by H
Please don’t hold it against me.
I hope all’s well with you and that you’re happy to be back in England.
Love,
Hélène
Ashford, 21 November 2007
Dearest Hélène,
Thank you for taking the time to write. I was anxious to hear from you, although I realise that you must need time to yourself to adjust. I well remember that feeling from when my father died last year. That initial shock of being alone from now on, the panic of the survivor who knows that it will be their turn next in the natural order of things. And for you, having no siblings, it is probably even harder.
With time, that feeling has faded, it’s become less … violent. It will be the same for you, I think. It is the transition that seems to drag on.
And of course I don’t hold it against you. Why would I? Sylvia was there for you during most of your childhood and then your adult years. I think that putting your grief for her before mourning the death of a young woman in a fifty-year-old photo is a very healthy reaction. The living first, shadows second. You told me that when you left Vera’s house you were haunted by the feeling that your life had been a lie, a fabrication. Whatever you were told or not told, every one of your letters seems to confirm one thing beyond all doubt: your parents loved you. And on that point, lying is not possible. You can’t deceive a child over the quality of your love for them for thirty-nine years.
I know that this probably isn’t the time for an invitation, but if you feel that a few days away from Paris would help you to get through this difficult period, my house is open to you.
Affectionately,
Stéphane
PS In the ‘Brittany 1968’ album I found a series of seaside photos. I don’t know why the beauty of one of them affected me so deeply, but I immediately felt I wanted to send it to you, because it is so peaceful. The water, the light, the sand, that building: time cannot alter a landscape of such perfection. My father really was an extraordinary photographer. What a pity he didn’t seek recognition for his work.
Paris, 27 November 2007
Dear Stéphane,
I really appreciate your thoughtful offer, but it’s still a bit soon for me; I don’t think I’d be very good company. For the time being, work is helping me cope (which is lucky, since I’ve got mountains of it). But if you can hold the invitation open a little while, I can think of nothing I’d like better than to pay you a visit. I’m curious to see where you live, along with your garden filled with weird trees.
You’re right, my parents did love me. I sometimes had doubts about my father, who could be quite tetchy and distant, but they passed. He was an army man who wasn’t very demonstrative either verbally or physically. Even at the end of his life when he was very ill, I found it difficult to touch him. Sylvia told me that when I was little, I sometimes addressed him as ‘vous’ instead of ‘tu’, I was so in awe of him. Occasionally he would fly into a violent rage (like the time he snatched my Red Army Choir record, which I used to play on a loop in my bedroom as a teenager, and snapped it in two), and I’m beginning to understand why. With hindsight, I think he was a man who had suffered a lot but didn’t want to show it.
Thank you for the photo. Two of the albums you left with me are full of pictures taken in Brittany, and I browse through them often: your father managed to capture the light, the rugged character, the mineral beauty of the place. He must have had a real fondness for the region. I can tell you what’s in the picture: it’s the Grand Hôtel des Thermes in Saint-Malo – an iconic building, right on the waterfront. Every now and then I head up there for a couple of days’ break from the noise and chaos of Paris. There is indeed something eternal about the place.
Love,
Hélène
Paris, 1 December (email)
Dear Stéphane,
I had a nightmare last night. You and Sylvia were deep in conversation, and she was telling you that my father had been away too often.
I haven’t slept properly for weeks; I keep turning things over in my mind. Especially something Sylvia said before she died, very clearly, in Russian, which meant something like, ‘the child has forgotten her birth’. She used a distinctive form, zapamyatovala, which is a variant of the verb ‘to forget’ and literally means ‘she has put it behind her memory’. I don’t know what she was trying to tell me, or which child she had in mind. Those were her last intelligible words.
I heard from her solicitor yesterday. He wants to meet me to read the will. Words like that bring her death home to me almost more brutally than the death itself. I miss Sylvia. But then I’d been missing her for years.
Winter has taken hold of Paris: it’s snowing, and the overground section of the métro was completely white this morning. I like this cotton-wool coating, this watery velvet: it slows the city down, makes it more human. Normally I run out and take pictures, but this time I’m just standing looking at it.
I’m sorry this letter is rather gloomy. I wish I had more cheerful news. It will come soon, I hope. I think of you often.
Hélène
Ashford, 2 December (email)
Dear Hélène,
I often think of you too, and feel a little concerned right now. Are you sure you don’t want to come and visit me in Ashford? Bourbaki is invited too, if his vaccinations are up to date; he can act as chaperone.
There’s another option, which may sound a little casual when you are in mourning, but here goes: would you like to join me for Christmas and New Year in Geneva? I normally go for ten days and spend Christmas with Philippe and his partner Marie. They’d be delighted to have us to stay, and you can be sure they’ll welcome you without making assumptions.
It would also be an opportunity to show you the entire collection of photographs, which I wasn’t able to do in August, and for you to have a change of scene, if you like winter walks. I know how emotionally difficult the first Christmas without one’s parents can be, and perhaps a short break in a new place would be a way of cushioning your grief.
But you probably have hundreds of friends who have already invited you to spend the holidays with them.
I came across something rather strange in the album, but I feel uncomfortable bothering you with that at present. Let me know when you feel like talking about it again.
A big hug,
Stéphane
Paris, 4 December (email)
Dear Stéphane,
I would have taken up your invitation without making assumptions, as you put it:-) The prospect of a winter break in Switzerland and going for walks in the snow would have helped lift my spirits. But I’m afraid I’ve already agreed to go to Germany for the holidays, and I can’t really get out of it. Thank you for thinking of me, though – I’m really touched. Will you be coming via Paris, like last time?
In the meantime, please do tell me what it was that piqued your curiosity. Now it’s me who’s curious.
Love,
Hélène
PS I received a reply today from the general medical council, in answer to the letter I sent them before Sylvia died. They confirm there was indeed an ophthalmologist by the name of Dr Oleg Zabvine on their books. He practised first at 142 Rue de la Mouzaïa between 1954 and 1959, and then at 22 Rue Marsoulan in the 12th arrondissement from 1959 to 1973. Vera Vassilyeva was spot on.
Ashford, 6 December 2007
Dear Hélène,
What a pity you won’t be able to join us! I would have loved to take you on some mini hikes to show you ‘our’ winter. Unfortunately, I’m flying to Geneva this time, as the Shuttle was fully booked. Much to my chagrin, I won’t be stopping off in Paris.
The thing that intrigued me – to put it mildly – was to discover the ‘twin’ of the photo that Vera Vassilyeva gave you. I found it in the album that my father made in Brittany in 1968. It is almost the identical image, taken within a few minutes, or even a few seconds of the other one. I can’t understand how it ended up there. But there is something alarming a
bout the coincidence that made these two photos surface at almost the same time, when they had been lying forgotten for forty years in two different places, so far from each other.
All my love, and I hope to see you very soon.
Stéphane
Paris, 14 December 2007
Dear Stéphane,
How odd. I can’t think of an explanation for it either, and shan’t try to find one for the time being. If something occurs to me, I’ll let you know.
At least twenty centimetres of snow has fallen here, making Paris unusually silent; all you can hear is the muffled sound of cars crawling past and the scraping of street cleaners’ shovels clearing the pavements. The overground part of the métro is totally white. I went for a walk in the Buttes-Chaumont yesterday morning, wearing my wellies and wrapped up like an Eskimo, and I took some pictures for you. I love winter; over the years it has become my favourite season. This winter, which has blanketed my sadness, has me completely spellbound.
I need to snap out of it though, because the disruption of the last few weeks has thrown the catalogue way off schedule.
I keep putting off going to see Sylvia’s solicitor. I still haven’t phoned him back.
To be honest, I’m not really looking forward to visiting my friends in Germany either. I would have liked to come to Geneva, and I’m more eager than ever to look at the rest of the photo collection. From the little I’ve seen of your father’s work, it seems to me that you and your brother might consider exhibiting it – it really is that good. I could help you find a venue in Paris, if you like.
You’ll be gearing up to leave by the time this letter arrives. So I’ll take this opportunity to wish you a wonderful trip to Geneva, a merry Christmas and a very happy New Year.
Love,
Hélène
1 January, 00:04 (text message)
Wishing you a very happy New Year! And all good things, as we say here. 2008 kisses. Stéphane.
1 January, 01:17 (text message)
A very happy New Year to you too from Göttingen! Love, Hélène xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (and so on to infinity!)
8
The background is a pale, sober grey: no clouds, no manicured garden, stucco columns or painted benches. Just four people captured in the same small space at the same moment. Two adults and two children. They are bathed in a gentle light which smooths their skin, softens their features and makes their hair look thick and lustrous. A woman is standing on the left of the picture: average height, light-coloured eyes and fair hair in two thick braids wound around her head. Her blond eyelashes are invisible, giving her a fixed, vulnerable stare that belies the broad open smile lighting up her thin face. The rest of her body, encased in a well-cut white shift dress, is muscular, compact, well-defined: she looks the sporty type, a keen walker scaling mountainsides with sure, solid strides. She holds the taller boy by the shoulder. He, like his brother (presumably), is wearing a short trouser suit. The elder boy’s hair has been Brylcreemed and parted on the left and a comb has left clear, evenly spaced grooves furrowed through the blond mass. He is smiling shyly but there is a far-off look on his face as he stands constricted by the too-tight jacket and tie.
The smaller boy has been sat on a chair to avoid unbalancing the picture with too great a height difference. He is openly laughing and the position of his leg, with the toe of his ankle-boot sticking out, suggests he must have fidgeted as the shutter closed. One of his hands is clamped in his brother’s; the other is outstretched, open-palmed, like a toddler’s. The velvet bow tie around his neck has slipped; one of his cotton socks is corkscrewing downwards and a cascade of unruly ringlets frames the moon-shaped face of a cheeky little prince. He is not looking at the camera, as he must have been instructed, but to one side, gazing up at the man on his left.
The man has put on a dark suit and plain tie for the occasion. He, too, has Brylcreemed his hair, though it has done nothing to repress the thick, curly mane – now several centimetres longer. The fingertips of his white, bony hand brush the shoulder of the little boy without exercising the slightest restraint. The classic attire and upright, serious stance cannot mask a certain irony in the body, which knows itself to be attractive and exudes an unexpected arrogance. Yet the suggestion of a smile, or – who can tell? – a trace of bitterness in his eyes shows he has not wholeheartedly embraced the photographic ritual he has himself orchestrated, but is doing his best to honour it.
He is standing back, ever so slightly removed from the other three – a matter of centimetres, no more. In haste, no doubt, to take up his place after pressing the timer button, returning to a pre-arranged position. And to make chemistry responsible for assigning roles on glossy paper, becoming, once and for all, the father of his children.
Ashford, 8 January 2008
Dear Hélène,
How are you? Did you have a good holiday in Germany? What did Bourbaki get for Christmas?
I arrived back from Geneva on Saturday after a very enjoyable family holiday. My brother Philippe is a charming person, with a terrific sense of humour too, and I’m very fond of him; he’s the one who’s got the photography gene, but as an amateur (he’s an architect by profession). I’d love you to meet him; I’m sure you’d get on like a house on fire.
Since I flew, I wasn’t able to bring back as many albums as last time, but it’s a good crop. Not so much for our investigation, but rather for me: I found a series of family photos, taken around 1969–70. All four of us are in the shots, which was very unusual. I’ll send you one, as a curio, or a sociological sample, whatever you prefer to call it, of what a model Swiss family looked like (outwardly, at least). Of course you’ll recognise yours truly in the well-scrubbed little boy to the left of the picture – please don’t laugh.
I found another series taken in Brittany, but dated 1970 this time, with incredible views of the grand hotel you told me about and which I now dream of visiting. The place is straight out of a Vicki Baum novel (yes, I admit it, I read ‘hotel novels’. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.)
Put on an exhibition? Why not? Like you I believe that the photos are easily as good as those of some fine art photographers: the Brittany albums alone make an excellent series. My father was a fervent admirer of Atget, and he took inspiration from him in choosing certain angles for his shots. Extraordinary shapes, a particular way of capturing emptiness, the silence of surfaces. Our investigation has given me the opportunity to rediscover his work and to think differently about this man who seemed to be fascinated by the absence of any human life.
Love,
Stéphane
Paris, 12 January (email)
Dear Stéphane,
Before I go any further, there are two things I simply must tell you: 1) You’re irresistible in short trousers and 2) If ever you feel like starting up a Vicki Baum fan club, count me in. I’ve read every single one of her books.
My holiday went well, thank you, and I’m glad to hear yours did too. I cut my trip to Germany short by a few days; I didn’t much feel like being around people, so I came back to Paris to give Boubou his Christmas present – lots of cuddles (the big fatty doesn’t deserve anything else after living off a diet of non-stop treats at my neighbour’s).
I made the most of my unexpected free time to visit Rue de l’Observatoire. I don’t know if you’ve read anything by the German novelist, W. G. Sebald; he wrote a short story about the body of a guide frozen inside a glacier and spat out again decades later. My father’s study is starting to have the same effect on me.
I went over some of the lower shelves with a fine-tooth comb, followed by the ones at the very top. That’s where I got another surprise in the shape of a black archive box fastened with cord, of the kind used in libraries – and in fact, it still had its class mark and label on. The only thing inside was a parcel sent from Geneva in January 1973 with no return address. An unsealed letter was enclosed with the kind of flat metal tin you’d put biscuits or sweets in. This is what it said:
Having been at the hospital at the time of her death, I was able to collect your wife’s personal effects, which I am now returning to you. Nataliya was my dearest friend and an extraordinary person, and we have all been left devastated by her death. May I take this opportunity to extend my deepest sympathies to you and your little daughter Hélène at this terribly sad time. Jean Pamiat.
The address on the label informs me my parents were living in Brest at the time, at 71 Rue Félix-Gray.
The string around the tin had not even been undone, and I started to tremble as I went to cut it. I gathered everything up and brought it home with me and have so far left it untouched. So it’s true, Nataliya died in an accident in Geneva. And my father wasn’t there. Could she have been with yours? Do you think there’s any way at all of communicating with Jean Pamiat to try to find out more?
Love,
Hélène
Ashford, 12 January (email)
Dear Hélène,
Jean is too frail to be able to explain anything, but I’m going to talk to him about the parcel when I next visit him, asking questions to which he can simply reply yes or no. I promise you.