“No,” said Henry. He opened one of the books, and there was a frontispiece that said From the Library of Cyprian Toselli. “I don’t recognize that name,” he said, and put the books aside. He pulled out a yellowed wall calendar from 1945 and studied the image at the top. It appeared to be a colorized photo. “Here is the town where I grew up. Here is Bellerive.”

Camille and Julie moved in close. The top of the calendar depicted a pretty hill town that appeared medieval in character. Crowning the hill was a church rising from the middle, like the center of a flower, its roof of overlapping slate surrounding a grand steeple. The tiny streets spiraled downward to a cliff-topped shore where the river flowed into the sea. It was a typical wide-angle shot, and the hand-coloring romanticized the seascape and sky, giving it a dreamy look.

While Camille and her father gazed at the calendar image, Julie summoned up present-day images on her phone. The town appeared as charming and bucolic in the present as it had in the past, tucked amid the craggy, sun-drenched landscape of the Var. “It looks almost the same,” she said. “When was the last time you went there, Papi?”

“I left the village in 1963,” he said.

“And you never went back,” Camille said. He’d never had much to say about his early life, offering her only the sketchiest of details. “That’s . . . wow. Did you ever feel like visiting?”

“No. Sometimes I miss the countryside, the food and the pace of life. At my age, I am feeling nostalgic, perhaps.”

“Check it out,” Julie said, brandishing an oversized envelope. On the front someone had scrawled, photos—Henri Palomar. As she undid the envelope clasp, she said, “Wasn’t that your name before?”

He nodded. “I prefer the American version—Henry Palmer.” Then he frowned at the envelope. “That is Rotrude’s handwriting.”

Julie took out the photos, and her eyes lit up. “Pictures of you, Papi!”

Camille leaned forward, as fascinated as Julie. He had come to America with almost nothing, least of all pictures and memorabilia from the past. The oldest one was dated 1948. It showed a little boy with huge eyes and a mop of curly dark hair, framing a face that was oblong, with high cheekbones, an adorable nose, and unsmiling lips. He stood beside a teenage girl in a school uniform, her hair in two blond braids.

“That would be my cousin Petra,” he said.

“Look how cute you were,” Julie said.

“But so serious,” Camille said, studying the shot. In her work, she was trained to inspect a photograph with a detective’s eye. What was happening the moment the camera’s aperture blinked open? Henri had a chastened look, his lips soft, his lash-fringed eyes vaguely ashamed, as if he’d just been caught doing something wrong. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his hands were in the pockets of his dungarees, and there was a small bit of space between him and the girl beside him, as if they were loath to touch each other.