Read The People in the Photo Online
Authors: Hélène Gestern
The People in the Photo (4 page)
She is lounging in a deck chair on a terrace surrounded by wrought-iron railings beyond which a silvery, sparkling triangle of sea can be glimpsed. Various objects are laid out at her feet: an open book with a damaged spine, a little canvas bag, a tube of sun cream and a lacquer cigarette lighter. A big umbrella in a plastic stand shields her from the afternoon sun; its tilt and the tautness of the fabric suggest a breeze is blowing. A few metres away, two children – a boy and a girl – are playing on the flagstones with what look like twigs. Behind the deck chair to the left is a white wrought-iron table, and on it is a large wooden tray with a domed metal cafetière, six china cups, a
misted-up
jug of water, a packet of Craven A – recognisable even though the camera angle has squashed the black cat logo – and a bowl of apricots. Sitting next to the table, a woman of around forty wearing trousers and a blouse is holding a spoon, a sign that tea is about to be served. There is another woman next to her, her corpulent frame squeezed into a summer frock that emphasises every roll of fat. She has put glasses on to
count the rows of knitting in front of her, to which she devotes her full attention. She too is sheltering under an umbrella, a bigger one with stripes.
The young woman in the deck chair is wearing a typical 1960s dress with a wide rectangular neckline, bold geometric cut and diamond pattern. The straps of her bra which compresses her breasts are visible through the fabric. Her left arm is darker than the rest of the body, testifying to a recent touch of sunburn; her right hand rests on her belly. Only her swollen ankles protrude from beneath the light cotton throw covering her legs; her shoes dangle from her feet with the straps unbuckled, leaving a red mark on her skin. Her eyes are half shut, as if she is dozing; perspiration has slicked her thick hair to the side of her face, while the tortoiseshell comb has come loose, defeated.
The photograph has captured in its chemistry the blinding summer light falling vertically, flooding every pale surface it touches – the dress, the table, the little boy’s cap. The image has the torpid, intense flavour of a summer afternoon, as confirmed by the words written on the back in Cyrillic,
1968’. Moreover, seeing her in profile, it is difficult to ignore the fact that Nataliya Zabvina is at least eight months pregnant.
Paris, 7 September 2007
Dear Stéphane,
I hope you got back OK and that your trees were happy to see you again.
I’m so glad we were able to spend the evening together. I must admit I already had some idea of what to expect (physically, I mean) because I’d looked you up on your lab’s website. But it goes without saying: the photo doesn’t do you justice!
I already felt as if I knew you after reading your letters, but I hadn’t realised just how alike we are and how many of the same demons we are fighting – which is a bit sad when you think about it. Sometimes I wonder what ‘truth’ it is we’re chasing after exactly, and what kind of state it will leave us in if we find it.
Anyway, it was wonderful to chat over a good Bordeaux – the bottle you brought really was quite something – while we looked through the photos. It’s not often I get the chance to talk to someone about all this and, in a selfish way, being able to share it with you has helped take the weight off me. I’m grateful for the time we spent together. If you’re ever in Paris again, en route to Geneva or for work, do let me know.
After you left, I mulled over what you’d told me about the way Jean Pamiat reacted when he heard that we were in touch. It’s hard to be sure what he meant, given his speech difficulties, but don’t you think he might have been trying to tell you something about my mother?
Here, it’s back to work (with a vengeance). I’ve been asked to edit the catalogues for two new exhibitions, one on the flooding of Paris in 1910, the other on
working-class
living conditions in the early 1900s, which I will also be curating. Very exciting projects, but I’m not quite sure how we’re going to get it all done by Christmas.
We have already been sent eleven crates of archive material that I have begun to sift through. I always get the same spooky feeling when I catch the gaze of someone photographed a hundred years ago, looking back at you from beyond the grave. Often, the wording on the cards is charmingly quaint: ‘a friend’; ‘my parents join me in sending you their sincerest regards’; ‘I thank you with all the respect I can muster’ (honestly, I’m not making them up!)
All this means I might have quite a bit on my plate (to put it mildly) over the next few weeks, but I’ll be sure to make time to nip over to Rue de la Mouzaïa and will let you know how I get on.
In the meantime, as little Geneviève says on the postcard, I’m sending you my ‘sincerest regards’.
Hélène
Ashford, 12 September 2007
Dear Hélène,
Thank you for your letter, which only arrived this morning, and for the colourful stamps which will brighten up my office. I am touched by what you say about our meeting, as I came away with the same feeling: that of sharing the burden at last. It’s as if I’ve known you for years, and those few hours in Paris were all too brief for my liking.
My trees made no comment on my return, nor did they shake their little leaves, but I’d like to think they’re pleased to see me. We’re about to start a new programme, with a potential pharmaceutical application, and I too am likely to be swamped with work. I’m going away again at the end of the month for a series of seminars and a field trip to Finland.
For all these reasons, I haven’t spent much time looking at the albums since I’ve been back. So far, all I’ve come across is a series taken on the Normandy coast. The photos are magnificent, but I don’t have the foggiest idea what my father was doing there. So, like the inspector who follows Miss Marple to glean the fruits of her luminous discoveries, I’m waiting for the
outcome of your visit to Rue de la Mouzaïa. And as I’m not as gifted as little Geneviève when it comes to pretty turns of phrase, I’ll confine myself to an affectionate kiss if you don’t mind.
Stéphane
PS The Bordeaux may have been magnificent, but the dinner wasn’t bad either. Don’t you dare tell me you’re a hopeless cook!
Paris, 23 September 2007
Dear Stéphane,
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. First I had to recover from the dreaded birthday party my friends sprang on me. And now, as predicted, I don’t have a minute to myself with these two exhibitions to prepare. In the case of the one on the flood especially, we’re drowning in documents (if you’ll excuse the pun); we’ll be up to our necks soon, like the Zouave statue on the Pont de l’Alma in Paris that’s used as a high-water mark.
What with work and visits to Sylvia, who is now on permanent life support, I don’t have much time to devote to our investigation. I haven’t had a chance to carry on sorting things out at Rue de l’Observatoire. I have, however, been back to Rue de la Mouzaïa. The owners, a very nice young couple, showed me around, but they knew nothing about any of the previous occupants. Inside, it’s just an ordinary modern house and I doubt that anything remains of the home Nataliya knew. I asked to see the courtyard: it’s small, with no trees, and doesn’t look like the one in the picture of the
meal. But I did discover that the house is very close to Saint-Serge church, which I’ll visit the next time I have a few hours to spare.
How about you? What have you been up to?
Hélène x
PS Nothing ventured, nothing gained: it was Sylvia, a true cordon bleu, who taught me to cook. Next time (if there is one), I’ll make you a chocolate parfait.
Ashford, 29 September 2007
Dear Hélène,
You didn’t tell me it was your birthday! I wish you a fortieth year filled with happiness. Happiness, and answers too.
By the way, if you promise me chocolate cake, not only might I come back, but what’s more I’ll book my train ticket right away!
Well, I’d love to, but the fact is I’m flying to Helsinki tomorrow, and I didn’t want to leave without posting this letter.
You must write and tell me all about your visit to Saint-Serge, whose name conjures up for me all the splendours of imperial Russia.
Much love,
Stéphane
Paris, 12 October (email)
Dear Stéphane,
How are you? How’s your teaching going in Helsinki? I’m longing to hear your news.
I have some of my own, as it happens. I went to
Saint-Serge
yesterday. It was an eventful day, to say the least!
First of all, I must tell you about the place; it’s really quite amazing. It took me ages to find it, a little church tucked away in a grove of trees, at the top of a steep street. To get to it, you have to go up these strange wooden steps with latticed wooden panels either side. Every inch of the building is covered in paintings, embellished or decorated in some way. It makes you wonder how such an exotic, breathtaking structure ended up slap bang in the middle of Paris.
I was able to go inside the church, although in theory it was closed; by the looks of it there had just been a meeting, and a few people were still lingering. So I saw the iconostasis and the icons in the strangely
low-ceilinged
hall which was bathed in a mellow, womb-like light. I took some pictures of the outside for you, so you can see how spectacular it is.
One of the group, a lady in her fifties, noticed me standing there and came over to ask if I lived locally. I told her the reason for my visit and showed her the photo of the choir, which produced a curious Droste effect with the background of the picture reproduced life-size on the wall behind it. She examined the photo for a few seconds, turning it over. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘this picture was taken here, no doubt about it.’ But she didn’t recognise anyone in it – not surprising really, given her age. She must have read the disappointment on my face and suggested I go and see a woman by the name of Vera Vassilyeva, who had been very active in parish affairs and lived a bit further up, at the top of Rue de Crimée.
I went straight there, armed with the name of the woman I had spoken to and a note she had written on the back of a leaflet. When I rang the bell, the door opened as far as the safety chain would allow. Madame Vassilyeva, who looked like a wizened little imp, said nothing, but simply beckoned me to lean down towards her – she must be about four foot seven – and stared at me while I reeled off my explanation. Then she invited me in.
I would have put her down as being at least a hundred years old. Actually, she told me she’s only ninety-two. She spoke a rather formal, broken French that she seemed to have learned during the imperial period, while I muddled along in my pidgin Russian. Nevertheless, we just about managed to understand
one another. After going to great pains to make tea in a samovar at least as old as her, Vera motioned to me to sit down on a worn blue velvet sofa, staring fixedly at me again, her eyes hooded by her drooping lids.
Without thinking, I said in Russian, ‘I am Nataliya Zabvina’s daughter.’
It struck me how odd it was to be saying those words for the first time in my life, in that language, in that place, as though I was in the process of becoming another person.
Vera replied, ‘I know.’ Then, after a long silence broken only by her wheezing, ‘You look like your mother.’
I felt my throat tighten. Sylvia aside, this was the first time since we started digging into all this that I’d spoken to someone who had known my mother. All at once Nataliya ceased to be a nebulous, shadowy figure and was once more flesh and blood, a voice, a presence. I showed Vera the photo and she tapped one of the faces with her gnarled finger: one of the three adults, the woman standing next to the priest. Her story was long and laboured, and she stopped several times to take a sip of tea, think, immerse herself in memories. But I was glad of these lulls in her account, as they gave me time to take in the shock of confronting the past.
From what I understood of Vera’s story, and her memory seems to be intact, my mother’s parents arrived in France soon after the end of the war. To begin with they lived in Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois before they
found a small, basic apartment on Rue de la Mouzaïa. According to Vera, my mother was very beautiful, loved music and sang in the parish choir. She had a friend who was older than her, ‘Jan’ (who must be Jean Pamiat), and they were always getting up to mischief together, smoking under the church steps or hiding a litter of newborn kittens behind the iconostasis. My grandfather’s name was Oleg and my grandmother’s Daria.
When they first arrived, Oleg took on all kinds of jobs – worker in a corset factory, gardener and then taxi driver. A year later, Daria took over, working as a cleaner while Oleg, at over forty, re-sat his medical exams, having lost some of his certificates in the exodus. And all the while he was battling to have the whole family granted French citizenship. Eventually they saved enough to rent a tiny flat with three rooms, one of which served as the consulting room. Business grew quickly and within a few years they were in a position to expand the practice. That’s when the family left the 19th
arrondissement
. Vera couldn’t remember exactly when they had moved, but she knew they had gone to live in the east of Paris.
Vera and my grandparents had continued to spend the summer holidays together until the distance came between them. Nataliya had returned to Saint-Serge several times to say hello to her old friends there. The last time she came, she was, Vera told me,
zamuzhem
– married – and carrying a babe in arms. ‘Eto byla ty,
eto byla ty’ (it was you), the old woman said again and again, shaking her head and patting my arm. I looked into her eyes, faded and milky as they always are in the very elderly, the same eyes that thirty-nine years earlier had gazed on me in my mother’s arms and had kept a mental photograph of that moment somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a photograph I would never see.
Vera knew that Nataliya had died: the priest at Saint-Serge had told her before the death notice went out. It was also the priest who told her a year or two afterwards that Dr Zabvine had passed away. ‘Ot chego ona umerla?’ (What did she die of?) – ‘Ya ne znayu’ (I don’t know).
Just then, the old woman heaved herself out of her shabby armchair and, using a walking stick, made her way into another room. I could hear her opening doors and moving things around, muttering words in Russian I couldn’t understand. I sat for more than a quarter of an hour in the autumnal gloom of the living room, the window casting an ever fainter rectangle of light. I asked myself what it is that forms the truth of a person, what happens when you grow up without memories, who were those people who had known me and of whom I knew nothing, whether some part of them – a word, an image, a smell – had stayed with me.
I am Nataliya Zabvina’s daughter. Ya doch Natalii Zabviny
. The words in both languages kept going round and round inside my head, and repeating them to myself filled me with both fear and joy.
Eventually Vera Vassilyeva came back carrying a battered shoebox under her arm. She gestured to me to turn on the lamp, then she slumped into the armchair, out of breath, closing her eyes for a few seconds. Then she slowly lifted the lid and rummaged inside the box for several long minutes, her arthritic fingers leafing through old letters, notices and photos. Every now and then she would pick one out, saying ‘Posmotri!’ (look). There were images of the area in the 1940s, more photos of Saint-Serge, one featuring Jean Pamiat, a snapshot of a baby (me) held firmly by someone whose face wasn’t visible, and a portrait of my grandparents. The seated woman at the lunch under the arbour was indeed my grandmother.
Then she paused and slowly took out a photo which she held towards me. ‘Davay, posmotri!’ I looked: it was my mother, pregnant.
With me, needless to say.
My past, which had always seemed so hazy and shapeless, suddenly had a face, pictured in such sharp focus that my heart skipped a beat. That’s when I knew that the person who walked out the door of Vera Vassilyeva’s apartment that day would no longer be quite the same Hélène Hivert who had walked in earlier.
It was dark when I left. I went for a brandy in the first bar I came across and the strength of the alcohol gradually brought me back to reality. I felt nauseous as I made my way home, sensing the onset of a migraine. When I got back to the flat, I felt as though I was
returning from a voyage to the ends of the earth. Luckily Bourbaki was there: he has no interest whatsoever in my genealogical soul-searching, demanding only to be fed at set times.
Vera let me keep the picture of my mother. I look at this image which forces itself upon me, claiming my attention, and it makes my entire life seem fake, built on lies. The more I hear about Nataliya, the deeper the impression I form of her as a joyful, happy, well-loved person. What can have happened, what crime can she have committed to find herself so entirely wiped from family memory?
I’m going to write to the Paris medical council to find out where my grandfather Dr Zabvine practised, in the hopes of discovering others who might have known my mother. I’m sorry these new pieces in the puzzle don’t tell us anything about your father, but I’m convinced they’re part of a trail that will lead us to him.
If you have a few minutes, I’d love to hear your news.
Hélène
xxx