Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘When are you going to tell us why we’re here, Mat? I can’t bear this waiting.’

  Princesse Mathilde looked at her daughter at the other end of the long table. Those mobile features, animated gestures. Herself and not herself. ‘Patience, my dear. You are old enough now for a little patience,’ she rebuked her gently.

  And then he was there. Alexei Gismondi. The Princesse rose to greet him, looked. Her breath caught. Why did they all not see it? It was Jacob. Jacob as she had first known him. The same brooding intelligent cast of the features. The set of the head. The thick curling hair. But eyes, eyes the dusky blue of Sylvie’s. Or was it her fantasies speaking, resurrecting the Jacob she had loved. For a moment she felt dizzy. Then she braced herself, made the necessary introductions.

  No, the others didn’t see it. Jacob greeted the man curiously, ‘How good to see you again, Mr. Gismondi. Unexpected, here.’ She could see his mind working, the quick tread of it, but no ulterior recognition.

  Perhaps she was imagining resemblance.

  Violette, always alert to masculine charm, shook Alexei’s hand lingeringly, threw a querying glance at her mother.

  Leo stood tall, matter of fact. The Princesse looked for likeness. One so blonde, uncomfortable in a suit which looked unworn. The other, dark, intent, noticing everything, but reserved, formal.

  Only Katherine didn’t stand, murmured an inaudible ‘hello’, averted her gaze. But his eyes now were only for her. Eyes ringed with pain.

  And suddenly the Princesse felt it. Felt it between them. The force of that ancient longing. Love, people called it. A dark obsessional force that obliterated the world and transformed it. The sickness of desire. It made her uncomfortable. She had forgotten its intensity. She remembered now, felt it stirring old bones. She took a deep breath, sat down.

  Katherine was at her left. She placed Alexei in the empty chair at her right. Jacob faced her from the end of the table beneath the ornate tapestry which told biblical tales of gardens and expulsion. She took sustenance from its richness and from his eyes.

  ‘I have called you together because I have a story to tell. A story that affects you all,’ she began slowly, poured herself a glass of water, sipped, looked at them each in turn. ‘It’s a story shrouded in time. I cannot vouch for its truth. I don’t know whether it can ever be verified. I can only relate it, more or less as it was related to me, by a woman who was known to all of you. Sylvie Jardine, or as she often insisted on calling herself, Sylvie Kowalska.’

  Princesse Mathilde paused. She could see the surprise in Jacob’s face, the anxiety in Leo’s, the relish in Violette’s. Alexei’s expression was more difficult to read - acute interest, apprehension and at the same time a wish not to know, a desire in sympathy with another, with Katherine, whose look was tortured, a child waiting helplessly for blows.

  The Princesse continued. ‘Before she died, Sylvie came to see me. She was fraught. Overexcited. She had a secret to reveal. A wartime secret, a secret which reverberated with the confusions and shadows and distortions of that time. A story which it seems she had buried herself and only recently unearthed.’

  ‘The scene of the story is Poland and its outlines, I think, are only as clear as the tenuous borders of that troubled country.’ The Princesse allowed herself a little smile and found its echo only in Jacob.

  ‘As some of you know, Sylvie returned to Poland in 1945. She was pregnant at the time. She gave birth to a child there. A child we had all always assumed was Katherine. The story Sylvie told me might lead us to assume that was not the case.’

  There was an audible gasp in the room. The Princesse rushed on, eager now for the end. ‘Sylvie told me that Katherine was not her child. Her child was a boy. She switched the babies at the clinic. The motivation was unclear to me, perhaps unclear to her. It had something to do with the death of her friend Caroline’s daughter, something to do with the woman in the next bed, whom she felt sorry for and who was desperate for a boy. In any event, Sylvie claimed that she took the girl, Katherine, for her own. Left the boy to the couple called Makarov. That boy now, I believe, bears the name Alexei Gismondi.’

  All eyes turned on Alexei. There was a hush in the room, a silence tense with the unvoiced.

  Katherine thoughts reeled with the giddiness of vertigo. Not Sylvie’s daughter. I am not Sylvie’s daughter. I am not Jacob’s daughter. That’s why she hated me. But if I’m not their daughter, who am I?

  She’ll hate me now, Alexei worried. She’ll hate me. I’ve robbed her of her parents.

  Leo thought: Orphans. All this accursed history. Children are dying now. Being abandoned now. And we sit here excavating what no longer matters.

  Oh, Sylvie, thought Violette. A surprise at every turn. Even after your death.

  Jacob reflected, imagined Sylvie. Tasted Sylvie floating between the boundaries of reality and the tumult of her mind. Saw a scene in the hospital that was her home. The wished for home that was always absent, always already gone. Dead, like her parents. Orphaned Sylvie, displaced but alive, seeking somehow to make reparations for her dead. Thought: I’ve been so stupid. True or not, it’s the truth about Sylvie. A baby to give to Caroline. Herself to give to Caroline, her friend, mother and friend. She told me as much. And Caroline betrayed her by dying. Betrayed her in the way her parents had. Betrayal avenged in hatred for Katherine. And I didn’t understand. I betrayed her. Sylvie.

  Princesse Mathilde looked at them all. Tasted the silent seconds of reflection. It could be true. She had convinced herself of it in the telling of the tale. Remembered the dozens of displaced children who had moved like wraiths in this very room all those years ago. Recaptured the confusion, the horror, the heightened imaginations of war, the actions which couldn’t be acted in the quiet ordinariness of the everyday.

  Suddenly, from Jacob, there came a low whisper. ‘Sylvie’s legacy. What less could we expect?’

  His words were followed by general commotion. Katherine had turned ghostly white. She trembled, looked as if she were about to faint. Jacob moved towards her. Alexei was there before him, lifting her in his arms, brushing her cheek with his lips. Jacob poured a glass of water. Katherine drank, grasped his hand, held Alexei’s.

  ‘I’m not me,’ she whispered to them. ‘Not me. No one.’

  ‘You’re still my daughter, Kat,’ Jacob was firm. ‘It’s too late for me to begin to believe that biology takes precedence over history.’ He shook his head with a troubled reminiscence. But his voice held a note of awe. ‘Sylvie always did have a passion for the surreal. But you are still you.’

  ‘The you I love,’ Alexei’s tone was insistent. ‘And whatever the truth, you are distinctly not my sister.’ His eyes spoke forcibly, burning into her, so that her cheeks caught flame.

  Katherine looked from one to the other, from Alexei to Jacob and back. If he was Sylvie’s son, she suddenly thought, then she could forgive Sylvie. Forgive her anything.

  Jacob watching Alexei, his arm round Katherine’s shoulder, deliberated. Son or not, this was the right man for her. And she had had to come back to Europe to find him. That cauldron of memories. That, too, was as it should be.

  Leo after a moment came up to Alexei. He hesistated awkwardly, then smiled. ‘I’m not sure whether all this makes us brothers, but one way or another, we’ll have to get to know each other better.’

  ‘And don’t forget about big sister here,’ Violette, trying to dispel the tension, managed an impish laugh. ‘There you are, Jacob, two of each now.’

  He kissed her. ‘I’ve always been a decidedly fortunate man.’

  ‘Why are you fortunate, gramps?’ Natalie burst in on them, pink cheeked, dogs in train.

  ‘Me and you both, Nat.’ He bent to her.

  Natalie raced into her mother’s arms, looked boldly at Alexei. ‘Wasn’t it good of me to leave you alone for so long in Rome?’

  Suddenly Katherine smiled. A radiant face, glowing, transformed. ‘Yes, hon. You’re an angel of a daughter
. An angel to have left us alone.’ She glanced at Alexei, shy now as she remembered the warmth of his love.

  Alexei kissed her. There. In front of everyone. Then he twirled Natalie round. The dogs barked excitedly.

  ‘And now you come with me, Nat,’ Leo placed a commanding hand on the girl’s shoulder, ‘we’ve a lot of serious catching up to do,’ he winked at Katherine and steered his niece away, urged Violette to join them.

  Jacob looked after his son, pleased at his tact, proud as he always was, when he reflected on him, thought of the choices Leo had made, the direction of his life. A son worthy of his campaigning grandfather. And now, Jacob mused, he was faced with another son, an unknown, an adventure for his old age. He turned to Alexei, saw the protective arm around Katherine, the light in her eyes. Where to begin with this stranger? Jacob chuckled. The sting in the tail of Sylvie’s scorpion, the creature she had left him on her death bed, not so poisonous now, after all those years. ‘Mathilde, I think all this calls for a bottle from your cellar. A very best bottle. 1945, if you can manage it.’

  She caught his humour, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Two might be better than one.’

  Jacob, Alexei and Katherine strolled into the Princesse’s salon, formed a little circle in the corner of the room. Jacob gestured them towards the sofa, positioned himself in an armchair. ‘And so, Alexei,’ he began, ‘you came to me looking for absent mothers…’

  Alexei nodded, embarrassed as he recalled his duplicity.

  Jacob caught the question in Katherine’s eye. ‘Oh yes, perhaps you don’t know this, I first met Alexei when he came to my consulting room, posing as a prospective patient,’ Jacob laughed. ‘I kicked him out, told him he needed a philosopher, not an analyst.’

  Alexei felt the pressure of Katherine’s hand, returned it, wanted to say, it was her he needed, but he focussed on Jacob. A new father. It was the last thing he had considered. He tasted the notion. It wasn’t comfortable. He was perhaps too old for fathers. But he liked this man. ‘I couldn’t very well come to you out of the blue and say I had reason to believe that your wife, that Sylvie, might have had an affair with my father. You see, her letter to me only stated that she was my mother, and so naturally, I assumed…’

  Jacob laughed wryly, ‘Pure Sylvie. Men, lovers, husbands, they were always something of an irrelevance - necessary, but hardly crucial.’ Funny, he thought to himself, it no longer hurt him to think it.

  ‘And then,’ Alexei continued, ‘when you showed me those drawings and I found myself, a Russian soldier, the name Makarov, the place Lublin, amongst them, I thought there lay the proof. I fled.’ An involuntary shudder shook him. He lowered his eyes. ‘Because, you see, by that time I had met Katherine. Felt, well, felt things one doesn’t feel for a sister.’ He put his arm round her, held her close, testing her presence.

  ‘But you never suspected?’ Katherine scrutinized Jacob.

  He shook his head, ‘How could I? Sylvie, when I came to fetch her in Poland, presented me with this wonderful daughter, eh, my little Kat?’ For a moment, his glance glowed over her, seeing that tiny fragile creature he had held in his arms all those years ago in Krakow. He turned back to Alexei. ‘But what did Sylvie say to you?’

  ‘Nothing. Or at least, as I remember it, nothing on the single occasion when I met her. There was only the letter. When it arrived, sometime in ‘68, Giangiacomo and I thought it was simply another letter from a madwoman. We received quite a number at that time.’ He stopped himself. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply…’

  Jacob waved his apology away, ‘No, no. Sylvie was nothing if not extreme. Extravagant. Extraordinary. And troubled. Deeply troubled.’ He mulled it over. ‘That’s why we loved her,’ he said softly. He gazed at Katherine, added, ‘And sometimes hated her.’

  Katherine met his eyes, saw Sylvie for the first time through them. A separate woman who was not her mother. And yet was. Two separate Sylvies blending into one. She took a long, deep breath. She suddenly felt free, unconstricted. And curious for the first time about that woman. ‘What I don’t understand is if she wasn’t my mother, why Sylvie never said, never implied anything?’

  He shrugged. ‘We’ll never know now. Perhaps she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she didn’t remember. Perhaps it was my fault. We all find ourselves in little traps sometimes. Traps made by the world, our families, ourselves. And Sylvie had a passion for secrets. For surprises.’ A twinkle lit his eyes. ‘But now, whatever the case, ma petite Kat, you will have to forgive this woman who was the only mother you ever knew, for good and for bad, eh? Forgive her because, if nothing else, she has brought you Alexei - in her own inimitable way.’

  Katherine looked from Alexei to Jacob and back. ‘I already have,’ she murmured. ‘I already have. But…’

  ‘No, that’s enough now,’ Jacob rose. ‘Mathilde will be waiting with those special bottles. And I want to celebrate with all my children.’ He put an arm around Katherine, another around Alexei, led them towards the others, already gathered, noted how, as soon as he released them, they reached for each other. He smiled to himself, moved towards Mathilde, took the proffered glass, noted the label on the bottle. Chateau Latour 1945. He saw Mathilde’s air of feigned innocence.

  ‘Sylvie’s name during the war,’ Jacob whispered. ‘You remembered?’

  That old air of secret amusement lit her face.

  Jacob cleared his throat. There was laughter in the room, the rise and fall of excited voices. He drew everyone’s attention, raised his glass. ‘I think a toast is in order. A toast to all the sons and daughters gathered here,’ he met their eyes one by one, little Natalie and Violette, Leo and Alexei and Katherine.

  He drank deeply, a deep fragrant vintage, rich and mellow with age. He spoke again, his eyes sparkling, ‘A toast to mothers, as well. To Sylvie, for her wonderful legacy.’

  ‘To Sylvie,’ the room echoed with his words.

  Jacob paused, turned to Mathilde. Carefully, he chose his words,‘ And to Mathilde, who has always known more than all of us; who has always, ever since the days of her Paris school, had a way with orphans,’ he chuckled, caught her smile.‘And on top of it all, who has a very special genius for selecting her moments for revelation.’

  He took her hand, brought it to his lips.

  Voices rose again.

  Katherine thought, he has always loved Mathilde. And Sylvie. Both of them. My mother and not my mother. And me. Has loved me. Her daughter, his daughter and not their daughter. An orphan and not an orphan. Myself. Simply myself. Yes, at last myself. Myself in love with this man. Alexei. She raised her glass to him. Touched him. I’m happy, she thought. So happy. Shyly she reached for his hand, ‘Alexei, I must ask Jacob just one more thing.’

  ‘Just one?’ he teased her.

  ‘At least one,’ Katherine smiled, tugged at Jacob’s sleeve, ‘Jacob, who was this Caroline? Why…?

  ‘Off with you.’ Jacob shooed her away, ‘No more questions now. Take her away, Alexei. Yes, off with all you young ones,’ he gazed at them with mock ferocity. ‘Off with you. Leave the past to us.’ His eyes were bright as he took Mathilde’s arm.

  ‘Yes,’ she leaned on him, smiled a mischievous smile, ‘Assez. Leave memory to us. Go and concentrate on your desires.’

  Princesse Mathilde and Jacob walked slowly arm in arm into the garden. The setting sun clothed the mountain caps in palest pink. They strolled in quiet, made their way towards a wrought iron bench which gave out on the vista, sat silently for a moment and contemplated the rise and fall of the land.

  ‘So all these years,’ Jacob mused, ‘you’ve been the repository of our family memories. And you never spoke,’ He gave her a piercing glance.

  Princesse Mathilde still gazed into the distance. Her voice when it came held a note of wonder. ‘Endless permutations on a family romance. The very essence of your trade.’ She smiled a slow wistful smile, turned to him, ‘And a storybook ending. Not every daughter gets to marry her father. He looks so like you.’<
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  ‘Then you think he is my son? You think it’s true. Sylvie really did it. Her ultimate transgression?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she looked at him from twinkling eyes. ‘But what is truth?

  ‘Yes,’ Jacob echoed, ‘What’s truth?’ He surveyed the landscape, spoke almost as if to himself, ‘We search for it in the crucible of our memories, distort it with our fantasies, create pleasing fictions for ourselves, speculate…’

  She laughed at him, at herself. That wry girlish laugh, he remembered. ‘And what more have we to do, we old tattered coats upon our sticks, than to speculate. Eh, my old Dr. Jardine?’ Her laughter embraced them.

  ‘Yes,’ he put his arm gently round her shoulders. ‘And sit like Yeats’s birds upon a golden bough “to sing of what is past, or passing, or to come.”’

  ‘Free from desire.’

  He nodded. ‘You understand, Mat. It’s good to see you. Very good.’

  ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged him. ‘Yes, Jacob. It’s very good to see you, my friend.’

  About the Author

  Lisa Appignanesi is a prize-winning novelist, writer and broadcaster. She has been the President of English PEN, Deputy Director of London’s Institute of Contemporary Arts, and is a Visting Professor in Literature and the Medical Humanities at King’s College London.