Read The People in the Photo Online
Authors: Hélène Gestern
The People in the Photo (6 page)
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.
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