by H
If Nataliya died in Geneva in January 1973, that would explain my father’s grim mood from that year on. But in 1973, as far as I can remember, he was still living at home. Unless his absences for photographic expeditions served to cover up a parallel existence.
You might find other clues when you investigate the contents of the box. Above all, be sure to keep me posted.
Love,
Stéphane
Paris, 13 January (email)
Dear Stéphane,
Even though I desperately wanted to know what was inside, I really had to force myself to open the tin. The dry string snapped clean in half the moment I touched it. I had the same uneasy feeling I had experienced at Vera Vassilyeva’s, the same impression of shadows becoming flesh. And the same sense that everything I had taken for granted was revealing itself to be utterly counterfeit. I took in the contents of the box half-fascinated, half-nauseous.
I am now in possession of Nataliya’s wedding ring – which they must have removed before she was cremated – engraved with the words ‘Michel and Nathalie, 1 February 1968’. Another ring, made from guilloched silver, carries an inscription in Russian: meaning something along the lines of ‘seek and ye shall find’. Oh, the irony! If you look closely at your father’s self-portrait, you’ll see he’s wearing the same ring, or one exactly like it, around his neck. A rectangular blue-lacquered cigarette lighter monogrammed ‘NZ’; a faded tortoiseshell comb; round glasses with a broken lens and a strange serpent bracelet which I might have played with as a child – it vaguely rings a bell.
The tin also contained a wallet, whose leather had hardened and cracked at the edges. It must have lain untouched for thirty-five years and I felt I was committing an act of sacrilege by rifling through it. Inside I found an identity card, still registered to Rue de la Mouzaïa, a passport, a reader’s card for Sainte-Geneviève library issued in 1971, and some first-class métro tickets. One of them had a phone number written on the back, without a name. And then there was a picture of me as a baby, the same one I had seen at Vera Vassilyeva’s.
The last thing left in the bottom of the tin was a 1972 diary. Its cover was completely falling apart, as if the leather had been slashed with something sharp. There’s very little written in it: the address of a military base in Nouméa, some initials (‘P.’, ‘I.’: Pierre? Interlaken?) and arrows across the dates when my father was away. While most of the notes are in French, in April 1972 Nataliya wrote a word in Cyrillic, quite a complicated one. According to my dictionary, it means something like ‘hydrotherapy clinic’. To treat what illness? Whatever it was, it’s clear to me she was keen to hide mention of this trip from my father, hence her writing it in Russian. October and November contain several telephone numbers, one of which (the same one on the métro ticket) is in the centre of a page, underlined. And a meeting with a certain Maître Niemetz on 26 October. A divorce lawyer?
She has marked certain dates with crosses every four or five weeks, but after September they disappear. In the addresses section at the back, there is a list of names, most of which I’ve never heard of, with the exception of Vera Vassilyeva, Jean and Sylvia M. (my Sylvia, I think). An address with no name (284 Rue Suzanne-Lilar), an appointment with no details besides the time (3 p.m.) on 17 November, and then nothing. She must have been torn from this life so brutally.
For the moment, I’m not sure what to make of these new finds. But they have taught me one thing: the intensity of my father’s hatred or indifference towards my mother, since he didn’t even bother to open the tin. Such total rejection is hard to comprehend. That was a real shock.
I spent a long while turning Nataliya’s things over in my hands with a kind of superstitious fervour. Of course, I couldn’t resist trying on her jewellery and even putting her glasses on. She was very short-sighted: through the lens that’s still intact, the world looks tiny and distorted. An asthma attack put an end to my game and I had to wait for my inhaler to kick in before I could write to you.
Does anything in this sorry contents list mean anything to you?
Hélène x
Ashford, 14 January (email)
Dear Hélène,
Yes, I recognise two things: my father always used to wear that ring on a chain around his neck, and Philippe must still have it somewhere. I’d never noticed that it was engraved. As for Rue Suzanne-Lilar, it’s in Lausanne; I know because I have sometimes parked there. The online directory tells me there’s now a rehab centre at that address; I’m going to email them to find out how long they’ve been there. Maybe you could try and track down this lawyer Niemetz.
Next time we see each other, for I hope we’ll see each other soon, would you show me that diary? It is possible that I might recognise some names, even telephone numbers, you never know.
But above all, think of your own needs and look after your health. This investigation is affecting you deeply, perhaps too deeply, and your body is giving you a warning. Take care, dear Hélène.
Love,
Stéphane
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 absur
d 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.
&n
bsp; 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
LIGHT
Men, brother men, that after us live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be
François Villon
9
The sky is clear, but the wan light indicates that the season is moving towards autumn. There is an almost tangible chill hanging over the mound with its patchy grass, stone bench, time-worn crucifix and former chapel whose steps are now overgrown with weeds and brambles, from which a rusty arch emerges. A prolific wisteria that is beginning to fade completely conceals one of the walls, and its invasive, interwoven branches compete with an ivy for the territory. Both contrive to hide the base of the cross adorning the roof. At the left end of the stone seat in front of the disused chapel sits a woman, her legs crossed. Her face is slightly rounded, especially her cheeks; her body has lost its angular sharpness. A round, black felt hat, slightly too big for her, partly covers her hair, now mid-length but still as abundant, drawn back in a ponytail. She is wearing a white blouse and a thick, shapeless woollen waistcoat. A pair of glasses with round metal frames dangle from a string around her neck, and an oversize reefer jacket, probably belonging to a man, is draped across her shoulders, its sleeves falling across her chest. She is slightly hunched, withdrawn, her legs crossed, lost in a voluminous woollen skirt from which a thread hangs, caused by a tiny snag. The mud stains on her ordinary flat-heeled loafers suggest she has hiked up to this spot.