? You worked out the dates, fair enough. Except that many, many babies are born prematurely, and it is impossible to calculate the exact stage of a pregnancy from a simple photograph. Supposing Pierre and Nataliya saw each other again in December in Brittany, which we don’t know for sure – your mother lived in Paris! – they might not necessarily have resumed their affair straight away … and besides, given the times, especially in a religious family like yours, a wedding was nearly always preceded by a formal engagement period. Would Nataliya have had a lover during that time? You have to admit that there is a serious inconsistency there, which also applies to any suspicions you may have about an extramarital affair.

There is still the photo, the most delicate point, but also the one that most clearly supports my theory. Let’s imagine for a moment that my father, on a trip to Brittany, found out, from Jean Pamiat, for example, that Nataliya was on holiday in the area. He might have felt it was permissible to go and say hello to an old friend, now married and expecting her first child. Nothing reprehensible about that! Do you think he’d have taken the risk of showing up in front of your grandmother Daria and family friends if they’d been lovers? In my opinion, he must simply have taken a few photos as a memento of that afternoon. He would then, out of courtesy, have sent a set to Vera, one to Nataliya, and have kept one for his personal collection. Unless Pierre was never there and it was quite simply Jean who was the photographer.

The photos we have suggest that something must have happened between them
after
your birth; of that I am convinced. But that they should have had a child at that point in their respective lives doesn’t add up as far as I can see. And besides, you don’t look at all like my father or Philippe, or like me either.

There is one way to set our minds at rest, and that is to have a mitochondrial DNA test, which works for people who have one or two parents in common. I’m not an expert in animal biology, but I have some good colleagues and I know how to read a result. I enclose a testing kit. If you courier it back to me, we’ll have the
answer within a few days. Please forgive my churlish reaction to your theory. I can appreciate your reasoning even if I am resisting it energetically. But perhaps that’s a lot to ask.

Your friend in spite of everything,

Stéphane

Paris, 4 February 2008

Dear Stéphane,

Yes, I was hurt by what you said, although I must take a share of the blame for blurting out my theory in an email, which I should never have done.

I’m just as dismayed by the idea as you are and, I now feel able to say, for the same reasons. We’ve known each other almost a year now and I think of you often – and not just in the way one thinks about a brother. (As I write these words I see that I will have to live with their consequences. Too bad. I owe it to you to be open by now.)

Even so, I still don’t think my theory is as absurd as all that. The situation for women in 1968 was a lot more complicated than it is today. The bill to legalise contraception had only just been passed and had not yet come into effect; abortion was illegal and usually carried out in appalling conditions. Supposing Nataliya fell pregnant by Pierre during her engagement (and who’s to say she didn’t bring the wedding forward to avoid a scandal?), she would hardly be the first woman to try to pass off another man’s child as her husband’s.
And it’s quite possible your father would have known nothing about it, which would explain why he showed no interest in me.

The test is the only way to know for sure. I have followed all the instructions to the letter, so I hope the sample will be good enough to use.

Let me know as soon as you get the results.

Hélène

Paris, 10 February (email)

Dear Stéphane,

Thank you, thank you a thousand times for your phone call. You have no idea how relieved I am. And happy, what’s more. We said some things we’ll need to come back to, but for now the only thought in my mind is relief for both of us in knowing this: we are not brother and sister.

Hélène

x

Ashford, 10 February (email)

Dearest Hélène,

I’m relieved too. And happy. Very.

The rest, yes, we need to talk about it. And this time, we could avoid emailing, which I don’t think is the best way of having this conversation. When and where?

Kisses,

Stéphane

Paris, 11 February (email)

Dear Stéphane,

I’ve gone ahead and made a reservation for this coming Saturday at the Grand Hôtel des Thermes de Saint-Malo, where two rooms await us for the weekend. As you know, it’s a glorious place. I’m sure we will be made to feel very much at home there.

Hélène

17 February (text message)

Dearest Hélène, I’m back home filled with the memory of you. I hope you have no regrets. Perhaps this will come to nothing, perhaps it was just a parenthesis, perhaps we can’t hope for anything more. But it was so … extraordinary. Thinking of you, Stéphane

Paris, 17 February (email)

Dear, dear Stéphane,

No regrets
, as the song goes …

I knew when you came to see me in Paris it would happen sooner or later. I think we both did, didn’t we?

The thought was there, lodged in the back of my mind. It never left me. Even the day Sylvia died. In fact I think it was what gave me the strength to keep going.

As I have come to know you better, I’ve felt increasingly as if you have always been part of my life. You have been a place of refuge, a place I could breathe, someone who, like me, had been through loneliness and come out the other side. Though I sensed your eagerness, I was in no hurry to come to you; in a way, we were already together.

I don’t know what the future holds for us either, Stéphane. But yesterday morning when I saw you arrive outside the Grand Hôtel des Thermes, I realised I couldn’t imagine being without you, and your eyes told me you felt the same way too. Let’s pray we never have to be apart.

Hélène

II

Men, brother men, that after us live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be
François Villon

Ashford, 18 February (email)

Dearest Hélène,

What are you doing, what are you reading, what’s going on in your life?

And if you don’t have other plans, would you come to Geneva with me next weekend? As I said to you on the phone, Jean is asking for me all the time.

All my love,

Stéphane

Paris, 18 February (email)

Dear Stéphane,

As if you had to ask! Yes I will Yes, as Molly Bloom would say, come with you to Geneva. And we can stop off to see Jean on the way back; I’m dying to meet him. Did the nurse tell you exactly what happened?

I’ll be waiting for you at the flat on Friday. You know the way, but you’ll need the new magic number: B220.

A tender kiss,

Hélène

Ashford, 25 February (email)

Dearest Hélène,

It was so hard to say goodbye last night. I envy Bourbaki, who must have taken advantage to hog the other pillow (that cat thinks he owns the place). The weekend went like a dream: Philippe and Marie thought you were delightful. And they’re right, because you are. On the other hand, I don’t think they believed in our … ‘friendship’ – strange the discretion that makes us keep our relationship secret, as if we ourselves were afraid to believe in it.

Here, my trees can make eyes at me, but all I can think about are yours (eyes, not trees), and you have no idea how much the thought of this three-week field trip to Hawaii is getting me down. I leave in four days, when really I want to do the exact opposite, i.e. whizz over to Paris and join you, instead of flying off to the other side of the world. I do hope you’ll be good enough not to forget me while we’re apart.

When I got back, I opened the envelope that Jean’s nurse had given me; I should have taken the opportunity to do so on our last evening, but I had other things on my
mind, as you’ll have noticed, and I more or less decided to leave the envelope unopened. I’m sorry you weren’t allowed to see my godfather when we visited him, but he was too agitated to concentrate on a conversation. He was very anxious to get me to understand what he wanted to give me.

His nurse eventually found the object among his things: a large, thick, brown notebook in which he kept a diary (I didn’t know he had this habit). The volume I have is from 1972–3. But I can’t read it, because he wrote the whole thing in Russian. Although I don’t know the Cyrillic alphabet very well, I think I can recognise the name ‘Natasha’, which recurs often. I also found, in glassine paper, a series of negatives, but I’m not sure what they represent: a snowscape? I have taken them to an elderly photographer in London to develop. He’s charging a small fortune given the age of the film, but he’s promised to print them within three days.

So I’ll Fedex the diary and the prints to you before I leave. Do you think you’ll be able to translate it? Or have it translated? I am almost certain that it contains the key to our mystery.

But, for the time being, the mystery I’d like to resolve is the one that would enable me to turn the clocks forward. I miss you, Hélène.

Stéphane xxxxxxx

Ashford, 28 February 2008

In haste, before I leave, here’s Jean’s notebook. Wasn’t able to collect the photos in time to send them to you. I’ll pick them up on the way to the airport.

I’ll be thinking of you.

A thousand kisses,

Stéphane

Paris, 1 March (email)

Dear Stéphane,

Thank you for that long phone call from the other side of the world, which must have bankrupted you. I’m picturing you now sipping a long drink on the beach, turquoise waters lapping at your feet, enjoying the company of some voluptuous local woman. A cliché, I know! You lucky thing, invited to spend three weeks on an island paradise and all you can think about is getting back to Europe.

OK, I’m winding you up but 1) I’m flattered and 2) I can’t wait for you to come home either. I’m like a child counting down the days on the calendar. Honestly, at our age!

Your Fedex parcel arrived safe and sound. Only a thousand kisses? That’s not many, but I suppose I’ll have to make do. Joking aside, I’ve begun to flick through the diary. It does indeed talk about my mother. But I’m not used to the cursive writing and I’m finding it very tricky to decipher. It took me almost an entire evening to transcribe the first two pages. The Russian is quite complex and I’m only understanding about one
word in three. You said your godfather spoke Russian, but are you sure he wasn’t in fact Russian, or born into a Russian-speaking family?

So far I’ve managed to work out that the beginning of the diary talks about photographic jobs and somebody called Friedrich, who’s supposed to come to Geneva but doesn’t turn up.

The edges of the last page had been glued to the back cover to make a pocket. I carefully slit one side open with a Stanley knife. Inside, I found a photo of my mother, which I’ve scanned and attached. There’s no place or date written on the back.

Nataliya must be thirty-something in the picture, which would tally with the dates of the diary entries. But how sad she looks. She could be a different person from the bubbly girl in the choir photo and at the lunch. She doesn’t look well. Since she mentions a clinic twice in her diary, I wonder whether she was ill. If the whole accident story was not yet another lie to cover up the real reason for her death. A ‘shameful’ disease, as people used to say? Or tuberculosis, which was kept strictly hidden from children?

I’ve sent an email to Boris, one of my lecturers at the language school, and I’ll go and see him this week. He’s bilingual and has agreed to translate the diary for me for a fee. We’ll have to wait a little while for it, but it’ll be much quicker than trying to do it myself.

With a bit of luck, we’ll have it in time for your return.

If I were playing the game and being tactical, I should probably feign a certain indifference, but I’d be wasting my time: I miss you terribly.

Kisses, my globetrotter,

Hélène

Hawaii, 2 March (email)

Aloha, my love!

While it’s probably grey in Paris, I’m basking in the sun on my forty-fourth-floor balcony, sipping a chemical concoction so full of sugar that my blood-glucose level is alarming.

There’s an unobstructed view over the island’s biggest car park, I think, with a patch of blue that looks vaguely like the sea at the far end. I’m struggling with the jet lag. Classes start the day after tomorrow. This afternoon my American colleague and I are meeting for a guided tour of part of the city, if I’ve understood correctly.

No time to look at the photos, which remained in my checked-in suitcase during the journey. I’ll write more about them as soon as I can. As for the photo you sent me, that chapel looks familiar; I’m sure I’ve been there before. But when?

On that note, I’m going to take myself off for a walk for a few hours until it’s time to meet my colleague: I’ll take loads of pictures for you, I promise.

Kisses from under the palm trees,

Stéphane

Paris, 3 March (email)

Dearest exile,

Tell me about this walk then: colourful streets, clear blue seas, lush vegetation? I need photos, details!

It’s grey and horrible here – as usual. No magical tree has sprung up beside the Seine, and I haven’t had time to go to the language school. The one thing I absolutely mustn’t forget is to go and see Sylvia’s solicitor; I’ve made an appointment for later in the week. It’s the last thing I feel like doing.

I miss you.

Kisses from me and from Bourbaki too,

Hélène

Hawaii, 4 March (email)

Dear Hélène,

Sorry for my belated reply. Yesterday, I dozed off in the middle of writing the email I meant to send you. My excuse is that I gave my first seminar at the university, and my body’s protesting at changing time zones so fast!

In reality, this ‘paradise island’ is a very strange place. Endless blue lagoons, plus palm trees, minus the Grand Hôtel des Thermes, honestly, you’d swear it was Saint-Malo … right down to the temperature of the water, brrr. At times the wind is almost cold and you’re shivering, and two minutes later you’re boiling hot under a scorching sun. The proof that the biologist’s ability to survive resides in the speed with which he adapts: I hurriedly went off to find the shop that sells those ghastly university baseball caps with huge visors that the students all wear. I bought one for you too; it’ll wow everyone at your Parisian dinner parties.

On the other hand, I marvel at the vegetation. Here I’m able to observe specimens that I’d only seen in botanical gardens, or in photos. You’ll say that’s why
I’ve travelled eleven thousand kilometres, but it is strange to be able to touch plants that for me were mostly abstract images. I’m looking forward to the excursion to Big Island this weekend: another hour’s flight, but I think it will be worth it. Be prepared to sit through endless slide shows during our long winter nights (which I sometimes find myself dreaming of, like the staid old Englishman I am at heart).

With love,

Stéphane

5 March (text message)

A goodnight kiss from here as you wake up there. Thinking of you. Hélène.

5 March (text message)

Day here, night over there, I constantly see your face.

Stéphane

Paris, 6 March (email)

Dear Stéphane,

It was so nice to hear your voice first thing this morning! You’ll have gathered Bourbaki was happy to hear from you too from his enthusiastic meowing (though for the sake of scientific objectivity, I must point out this cat had not yet had his breakfast). I’m really glad the trip is going well. But I’d be even gladder if it could hurry up and finish.

Last night I went for a coffee after work with Boris, the lecturer at INALCO, to hand him a copy of the journal. I asked him to translate only the passages pertaining to two people by the names of Nataliya and Pierre, without going into any more detail. He promised to call me in ten days or so to let me know how he’s getting on. I stayed on the café terrace after he had gone and smoked a cigarillo, breaking all my good resolutions. I felt strangely on edge, as if by showing these pages to an outsider, I had thrown a boomerang that would come back and hit me. I couldn’t stand the cold any longer and went home. I think it must be this
grey weather that’s getting me down. Or being without my favourite lover. One or the other.

A thousand kisses,

H.

Honolulu, 7 March (email)

Dear Hélène,

Your favourite lover, as you call me (just you wait), is getting ready to board a Hawaii Airlines flight to visit the volcanoes on Big Island and risk his life (well, I’m exaggerating a little) to bring you back some magnificent photographs.

I’m joking, but I sensed a note of anxiety in your last email. I’m sorry to have burdened you with those documents before leaving. I should have waited until I was back, so as not to be so far away from you if you discover something that upsets you. We have already suffered that kind of situation. But from now on, we must tell ourselves, we’re in this together.

I think I know where that last photo of your mother was taken. I’ll tell you on my return from the island.

In the meantime, love and kisses,

Stéphane