Read Online The People in the Photo by Hélène Gestern - Free Book Online
Authors: Hélène Gestern
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parallel lines. The beach is deserted. Only a couple and their dog disturb this elegy to emptiness. Or almost only: on looking closely, the tiny form of a child can be seen sitting on the beach playing with the sand (Where are its parents?). You can almost feel the bracing wind, the chill of the water, the density of the sand at last exposed to the air after a day in the relentless clutch of the waves.
In the top left-hand corner of the photo is the seafront with its imposing, harmonious facades, the fluid geometry of water pitted against the solid force of stone. A break in the ranks: a lone building risesup, with a gap on either side. The camera angle has foreshortened its impressive length, but nevertheless it dominates the landscape, its many chimneys giving it the appearance of a small chateau. Its two wings jut triumphantly towards the sea; they enclose a large glass conservatory, the beauty of the antique wrought ironwork defying the unperturbed majesty of the beach. It could be a casino, a railway station, a hotel: any one of those feats of early-twentieth-century seaside architecture, the setting for a novel bringing together a cast of cosmopolitan characters from Mitteleuropa. But for now, the sunlight bouncing off the water, the mercury-coloured beach, the tree-stump breakwaters, the solitude of idle stone are timeless, forming a moment suspended between land and sea where the muted light of an afternoon redolent of salt water and marine birds is gently fading.
Paris, 16 November 2007
Dear Stéphane,
I hope you’ll forgive the long silence. Things have been pretty hectic following Sylvia’s death and I still haven’t finished dealing with all the formalities. At least it has kept me busy. I went back to work last week, which has also helped take my mind off things. As I said last time we spoke on the phone, no matter how much you’re expecting it, it still comes as a shock. In the words of that song by Barbara, I feel like a (nearly) forty- year-old orphan.
Thankfully, at the very end, Sylvia was no longer aware of what was happening to her. She was cremated according to her wishes in a non-religious ceremony, and her ashes have been laid to rest beside my father’s. Her brother came to the cremation, along with her surviving friends and a good turnout of former colleagues. It was a beautiful day; the sun shone on her final journey.
I’ve given up on our search for the time being; I don’t feel up to it. I can only grieve for one person at a time. For now, all I want is to reflect on the woman who hasjust left us and who was no ghost, even if she did hide a great deal from me.
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, everyone of your letters seems to confirm one thing beyond all doubt: your parents loved you. And on that point, lying is not
In the top left-hand corner of the photo is the seafront with its imposing, harmonious facades, the fluid geometry of water pitted against the solid force of stone. A break in the ranks: a lone building risesup, with a gap on either side. The camera angle has foreshortened its impressive length, but nevertheless it dominates the landscape, its many chimneys giving it the appearance of a small chateau. Its two wings jut triumphantly towards the sea; they enclose a large glass conservatory, the beauty of the antique wrought ironwork defying the unperturbed majesty of the beach. It could be a casino, a railway station, a hotel: any one of those feats of early-twentieth-century seaside architecture, the setting for a novel bringing together a cast of cosmopolitan characters from Mitteleuropa. But for now, the sunlight bouncing off the water, the mercury-coloured beach, the tree-stump breakwaters, the solitude of idle stone are timeless, forming a moment suspended between land and sea where the muted light of an afternoon redolent of salt water and marine birds is gently fading.
Paris, 16 November 2007
Dear Stéphane,
I hope you’ll forgive the long silence. Things have been pretty hectic following Sylvia’s death and I still haven’t finished dealing with all the formalities. At least it has kept me busy. I went back to work last week, which has also helped take my mind off things. As I said last time we spoke on the phone, no matter how much you’re expecting it, it still comes as a shock. In the words of that song by Barbara, I feel like a (nearly) forty- year-old orphan.
Thankfully, at the very end, Sylvia was no longer aware of what was happening to her. She was cremated according to her wishes in a non-religious ceremony, and her ashes have been laid to rest beside my father’s. Her brother came to the cremation, along with her surviving friends and a good turnout of former colleagues. It was a beautiful day; the sun shone on her final journey.
I’ve given up on our search for the time being; I don’t feel up to it. I can only grieve for one person at a time. For now, all I want is to reflect on the woman who hasjust left us and who was no ghost, even if she did hide a great deal from me.
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, everyone of your letters seems to confirm one thing beyond all doubt: your parents loved you. And on that point, lying is not
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