Read The People in the Photo Online
Authors: Hélène Gestern
Ashford, 20 July 2007
Dear Hélène,
Yes, here we are playing the family archaeologists, and this situation isn’t exactly comfortable, even though we sometimes get caught up in the game. From time to time I tell myself that if we draw a blank, at least I’ll have had the opportunity of getting to know you and sharing with you some of the silences that weigh so heavily on me ordinarily. But reading your letter, I realise the silences you have had to deal with are much worse than mine. Even if your adoptive mother was loving, it must have been difficult to grow up knowing nothing of the person who brought you into the world.
You ask about the experiment that is keeping me in England. I am trying to isolate the genetic markers that make it possible to identify the links between certain species of trees. You could say I am an expert on tree DNA! That makes people laugh when I talk about my work in a social situation, and I’m nicknamed the CSI of the plane tree (I’m barely exaggerating), but you have no idea how much plant life has to teach us about
the workings – and above all the malfunctions – of human life.
I have been researching the subject for over
twenty-five
years, but I feel as though I’m only at the beginning of a study that could take several lifetimes. At home, I also have a garden, hence my choice to live outside London. I have fun in it growing a few rare specimens. No need to tell you that the results sometimes astonish the neighbours.
I’m thinking of going to Geneva around 20 August. My suggestion might sound a little inappropriate, but I was wondering whether you would like to come too and sort through the photographs with me. Who better than you to recognise your mother and other people in the photos? And I also thought that being an archivist you’d enjoy discovering my father’s work, his cityscapes, in particular. We could also take the opportunity to drop in and say hello to Jean Pamiat on the way back: I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you, if he knew your mother well. The house is big and has a private guest apartment: so no problem on that front. But perhaps you have other holiday plans, or someone special keeping you in Paris? In any case, feel free to accept or refuse my invitation.
I hope to hear from you very soon.
Warmest wishes,
Stéphane
Paris, 26 July 2007
Dear Stéphane,
Thank you for your invitation, which I would be delighted to accept. Sylvia no longer has any sense of time and I now realise it makes little difference to her whether she goes forty-eight hours or three weeks without seeing me. It’s awful, but that’s the way it is. In reality, the only significant other keeping me in Paris is my cat, Bourbaki. I’ll leave him with my neighbour, who adores him and spoils him outrageously.
What’s more, it means I will finally have the pleasure of meeting you ‘in real life’. It seems rather old-fashioned nowadays, but I always enjoy actually meeting people I have corresponded with in the flesh, especially once they’ve become friends.
Yesterday I went to Rue de la Mouzaïa to visit the address on the driving licence. I found number 142 and rang the doorbell, but the shutters were closed and there was no answer. The owners must be away; I will try again once the holidays are over.
Nevertheless, it was strange to think I was taking the same route my mother must have walked every day, and
as I passed through the
quartier
(which is really rather lovely, by the way) I tried to see it as she would have done, as the backdrop to her daily life. Did she ride her bike or play ball on the pavement? Did she sit by the window watching visitors arrive? As I put my hand to the doorknob, it occurred to me that hers must have turned that same knob dozens of times, and it was as though all these years later we were somehow able to touch one another across time. I came home feeling very shaken and quite melancholy.
Because of this, I’ve decided to take another break from my enquiries, which are turning out to be more emotionally draining than I had envisaged, and am heading to Deauville for a few days (with Bourbaki). Let’s speak when I get back to sort out the details of our Geneva trip. I’m really looking forward to going through the photos with you.
Best wishes,
Hélène
The photograph is creased, its edges dog-eared. A thick stripe, where it has been folded, cuts vertically down the centre of the image. It shows a group of children and teenagers of varying ages, flanked by three adults: a bearded man in vestments and two women of average build. There are about fifteen people in the picture altogether and none of them is smiling. Behind them, a painted wooden panel that appears to be a screen is just visible; the presence, to its left, of an Orthodox cross tells us it is in fact an iconostasis and that the photo was taken inside a church.
The hairstyles, the shape of the glasses and cut of the clothes suggest the picture dates from the 1950s. From the slightly dishevelled appearance of the youngest boys, the dusty shoes, tartan skirts and coarse cloth smocks, it is apparent that all or most of the subjects are working-class. Standing a little apart to the right, a very fair-haired adolescent girl marks herself out from the group both in stance and facial expression – that of a princess who has strayed among paupers. She wears her glossy hair in a thick braid drawn back so
tightly at the temples that they reflect the light from the flash. She has on a plain, light-coloured dress with a slightly low-cut neckline, the hem falling just below the knee, worn with ankle boots and a neck scarf. A small bag hangs demurely from her forearm. Her blasé expression and slightly aloof air, like a film star weary of being hounded by paparazzi, are probably modelled on a cover girl.
Next to her, a girl of about the same age – fifteen or so – stands tall, thin and rather gawky in an oversized man’s raincoat and strap shoes. Her thick, slightly wavy hair is tied back but several strands have escaped to fall around her face. Her high cheekbones and slightly slanting eyes would give her an Asian or Slavic appearance if the butterfly-frame glasses had not imposed their Western geometry on her exotic features. She has her hands in her pockets, her white socks are rucked and her angular bone structure gives her a tomboy look. To her left is a short young man with the ghost of a moustache. He must have borrowed his suit jacket and loosely knotted tie from his father. He has slicked his hair back, but a sweet little curl has flopped back onto his forehead. Puffing out his chest, he looks every bit the romantic male lead, or like a teenage Marcel Proust.
On the back of the photo, someone has written in French, ‘Saint-Serge parish choir, La Mouzaïa, 1955’.
Deauville, 1 August 2007 (postcard)
Dear Stéphane,
Greetings from Deauville, where the beach is even more perfect than it looks in the photo. I hope all’s well with your trees’ DNA, and with you too.
All the best,
Hélène
Ashford, 7 August (email)
Dear Hélène,
Thank you for your card. Did Bourbaki go swimming? I’ve finally made my plans for the journey: since I was able to get a reasonably priced ticket on the Shuttle, I’m going to drive to Geneva. So I could come via Paris and pick you up: we just need to agree on the day, the time and the place.
Phone me this evening if you like, to finalise arrangements.
Warmest wishes,
Stéphane
PS One of my plane trees has just been cleared thanks to its genetic fingerprint. I’m seeking another culprit.
Paris, 9 August (email)
Dear Stéphane,
I took advantage of my time off to go back to Rue de l’Observatoire and do a bit more sorting before we leave. While I was there I came across something which I have scanned and wanted to send you straight away.
My father, who was an old-fashioned scholar, amassed a collection of specialist dictionaries over his lifetime, particularly botanical ones, and he spent a good part of his retirement poring over them, pencil in hand. When Sylvia was still more or less
compos mentis
, she asked me to catalogue them and to hold on to a couple of volumes as a reminder of him.
I started dusting them off yesterday, hoping to come across some rare botanical tome that might be of interest to you. Instead I spotted an odd one out, an old Makarov Russian–French dictionary. It was so tatty that it almost fell apart in my hands when I took it down from the shelf. As I was trying to slot the loose sheets back in, I noticed a slight bulge between the centre pages: something had been slipped inside. I opened it up and found what I initially took to be a class picture, but in fact it’s a photo of a choir.
There are no names written on it, which is a real shame. But I would say the young woman with her hands in her pockets could well be my mother. She looks like a much younger version of the woman in the newspaper clipping, only with a different haircut. It’s something about her expression. What do you think? And what’s more, I would swear blind the rather uptight-looking blonde girl is my adoptive mother, Sylvia. I recognise her eyes, the look on her face and the slightly rigid posture, like that of a ballet dancer. And I’m absolutely amazed to see her there. As a teenager, when I asked her about my mother, she always claimed never to have met her. Yet they must be about fifteen in this picture, which means they were actually childhood friends. The web of lies is even more complex than I imagined. What exactly they’re hiding is still a mystery.
I doubt Sylvia will be able to enlighten me, as her illness is in its advanced stages. She doesn’t know who I am any more. But I’ve been told that Alzheimer’s sufferers sometimes have clear long-term recollections. I will try to talk to her about it, if I catch her on a day when I can get through to her – mostly she’s in her own little world. Several times over the last few months she has called me ‘Natasha’, which I had put down to her simply muddling names. But if that really is my mother in the photo, Sylvia must be taking me for the girl she used to see at the Orthodox church as a teenager.
The inscription on the back gives the same road name as the driving licence. I had a look online and it seems there is still an Orthodox church in the area called
Saint-Serge
de Radonège. I’ll head over there and take a look before we go, and will let you know what I find out.
See you very soon!
Hélène
Ashford, 14 August (email)
Dear Hélène,
I’ve looked closely at the photo you sent me. Like you, I’m almost certain that the brunette is the same woman as the one in the newspaper cutting. And I have another clue: I believe that the young man dressed like a dandy is Jean Pamiat. His face looks familiar. I’m not absolutely sure, but it would fit with his appearance and his style, and would perhaps explain how our parents met. If your mother, Nathalie, and he were childhood friends and kept in touch as adults, he would certainly have introduced her to his closest friend, my father, at some point. We’ll be seeing Jean in a few days. As I believe I’ve already told you, he is very frail, it’s almost impossible to understand what he is saying, and I don’t know whether he is able to remember anything. But we communicate, a little, through exclamations and hand signs, and if I move my finger slowly over the alphabet, he is able to ‘dictate’ little messages by blinking. We’ll talk to him about Nataliya Zabvina and perhaps that will stimulate his memory.
In the meantime, I’m busy preparing for our trip, and
I too am looking forward to it. I love my trees, but at the moment they are a hindrance. I expect to arrive in Paris on the evening of the 24th, and I’ve made a note of how to get to our meeting place. I have taken the liberty of booking a table at the Épicerie Russe, in Rue Daru – it seemed an appropriate place to celebrate our meeting! Even if the reasons that made us turn detective are no laughing matter, I must confess I’m getting caught up in this adventure and can imagine several scenarios, and events – it’s like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. I probably watch too much TV.
See you very soon.
Stéphane
24 August (text message)
Left five voicemails after you’d set off, but don’t know if you’ve picked them up. Hospital rang: Sylvia has pneumonia again and is in a very bad way. Can’t come to Geneva. Will send news when I can. Hélène.
24 August (text message)
I’m so sorry. You are very much in my thoughts. All the best. Stéphane
24 August (text message)
Sylvia in critical condition, prognosis not good. Must stay with her. Drive carefully. H.
24 August (text message)
Be strong. Thinking of you. Stéphane
The photo was taken outdoors under an arbour, at the end of a meal: a Sunday lunch or special occasion, judging by the fine china and white tablecloth. There are five people sitting at a round table on which all that remains apart from a few napkins, a sugar bowl, teaspoons and wine glasses, one of which is half full, is a copper samovar surrounded by little tea bowls. On the left of the image sits a matronly woman in a black dress, the bottom half of which is partly covered by a paler fabric, most likely an apron. The photographer must have told her to turn her chair in and sit at a slight angle so that he could see her face. She has black hair with white streaks, parted neatly in the middle, almond eyes and high cheekbones flushed from the sun, or from the wine. Her features are softened by plumpness but the bone structure of her face is still firm, and there is a little beauty spot above her top lip. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap. A fat black and white cat lies stretched out at her feet, eyes closed, relishing the coolness of the flagstones against its thick fur.
Next to the woman is an empty place where the
photographer must have been sitting. In the next chair is Jean Pamiat, dapper as always in a blazer and straw boater, wearing a bow tie and a pale shirt. The waxed tips of his pencil moustache are turned up at the ends, lending him the same old-fashioned air he has in almost every picture. To his left, Nataliya Zabvina is also wearing a hat, a wide-brimmed one that casts a shadow over part of her forehead. She looks straight at the camera, myopic eyes wide open, smiling in amusement at something. Her hands are placed in front of her on the table. One hand, displaying a finely engraved silver ring on the fourth finger, is holding an unlit cigarette. The other is closed around something, probably a lighter. Next to Nataliya, a young man with a crew cut sits awkwardly in a suit and striped tie. He is unsmiling and seems uncomfortable in front of the camera which has captured him with his mouth part open, giving an impression of gormlessness.
The last person in frame should be sitting next to this young man, but has moved to avoid having his back to the camera, which is perhaps why he is standing behind Nataliya; he seems to have chosen not to sit in the photographer’s place. He is blond, clean-shaven, his hair shorn in an almost regulation cut. His dark glasses sit on top of his head. He too holds a cigarette, but a lit one with a thin curl of smoke rising from it. His other hand, out of sight, is probably resting on the back of Nataliya’s chair. The man is tall, dressed in smart, crisp front-pleated trousers, a light-coloured short-sleeved
shirt and a plain tie. His relaxed pose, bronzed skin, glasses and slight smile at the camera in no way detract from his elegant bearing.
The wall behind them is partly covered with ivy, but a door can be glimpsed. Its lintel is decorated with ceramic tiles in the style of an Etruscan mosaic, overgrown in places by dense vegetation. The wisteria flowering under the arbour has wound itself around the frame and its lush foliage suggests the photo was taken in late spring or early summer. All the lunch guests, with the exception of the young man on the right of the picture, have the satiated, slightly hazy look that comes from eating well, no doubt accentuated by the warmth of the sun. And at the centre of the picture, Nataliya and Pierre, eternally joined by chance – places at a table, a hand resting on a chair, some gelatin and a dash of silver nitrate – look like lovers betrothed for evermore.
Geneva, 27 August 2007
Dearest Hélène,
I’m glad to hear that Sylvia is recovering and has regained consciousness, even if the prognosis is not very reassuring. I hope I didn’t bother you too much when I called the hospital last night. I was concerned about you.
Don’t worry about Geneva. Let’s just say it’s postponed and we’ll find another opportunity. We’ll make one, if need be.
My task here is turning out to be more difficult than I anticipated. My father left more than a hundred boxes, each one containing several albums, but they were packed up any old how by the removal men who cleared out his studio. Result: although the albums are all dated, I still haven’t managed to pick up the trail, since the years are all muddled up. At first, I selected boxes at random. As I opened each one, I hoped for a miraculous find, but soon realised that this frantic activity wouldn’t get me anywhere. So now I’m going through the boxes one at a time, as you are doing in your parents’ apartment, and I’m trying to put them in chronological order. Each box
weighs a ton, making the job all the more difficult. Over the last few days, the only area in which I’ve made any progress is in the aches and pains department!
Being back in Geneva is quite strange. Not all my memories of this bland and deceptively sleepy city are happy. Returning to my parents’ former home has stirred other recollections that are no more positive. My self-imposed exile in England is probably a means of escaping both from the place and the past associated with it. Sometimes, when I think I might have lived and worked here, I’m glad I found the courage to leave.
I hope all’s well with you, despite your current worries.
All the best,
Stéphane
PS Eureka! I’m opening the letter up again because I almost misled you: flicking through an album from 1960 (views of Paris) before going to bed, I’ve just found a photo which I think will greatly interest you. I’ll photocopy it tomorrow and pop it into the envelope. I’m very excited about it actually: this time, we have the link between our parents. Do you recognise this little garden or courtyard?
Paris, 30 August (email)
Dear Stéphane,
I’ve just received your letter from Switzerland, with the photocopy of the picture. Looking at it has made me emotional, almost overwhelmingly so. Your father and my mother look so young, so beautiful and – there’s no denying it – so perfectly matched. I feel I am looking at a picture of a couple. This leads me to a rather delicate question I have been mulling over for some time, but which you may find a shocking suggestion: do you think our parents might once have had a relationship? A love affair, I mean? You told me Jean Pamiat met your father during their military service. Let’s say Jean made the most of a few days’ leave to take his pal to Paris for lunch with an old friend from church, and Pierre fell in love with Nataliya? Or maybe it was Jean who was in love with Nataliya, and your father simply kept the photo as a reminder of Sunday lunch with one of his army buddies?
I could well be barking up the wrong tree altogether and reading far too much into these pictures, of course. But we can safely say that our parents knew each other
well before Interlaken, and well before their respective marriages too. What I don’t know is where the picture might have been taken; I don’t recognise the place at all.
I’m also puzzled by the other people sitting around that table. Studying the photo more closely, it seems to me that the stout woman on the left and Nataliya resemble one another: look at the Slavic cheekbones and eyes. I wonder if I might be looking at a picture of my maternal grandmother for the first time, the grandma I never knew. And that thought has just made me cry. I suppose my present emotional state may have something to do with it.
I really hope all this speculation doesn’t upset you, although I don’t think either of us would judge our parents – it’s not our place to judge them, no matter what they may have done. And I would like to talk to you about it face to face. Sylvia’s condition seems to have stabilised, for the time being at least, so I have a suggestion: when you come through Paris on your way back from Geneva, how about dropping in for a coffee or dinner at my place? It would be a good chance for us finally to meet and discuss some of these questions.
Warmest wishes,
Hélène
Geneva, 30 August (email)
Dear Hélène,
Thanks to my 3G dongle, I’ve just picked up your email and am replying straight away.
I’m so sorry the photo upset you. No wonder, I can imagine how distressing it must be to discover the existence of a family you have never known.
I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to worry about my reaction to suppositions that I have shared from the start. Like you, I think that there was something between our parents: I’m convinced they had an affair, and that it was definitely to Nataliya, the ‘fox’, that my father dedicated that portrait. Their relationship could have been the cause of the arguments and the crisis between my mother and father in 1973. Our families would have hushed the whole thing up and kept it from us for fear of a scandal. But that doesn’t shed any light on the circumstances of your mother’s death. In any case, it is unlikely that the relationship, if indeed there was one, was between Nataliya and Jean (who I’m going to visit tomorrow on the way back): he has always preferred boys.
Meet you in Paris? Yes, and with great pleasure. I didn’t dare suggest it myself, not wanting to impose on you at a time like this. I’m planning to stop there overnight anyway, before driving on to Calais. I expect to arrive around 5 p.m. and can meet you in the evening. If you could suggest a good hotel not too far away from your place, and, if you are free, it would be my pleasure to invite you to dinner. I’ve actually decided to bring some of the albums back to England to sort them out at home. If we have time, we could look at some of them together.
I’ll be on email until Friday morning.
With best wishes,
Stéphane
Paris, 30 August (email)
Dear Stéphane,
I can recommend Le Jardin Secret on Rue de Nancy, near the Gare de l’Est: clean, not too pricey and just around the corner from where I live. The easiest thing would be for you to come over when I get back from work, around 7.30 p.m. My culinary skills leave much to be desired, but I can feed you at least. Then we’ll be able to look through the albums at our leisure. My door code is 284A. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any problems.
In the meantime, safe journey, and hope the visit to your godfather goes well.
Can’t wait to see you.
Hélène