by Alba Arikha
And then there were her days as a model. There was a contradiction there: she was a very private person, yet she had no qualms about stripping naked for painters. “My soul is prudish, but not my body. My body speaks for itself, and I like that,” she had written. Her body was her language, and she stripped it bare.
Who was Flora Baum? Her flesh served as a canvas for the words she couldn’t speak. But where were those paintings? Those drawings? I had made a visit to the Slade School and enquired about their records, anything that could provide me with additional information about her. “Every Saturday in 1955” was the only clue I had. But Flora hadn’t been a student. There was no mention of her anywhere. As for portraits of her, it was impossible to know. Perhaps I could track down one of her fellow students, the archivist had suggested. There had to be someone left from that time. Did I want her to look into it?
I tried finding Vivian, but I didn’t know her surname, or any of the other friends Flora had mentioned. I thought about getting in touch with Lotta anyway, despite her son’s wishes. But I couldn’t find a listing for her, even though I searched everywhere.
I looked for Flora’s book on Robert Schumann, but the publisher had gone out of business. I visited a few libraries, hoping to find a copy of it, to no avail.
Claire Betts was now dead, though she had still been alive the week before Ben delivered the box.
When it came to Flora Baum, there was nothing and no one to track down. All I had for reference was a scribbled notebook of A5 paper I had found at the bottom of an old cardboard carton, my name highlighted in dark-blue felt-tip letters.
3
His name was Derek Casmin, Harry said. He had just turned fifty and lived in Canterbury. He was married with one daughter and two grandchildren. Harry had written to him, explaining who I was. We had exchanged two emails. His tone was dry and curt, not particularly polite. Yet he agreed to meet me at an appointed time, one week later.
Harry confessed that Derek had only expressed a mild interest in meeting me, until he had let slip that his mother had been French and that I was a private chef. That had made Derek curious. “He likes France and he likes food,” said Harry. “I didn’t get much else from him. Which doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t much else. And by the way,” he warned me, “don’t get your hopes up. He’s probably not what you expect. It rarely works out that way. You may be lucky, but be prepared for any eventuality.”
“I am.”
I needed to meet Derek in person before I would allow myself to form any sort of impression of him. Whatever had been transmitted through email was surely not an accurate reflection of his personality. He was being cautious, understandably taken aback by the revelation that an unknown family member had tracked him down. I had wanted to mention the memoir to him, but Harry had dissuaded me. “Don’t give him too much too soon. Take your time,” he had suggested. “I wouldn’t mention it until the second or third meeting, if there is one.” He had also urged me to stick to the cousin scenario until further notice. “What you do after that is entirely in your hands. But I would break the news very slowly. You don’t want to scare him off.”
*
Ben rang to say that he had auditioned for the feature film, but hadn’t got the part. “Although they led me to believe that I would get it. But hey, these things happen,” he said, his voice sounding strained.
“I’m sorry, Ben.”
“Yeah, me too.” He spoke quickly, brusquely. But not all was lost, he added. He had been cast in a low-budget movie, to be shot in Latvia. He didn’t know much about the director, but he wanted to give it a try. “Could be interesting,” he said.
Something about my brother broke my heart. It always had, ever since that day at the beach, when his childish innocence was shattered into little pieces. But the shattering had fuelled his talent. It was raw, real. There was fire inside that darkness. Surely he deserved a break? Or perhaps it wasn’t about merit, just luck. Somehow, that always seemed to bypass him. Was there a reason, or was it purely providence? All I could do was offer support. But he didn’t seem interested. “I need action, not support.”
“And it will happen,” I said, wanting to believe it. “Remember that most artists struggle before they make it. ‘He can who thinks he can, and he can’t who thinks he can’t.’ Picasso said that, by the way.”
“Picasso said many things,” Ben declared. “And it’s more complicated than that. It doesn’t always work out that way.”
“But it could.”
“I’ll keep you posted about next week,” he said. “You know I want to be there.”
“I know.”
The reality was that I was starting to worry about meeting Derek on my own. My confidence was slowly crumbling. Perhaps Az had been right, after all. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone searching for him. What if it all went wrong? What if Derek discovered the truth? That we were, in fact, not related at all? His mother and I had met for no more than an hour. Until I read her memoir I knew next to nothing about her. What had I got myself into?
*
The day of our meeting, I picked Ben up at the airport. He was wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses. I squeezed his hand. “It’s good to see you. I’m so glad you were able to pull it off.”
He lifted his sunglasses. “I had to push a bit. But it worked.”
“Are you all right?” He looked pale. Worn out.
“Not really. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I partied too much on set. Not booze, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he added quickly.
“It’s not,” I reassured him. “And I’ve got us a minicab to get us to Canterbury. Az arranged it all.
“Cool, thank you.” He put his sunglasses back on. “Something’s up with Melody,” he said. “She’s being fucking weird. She’s not taking my calls.”
“Maybe you need to have a good conversation, the two of you…”
“We did.” He looked worried. “She doesn’t like me shooting this crappy flick. Says it’s porn. Which it’s not. Well, not technically, anyway. It’s just crap, that’s all. Though some of the actors are nice. But there’s more, I can tell. Something else is going on.”
“Ben, I feel bad. I feel like I should hug you. Can I hug you?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.”
We embraced awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I never should have agreed to this,” I said, releasing my grasp. “I shouldn’t have insisted.”
Ben looked at me. “You never insisted – and stop being sorry all the time – it’s boring.”
I smiled. “OK. I’ll stop. I’ve just spotted the minicab driver. Let’s go.”
*
The Queen’s Head pub, two o’clock, outside, Derek had said. The cab driver had parked nearby. “I’ll be right here, if you need me,” he told us.
We arrived at the pub early. It stood on an unattractive street, on the outskirts of the city centre. REAL ALES BAR FOOD was written on the front of the dirty white building in black letters. The rain had turned into a drizzle, interrupted by streams of light, moving in uneven patches. Two men were smoking outside. I wondered whether one of them was Derek. I had no idea what he looked like. I had described myself, and had, the previous day, informed him that I would be bringing my brother, his other cousin, along. I didn’t expect, or receive, a reply. Now, though, I was suddenly worried it might have put him off altogether.
Ben lit a cigarette and paced around. He was wearing his black jeans and a matching jacket, and hadn’t removed the baseball cap. We waited for ten minutes, and I was about to go inside and use the loo when a man appeared. He was of medium height, with pale skin and salt-and-pepper hair. He looked younger than his fifty years – an ordinary, rough-hewn sort of man who, in any other circumstances, I wouldn’t even have noticed. His dark eyes rested momentarily on mine, then on Ben’s. Scrutinizing eyes, with long dark lashes. He wore a stripe
d grey suit and a creased white shirt. His smile was awkward, but I attributed it to nerves. We were all nervous. “I’m Derek Casmin,” he said.
“Hello, it’s very good to meet you. I’m Hannah,” I said, shaking his hand.
“And I’m Ben,” said my brother.
“OK,” Derek said, his eyes resting on Ben’s for a while longer. “Let’s go inside.”
We followed him, and I ran to the loo. My stomach was in knots. When I returned, Ben was ordering a Coca-Cola, Derek a beer. He knew the barman, a bearded man with a tattooed neck, and exchanged a few words with him. “These your friends?” the barman asked Derek.
“Nah. Londoners,” Derek answered. “They’re Londoners.”
I ordered myself a mineral water, and we sat down. The pub was dark and dingy. It was daylight outside, but one wouldn’t have known it. There was a smell of dank grease. Stains on the pale-red carpet. A man and a woman were playing pool in the next room. I could see their moving cues through the open door. There was the noise of a television in the background, a few men were shouting at a football match on the screen. I could hear them, but I couldn’t see them.
Derek asked us where we lived in London.
“I live in North London,” I answered.
“And I live in Notting Hill,” Ben said.
“Notting Hill, like the movie?”
“Yes,” Ben answered. “Like the movie.”
“So you’re rich?”
“No, not particularly,” I answered. Ben said nothing. He was looking nervous.
“I thought you had to be rich to live there,” Derek said, taking a few sips of his beer.
“Not necessarily,” Ben answered.
“I used to work in London for a while. Oxford Street. In the 1980s,” Derek continued. His accent was coarse. Since speaking to Simon, I had suspected Fletcher’s must have been too, but Flora hadn’t been enough of a native to detect it, and was consequently not in a position to question the tales of his pedigree.
“So, what work were you doing there?” Ben asked, in a friendly voice.
Derek nodded. “I sold shoes. That’s my business. Shoes. I have a shop in Sittingbourne: Casmin’s footwear. I have a partner. We sell international shoes.”
“Nice,” said Ben. “What kind of international shoes? I like shoes.”
He displayed his white Nike trainers from underneath the table. “I stick to trainers, though. I don’t have many proper shoes.”
“Is that right? Well, come by my shop, then. I got plenty of proper ones.”
Did Derek mean that or was he pretending? It was hard to tell.
“And you’re a restaurant chef, is that right?” Derek asked, turning towards me.
“A chef, yes. But not for restaurants, private stuff. Catering.”
“That’s a good job,” Derek declared. “I like good food. French food, especially. There’s a new restaurant opened up here recently. The chef is from the south of France. Me and the wife like to go there. To the restaurant I mean, yeah?”
“Sounds nice.”
“What about you?” he asked Ben, tapping his fingers against his glass. “What’s your line of work?”
“Journalist,” said Ben, without missing a beat. We had agreed that mentioning the word “actor” might prove counterproductive.
“Telly?” Derek asked, sounding hopeful.
“Sometimes. Mostly newspapers, but I’ve done some telly.”
“I knew it,” said Derek, leaning back on his chair. “I’ve seen your face before.”
Ben mumbled something unintelligible. There was a slight lull in the conversation, and I decided to dive in.
“Derek,” I said slowly, “I’d like to thank you for agreeing to see us today.”
“Bloody right you should. I didn’t know telly man was coming too,” Derek retorted, pointing towards Ben. “You kind of threw that one into the pot, didn’t you?”
“No, not at all!” I exclaimed. “It’s just that… Ben really wanted to meet you too, but we didn’t know if you’d mind, so you know…”
“No, I don’t know, and yeah I mind,” Derek retorted, drinking his beer quickly. “I never went looking for my birth mother. Never was interested. I got on fine with my family. Why would I go looking? My mum was a good woman. A hard worker. She died a few years ago.”
“Sorry for your loss,” said Ben. “And I agree. Why would you go looking if you don’t want to? It’s my sister who started this,” he added, pointing at me. “She’s been obsessed with Flora for a long time. And then she died.”
“Who’s Flora?”
“Your birth mother. Her name was Flora.”
What was Ben up to now?
Derek pinched his lips nervously. “So she was French, yeah?”
“Yes. Flora was from Paris.”
This seemed to pique Derek’s interest. “From Paris?”
“Yes. She was an only child. Her father owned a toyshop.”
Derek’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I used to like toys. I worked as an apprentice in a toyshop once. But that was a long time ago,” he added gruffly.
“That’s really interesting,” Ben said. “That you liked toys too.”
Derek looked at him. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His tone had hardened. “So when did she come to London?”
“In the 1950s,” I answered. “She had an affair with a man she loved. Your father. Then he left her.”
“Why? Because she was a bitch, right?”
“No,” I replied, stunned, but pretending not to be. “Because your father was married. So she had to give you up for adoption. And it broke her heart.”
I nearly mentioned Simon Schumann, then remembered Harry’s words of caution.
Derek began to laugh. “It broke her heart? Don’t give me that shit. We all know that she abandoned me in a church. She left me wrapped in a fucking blanket in the doorway of the Salvation Army in Hackney, London, 1956. It’s a miracle my parents happened to be on that same street at the same moment.”
“Who told you that?” I asked, in a hoarse voice.
“My mother told me that. And she wouldn’t lie.”
I couldn’t find the right words. I was in shock. Luckily, Ben could.
“Listen, mate, it’s not true. I got proof that it’s not true.”
Derek laughed again. “What proof?”
“She told us stuff, and she also wrote a memoir. The story of her life. She left it to Hannah in her will.”
“Oh yeah? Let me see it, then,” he snapped.
“We didn’t bring it,” I said, speaking haltingly. “But we can tell you what it says and bring it to you next time.”
“Next time?” He sniggered. “Why didn’t you bring it today?” Derek stood up and pushed his chair back. “I would have liked to see it today.”
“We didn’t know whether you’d be interested,” said Ben.
“I’m going to get myself another drink,” said Derek. He got up, and Ben followed suit. “Where are you going?” I faltered.
“I’m gonna get a drink too,” Ben said, avoiding my gaze. “I’ve been wanting one for the past three days. My career is going down the pan and Melody is playing mind games with me. And this piece of shit here isn’t making things easier.”
“But Ben, you can’t!” I cried out, as he walked away. “You don’t drink any more!”
Derek turned around and looked at me from the bar. I had spoken too loudly. Did it matter? In any case, Ben hadn’t reacted. I could see my brother at the bar and the barman preparing him a drink. Something strong. He reappeared with a gin-and-tonic and sat back down. He drank quickly. His lips were wet. “That’s nice,” he said, as Derek returned to his seat. His phone rang. “The wife,” he said, looking at the screen. “I’ll call he
r later.”
“What’s your wife called?” I asked.
“Tracy. We have a daughter, Leanne, and two grandchildren. Nice children.”
He took a sip of his drink, and I noticed that his hands were shaking.
“What does she do? Your wife, I mean,” Ben asked.
“She’s a beautician,” Derek answered. “Works in a salon by the train station.”
“Yes, we saw the train station. I think we even saw a salon,” I said.
“Which station did you get off at?” Derek asked. “We got two Canterbury stations.”
I hesitated. “We drove. My brother here wanted to drive.”
“Oh yeah?” Derek took a few more sips of his beer, and he looked at the two of us. “Remind me how we’re related again? The way Harry said it I couldn’t understand a bloody thing.”
I explained as best I could. “We’re not first cousins or anything, but we’re cousins three times removed.”
“OK.” This seemed to appease Derek. “So you never knew that Flora lady.”
“Yes, we did,” Ben said. “She lived near us in Notting Hill.”
“You knew her?”
“Yes. She was a very nice woman. She was married to a concert pianist.”
“A what?”
“A pianist who played classical music.”
“I wasn’t related to him too, was I?” Derek asked, looking worried.
“No, not at all,” I reassured him. “But he was famous. A famous pianist.”
“Yeah? I don’t know much about that kind of music. Or about famous people.”
“Fair enough, neither do I,” said Ben, who had practically finished his gin-and-tonic.
