photographs, I suppose, prove them real – at least, prove parts of them real.
I begin to sift through the papers. There are bank statements, till slips. There are notebooks with nothing written in them. I go through the bank statements. Some date back twelve years and the newest are from just a few weeks ago. The earliest ones cover the last months of my father’s life. There is little in them: payments to supermarkets, pharmacies, petrol stations, electricity bills, water rates. No restaurants, no cinemas. I go through them all. They are stacked in date order. There are some months missing, but not many. A history of my father’s and brother’s lives in withdrawals and deposits. The money going in is very little. The same amount, more or less, coming out every month.
There are a few items that stand out. About a year after the statements start, there is an entry for a funeral parlour: seven thousand rand. I don’t know, I have been out of the country for many years, but it seems like a lot. I picture an ornate coffin, gilded in bronze, flowers overflowing in a church. A priest, his hands held up. In the pews, one man with head bowed. Outside the pall-bearers smoke and mutter to one another, too used to grief to comment on the ornateness of the funeral compared to the scarcity of mourners.
A few months later there is a large sum deposited in Peter’s account. It stays there and does not diminish by much. My brother’s spending habits do not change. But salary payments into Peter’s account stop in 2009 and there is little in the account by the time of the last statement. I see the airfare to London, and I notice something else. Both my father and, after his death, Peter made payments to a company called 24/7 PI. I look them up in the Yellow Pages: a local private investigation firm. I make a note of the address.
I begin going through the till slips. There is little of interest in them. No receipts for funerals or detective agencies. I spend a few minutes looking at one in particular. It is for a can of Coca-Cola – one can. I cannot make out the date, but it seems old. I almost laugh. My brother drank Coke. It doesn’t fit. It is too mundane, too carefree, to belong in this house. I keep this receipt, throw the others away.
I open the box. At the top of it is something that takes my breath away. Another photograph, this one more recent than the others I have seen. A photograph of Rachel and me on our wedding day. It is not one of the official photographs. It has clearly been taken from a distance. The background is blurred, though our faces are perfectly in focus. We are looking at each other, smiling, waiting perhaps for the photographer, the official one, to compose his next shot. We are standing on the peace pagoda in Battersea Park. We came here for our photographs after the wedding. We could have had them taken in Richmond, of course, but this was where we had bought our first flat together. This was our place.
We are standing there, my arms around her. She has goose bumps. It is July but it is a cool day. I run my fingers over her arms, remembering the night at the bus stop years before. We are laughing, self-conscious, but in a happy way. We are proud, there is no other word for it, to be with each other, to be watched and envied by strangers. My eye catches a flash of light, sun on a lens perhaps. I look up and notice, though I forget it almost as soon as I see it, until now – a man in the distance, lowering a camera, a tourist, an amateur photographer.
This is the photograph taken a second before the lens was lowered.
I look closely at Rachel. I have never seen her more beautiful. I thought that then too. I touch her face with the tip of my finger. I remember touching her, the touch of her skin. It sends a jolt through me.
The box also contains the receipts for the detective agency. It adds up to a significant amount of money, especially for someone without a salary. There is only one photograph
I begin to sift through the papers. There are bank statements, till slips. There are notebooks with nothing written in them. I go through the bank statements. Some date back twelve years and the newest are from just a few weeks ago. The earliest ones cover the last months of my father’s life. There is little in them: payments to supermarkets, pharmacies, petrol stations, electricity bills, water rates. No restaurants, no cinemas. I go through them all. They are stacked in date order. There are some months missing, but not many. A history of my father’s and brother’s lives in withdrawals and deposits. The money going in is very little. The same amount, more or less, coming out every month.
There are a few items that stand out. About a year after the statements start, there is an entry for a funeral parlour: seven thousand rand. I don’t know, I have been out of the country for many years, but it seems like a lot. I picture an ornate coffin, gilded in bronze, flowers overflowing in a church. A priest, his hands held up. In the pews, one man with head bowed. Outside the pall-bearers smoke and mutter to one another, too used to grief to comment on the ornateness of the funeral compared to the scarcity of mourners.
A few months later there is a large sum deposited in Peter’s account. It stays there and does not diminish by much. My brother’s spending habits do not change. But salary payments into Peter’s account stop in 2009 and there is little in the account by the time of the last statement. I see the airfare to London, and I notice something else. Both my father and, after his death, Peter made payments to a company called 24/7 PI. I look them up in the Yellow Pages: a local private investigation firm. I make a note of the address.
I begin going through the till slips. There is little of interest in them. No receipts for funerals or detective agencies. I spend a few minutes looking at one in particular. It is for a can of Coca-Cola – one can. I cannot make out the date, but it seems old. I almost laugh. My brother drank Coke. It doesn’t fit. It is too mundane, too carefree, to belong in this house. I keep this receipt, throw the others away.
I open the box. At the top of it is something that takes my breath away. Another photograph, this one more recent than the others I have seen. A photograph of Rachel and me on our wedding day. It is not one of the official photographs. It has clearly been taken from a distance. The background is blurred, though our faces are perfectly in focus. We are looking at each other, smiling, waiting perhaps for the photographer, the official one, to compose his next shot. We are standing on the peace pagoda in Battersea Park. We came here for our photographs after the wedding. We could have had them taken in Richmond, of course, but this was where we had bought our first flat together. This was our place.
We are standing there, my arms around her. She has goose bumps. It is July but it is a cool day. I run my fingers over her arms, remembering the night at the bus stop years before. We are laughing, self-conscious, but in a happy way. We are proud, there is no other word for it, to be with each other, to be watched and envied by strangers. My eye catches a flash of light, sun on a lens perhaps. I look up and notice, though I forget it almost as soon as I see it, until now – a man in the distance, lowering a camera, a tourist, an amateur photographer.
This is the photograph taken a second before the lens was lowered.
I look closely at Rachel. I have never seen her more beautiful. I thought that then too. I touch her face with the tip of my finger. I remember touching her, the touch of her skin. It sends a jolt through me.
The box also contains the receipts for the detective agency. It adds up to a significant amount of money, especially for someone without a salary. There is only one photograph
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