The Legacy
by
David Sil
Published by David Sil
Copyright © David Sil, 2012
Registered with the United States Copyright Office.
David Sil has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher/author.
I dedicate this book to my grandmother’s memory and to all grandmothers who love their grandchildren.
My deep gratitude to my friend Laurence Wells for his help while I was writing this story.
It is often said that you cannot choose your parents. Unhappy with the behaviour of their children, parents will often exclaim with a sigh that they do not get to pick their children either. If we take the opposing view, I had the great good fortune to pick the best grandmother in the world.
After she passed away, I took the separation from her very badly. I couldn’t bear the thought that I would never see her again. I could not be parted from the only remaining photograph of her in which she was sitting on a wicker chair in her garden surrounded by her family of still young children and relatives. After my grandmother’s passing, my mother brought the photo home as a memento of the family and her youth. It was the same picture as the one I remember seeing at my grandmother's house, which stood on a table in her room in an ornately-curved silver frame, decorated with enamel and semiprecious stones.
It was no ordinary photograph; there was something special about it. Most likely the picture had been taken in early spring in my grandmother's garden. Although the photograph was in black and white, it was clear that the whole group was posing against a backdrop of young leaves and flowering shrubs. Everyone around grandmother was standing ankle-deep in the grass. Grandmother was sitting on a chair in the centre of the group with her ankles crossed.
The strange thing about the photograph was that the chair at grandmother's side was empty, yet it stood out so clearly in the foreground that it unwittingly created the impression that somebody was sitting there. If you scrutinised the photograph carefully, the presence of a person became so obvious that it sent a shiver down one's spine. It is possible that someone had been "removed" through retouching. In fact, I knew that nobody was sitting there. One day, pointing at the empty chair, I asked my grandmother: “Who is that?” To which she, gazing searchingly, smiled and said: “It is someone who did not want to have their photograph taken.” Such was the answer of my beloved, inimitable grandmother.
In the photograph, my grandmother, who was leaning comfortably on the arm of the chair, gazed unwaveringly and directly into the camera, while all those around her were looking here, there and everywhere. And, as my grandmother sat at the centre of the group, the empty chair seemed all the more prominent amongst them all. The photograph was mysterious. The expression on my grandmother's face is enigmatic. It is as if she is looking searchingly at you in order to find out if you are someone who can be trusted with a special secret. It looked as if she was about to speak to you and invite you to sit beside her, or turn away, in disappointment with you. When studying the photograph after her death, I had often looked into her face and always believed that the smile she gave me was one of reassurance. Her smile told me: “Do not fret, my little one, I am with you,” that was what she used to call me sometimes, and it calmed me for a while.
After my grandmother's death, this photograph took her place. I would not part with it. Sometimes, at night, I got up so that I could gaze at my grandmother's face. I was positive that she was looking at me when the photo was taken in the garden. The fact that my very young and then unmarried mother was in the photo and I had yet to be born did not bother me at all. I knew that my grandmother was looking at me, through time and space.
My parents, mother in particular, did everything they could to ease my grief.
One day, my beloved photo disappeared. I got up and could not see it in its usual place, on a small table next to my bed. The whole family denied having any involvement in the disappearance of the photo. I suspected my parents; especially my mother. I cried, screamed and refused to eat and drink. All of my efforts and pains were in vain. I never saw that photograph again.
I am convinced that it was this event that signalled the beginning of my estrangement from my family.
Years later, my mother confessed that she had burned the photo out of fear that I would become seriously ill. The other photograph at grandmother's house, which stood on a table in her room, had also disappeared together with the frame. But I believe, in this sad case, it was due to the high value of the frame. It had quite simply been stolen. The temptation was great. It had been made by a famous jeweller. Today, I would give anything to have that photograph back.
Decades later, while walking with a friend in an old, neglected but still magnificent garden that had belonged to the royal family, we noticed quite by chance a single bench standing in a secluded spot overgrown with bushes. Enormous in size, it was carved in marble in the late classical style. The place struck us as very romantic. My friend suggested taking a photograph of me on the bench. He knew that I do not like being photographed, but he managed to persuade me. I agreed on the condition that he took only one photo in my way and when I would give him the sign. “I need to collect my thoughts so that the photograph is a good one," I told him. My friend was not a professional photographer, but he considered himself to be one. He was ready to accept all of my conditions as he wanted to prove to me that he really was an excellent photographer. Having set up the camera, he waited patiently for my signal.
I sat on the very edge of the bench, and recalling the details of that beloved old photograph, attempted to invoke the image of my grandmother on the empty part of the bench, so that the shot gave the same impression of another "presence". But my grandmother did not answer my call. It was another, unknown person who “responded” to me. The man was serious, but engaged in conversation, I could sense it. However, unnerved by the unexpected result of my spiritual endeavours, I immediately signalled to my friend and he took my picture. In fact, dare I say he photographed "us" – the photo turned out to be rather mysterious, particularly with this impression of another presence.