The People in the Photo Read online

  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

  5

  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,<
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  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

  6

  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 waiti
ng 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.