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her forehead. She looks straight at the camera, myopic eyes wide open, smiling in amusement at something. Her hands are placed in front of her on the table. One hand, displaying a finely engraved silver ring on the fourth finger, is holding an unlit cigarette. The other is closed around something, probably a lighter. Next to Nataliya, a young man with a crew cut sits awkwardly in a suit and striped tie. He is unsmiling and seems uncomfortable in front of the camera which has captured him with his mouth part open, giving an impression of gormlessness.
    The last person in frame should be sitting next to this young man, but has moved to avoid having his back to the camera, which is perhaps why he is standing behind Nataliya; he seems to have chosen not to sit in the photographer’s place. He is blond, clean-shaven, his hair shorn in an almost regulation cut. His dark glasses sit on top of his head. He too holds a cigarette, but a lit one with a thin curl of smoke rising from it. His other hand, out of sight, is probably resting on the back of Nataliya’s chair. The man is tall, dressed in smart, crisp front-pleated trousers, a light-coloured short-sleevedshirt and a plain tie. His relaxed pose, bronzed skin, glasses and slight smile at the camera in no way detract from his elegant bearing.
    The wall behind them is partly covered with ivy, but a door can be glimpsed. Its lintel is decorated with ceramic tiles in the style of an Etruscan mosaic, overgrown in places by dense vegetation. The wisteria flowering under the arbour has wound itself around the frame and its lush foliage suggests the photo was taken in late spring or early summer. All the lunch guests, with the exception of the young man on the right of the picture, have the satiated, slightly hazy look that comes from eating well, no doubt accentuated by the warmth of the sun. And at the centre of the picture, Nataliya and Pierre, eternally joined by chance – places at a table, a hand resting on a chair, some gelatin and a dash of silver nitrate – look like lovers betrothed for evermore.

    Geneva, 27 August 2007
    Dearest Hélène,
    I’m glad to hear that Sylvia is recovering and has regained consciousness, even if the prognosis is not very reassuring. I hope I didn’t bother you too much when I called the hospital last night. I was concerned about you.
    Don’t worry about Geneva. Let’s just say it’s postponed and we’ll find another opportunity. We’ll make one, if need be.
    My task here is turning out to be more difficult than I anticipated. My father left more than a hundred boxes, each one containing several albums, but they were packed up any old how by the removal men who cleared out his studio. Result: although the albums are all dated, I still haven’t managed to pick up the trail, since the years are all muddled up. At first, I selected boxes at random. As I opened each one, I hoped for a miraculous find, but soon realised that this frantic activity wouldn’t get me anywhere. So now I’m going through the boxes one at a time, as you are doing in your parents’ apartment, and I’m trying to put them in chronological order. Each boxweighs a ton, making the job all the more difficult. Over the last few days, the only area in which I’ve made any progress is in the aches and pains department!
    Being back in Geneva is quite strange. Not all my memories of this bland and deceptively sleepy city are happy. Returning to my parents’ former home has stirred other recollections that are no more positive. My self-imposed exile in England is probably a means of escaping both from the place and the past associated with it. Sometimes, when I think I might have lived and worked here, I’m glad I found the courage to leave.
    I hope all’s well with you, despite your current worries.
     
    All the best,
     
    Stéphane
    PS Eureka! I’m opening the letter up again because I almost misled you: flicking through an album from 1960 (views of Paris) before going to