‘Yes, but in fact, more importantly, I want to make a will too. And leave the properties to a . . . relative.’
‘I see. Well, that’s not a problem. And in fact, it’s one thing that I would recommend to all my clients, whatever their age. If you write a list of who exactly you’d like to leave anything you own to, and include small bequests to friends, et cetera, I can turn it into the necessary legalese.’
‘Thank you.’ I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how best I could phrase what I wanted to say next. ‘I also wanted to ask you how difficult it is for parents who have given up their babies for adoption to trace their children.’
Georg studied me thoughtfully, but didn’t seem remotely surprised by the question. ‘Extremely difficult, for the parent that is,’ he clarified. ‘As you can imagine, a child who is adopted, especially at a very young age, needs to feel settled and secure. Adoption authorities won’t take the risk of natural parents regretting their decision after the fact and introducing themselves to the child. You can imagine how disruptive it would be. And, of course, for the adoptive parents themselves, who have loved the child as their own, the reappearance of the natural mother or father would be very distressing, unless they agreed to it beforehand. However, if, like yourself, the adopted child wishes to seek out their natural parents once they are legally able to do so, then that’s a different story.’
I listened intently to what Georg was telling me. ‘So, if an adopted childdidwant to seek out their natural mother or father, where would they go?’
‘To the adoption authorities. These days, here in Switzerland at least, they keep a very careful record of these things. He would go there. I mean’ – Georg corrected himself immediately – ‘that is where any adopted child would need to begin.’
I watched a faint blush of colour tinge his pale cheeks. And in that moment, I realised he knew.
‘So, if a natural parent was – just for example – going to make a will and leave the child they’d given up for adoption a bequest, what would happen then?’
I watched Georg pause as he thought about his words carefully. ‘A lawyer would use the same route as any adopted child. He’d go to the adoption authorities and explain the situation. They would then – if the child was over sixteen years of age – contact the child, or, I should say, young adult concerned.’
‘And if the child wasn’t over sixteen?’
‘Then the authorities would contact the adoptive parents, who have the right to decide whether it would be beneficial for their child to know of the bequest at the time.’
‘I see.’ I nodded, now feeling oddly in control. ‘And if the adoption authorities were unable to trace the child concerned, and a lawyer had to use less . . .conventionalmeans to find them, how easy would that be?’
Georg stared at me. And in that moment, his eyes told me everything his words couldn’t say. ‘For a competent lawyer, Maia, it would be easy, very easy indeed.’
*
I told Georg that I would do as we had discussed and construct a will. I also told him I would be sending him a letter, to be held by him and passed over in the event that any adoption agency, or male with the birth date I would give him, ever made contact. Then I left his office.
Outside, unwilling to go home before I’d had a chance to digest what I had just learnt, I parked myself at a table of a café that overlooked the lake and ordered a beer. I normally hated beer, but somehow as I put the bottle to my mouth, refusing the glass the waitress brought with it, the taste was reminiscent of Rio and it comforted me.
If Georg knew about my son, then so did Pa Salt. I remembered the words that had upset and destabilised me so much in his parting letter to me.
Please believe me when I say that family is everything. And that the love of a parent for a child is the most powerful force on earth.
As I sipped my beer in the sunshine, I was convinced I could now walk back to Georg’s office and confront him. Ask him to tell me exactly who it was that had adopted my son and where in the world he was. But I also knew that what Floriano had said to me made sense. However much I longed to tell my beloved son why I had given him up, and to achieve some form of redemption for myself, currently it was a purely selfish need.
A sudden burst of anger filled me as I thought of the unseen and all-powerful hand of Pa Salt, who still seemed to control my life from beyond the grave. And maybe, I realised, that of my son too.
What right did he have to know things about myself that evenIdidn’t?
And yet, just like those who went to pray at the altar of an invisible power that they trusted implicitly – purely on human instinct and little factual evidence – I too felt comforted by Pa Salt’s omnipotence. If my father had known – and the guilt in Georg’s eyes after he’d made his very human error had confirmed he did – then I knew for certain that my boy was somewhere on the planet being cared for.
It had not been my father who had lacked trust in our relationship. It had been me. I could see clearly now that he’d also understood the reasoning behind my decision not to confide in him and accepted it. He’d allowed me to make my own choice which – I admitted brutally – had not just been about fear of his parental reaction. It had been about me too. Nineteen years old, experiencing freedom for the first time, with what I’d been sure was a brilliant future in front of me, the last thing I’d wanted was the responsibility of bringing up a child alone. And perhaps, I mused, if Ihadgone to Pa then, confessed and talked over the options with him, I might well have come to the same conclusion anyway.
I thought about my own mother. A similar age, in a similar dilemma, albeit at a different moment in time.
‘I forgive you,’ I said suddenly. ‘Thank you,’ I added, knowing that whatever her motivation, her decision had been right forme, her daughter.
My thoughts flashed back once again to Pa Salt. I gave a small chuckle as I thought that I wouldn’t have put it past him to have interviewed the prospective adoptive parents himself.
Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t, but in that moment, as I sat draining my beer, I felt at peace for the first time since my baby had been born thirteen years ago.
And now . . . I realised that in giving me my past, Pa Salt had probably offered me my future too. I quailed as I recalled my behaviour towards Floriano this morning.
Maia, what have you done?
Calling Christian on my mobile, I asked him to meet me at the pontoon in fifteen minutes. As I walked through the hectic streets of Geneva, I longed for the relaxed atmosphere of Rio. The people worked and they played and they also respected what they could not change or understand. And if I had messed up my future by letting old fears get the better of me, I accepted responsibility for it.
