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Authors: Hélène Gestern
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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, Ithink 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 morehuman. 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
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, Ithink 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 morehuman. 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
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