Perfectly Ordinary People(89)

I closed the laptop and went to the bathroom to sprinkle water on my face, before returning to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

I had a sense of foreboding about tape #4. I’d been certain for a while that Genevieve and Ethel were no other than my grandmother and her supposed cousin. But what I wanted, what I needed, was for it to be stated explicitly. Because once it was stated, then perhaps I could find a way to discuss it with Dad to find out how much he actually knew.

Armed with a fresh cuppa and with Buggles by my side, I reopened the laptop to continue reading.

When Pierre and Genevieve morphed into Christophe and Genevieve Solomas, I’m pretty sure I gasped out loud. My name, my surname . . . finally, there it was in black and white. With the pilot’s arrival, even Guillaume had become William and then Bill. It was all beyond doubt. Our entire family history had been faked, and the sadness, the trauma, the misery . . . these were ours. My grandparents had lived through these horrors and still somehow managed to bounce us up and down on their knees.

I had to pause to take in the enormity of what I was reading, so I stood and crossed to the window, where I stared unfocusedly out at the street. It was drizzling, so I watched the raindrops chasing each other down the pane. And then I crossed the room decisively and called Dan.

‘It’s me,’ I said, then without further ado, ‘Can you come over?’

‘I’m kind of busy,’ he said. ‘How about tomorrow?’

‘I . . . Look . . .’ I said. ‘If it’s impossible then it’s impossible. I understand.’

‘It’s not impossible,’ Dan said. ‘It’s just—’

‘Then please, just come. I’ve never asked you to come over immediately before, have I? So please, this once, just come.’

‘Do you want to tell me what’s happening?’ Dan said. ‘Because you’re kind of freaking me out.’

‘Don’t freak out,’ I said. ‘There’s no reason to. Not for you, anyway. Just get your arse over here, will you?’

‘OK, OK,’ Dan said. ‘I’m on my way.’

While I waited, I finished cassette #4 and cried all over again as I read how my grandmother had learned of her parents’ – my great-grandparents’ – deaths. And poor Grandpa, losing lovely Johann, losing all of his friends . . . How could anyone live through that much sorrow? How could human beings do such things? How could other people have allowed such things to happen?

An hour later, Dan arrived, muttering something disparaging about the Circle line. I’d more or less patched my face up by then, but Dan told me I looked terrible all the same.

I made a fresh pot of coffee and then we sat down together at the dining table. This didn’t seem to be the kind of story that could be told from the softness of a sofa.

Once I’d finished summarising what I’d read so far, Dan looked at me and blinked slowly while shaking his head, as if dazed.

‘What do you—?’

‘Hang on,’ Dan said, interrupting me. ‘Just . . . I’m trying to get my head around it all.’ He circled one finger in the air.

I left him to think whatever he was thinking and made us sandwiches. On the kitchen worktop two submissions I was supposed to read caught my eye, something that clearly wasn’t going to happen now.

I returned and plonked the plate down on the table. ‘Thanks,’ Dan said, grabbing a sandwich. ‘I’m starving.’

‘So what are your thoughts?’ I asked. ‘Because my mind is officially blown.’

Dan shrugged and shook his head slowly. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak twice, but said nothing.

Finally he closed his eyes and frowned for a bit before opening them and saying, ‘So, just to get this clear . . . Because there were a lot of name changes in there.’

‘There were,’ I said. ‘Fire away.’

‘So Genevieve . . . Schmitt? Who’s the one being interviewed, became Genevieve Poulain, and then Genevieve Solomas. Which just happens to be your grandmother’s name.’

‘It doesn’t just happen to be . . . but . . . yes.’

‘And Pierre . . . Meyer? Right? He becomes Pierre Poulain, and then Pierre, sorry, Christopher Solomas. Who’s your grandfather.’

‘It’s Christophe, not Christopher, but otherwise a perfect rendition.’

‘And Ethel Lambert, who was supposedly your grandmother’s cousin, was in fact her girlfriend/life partner/whatever. Which means that your grandfather was gay, and your grandmother was gay, and your father . . .’

‘Was adopted.’

‘Yeah,’ Dan said, then, nodding exaggeratedly, ‘And Jewish, right?’

‘Yep.’

‘What was his name again? His birth name, I mean?’

‘Menashe.’

‘And did you say Rosenberg?’

‘Rosenberg would have been his mother, Leah’s, maiden name. I don’t think she mentions the father’s name but I’ll have to re-read it to check. Or it could be in one of the later cassettes I haven’t received yet.’

Dan took a bite of his sandwich then, and I saw he was stifling a thoroughly inappropriate smile.

‘What?’ I asked, feeling a bit dismayed.

‘Sorry,’ Dan said, speaking through crumbs. ‘There’s so much tragedy in there, I feel terrible. It’s just . . .’