The Incorrigible Optimists Club (13 page)

19

A
fter having left the dying man with the duty houseman, who was snowed under and didn't know which part of the wretched man he should examine, Igor and Victor set off to the Canon d'Austerlitz to get to know one another. Very soon, the stocks of vodka were exhausted.

‘Have you drunk whisky before, Igor Emilievitch?'

‘Never.'

‘It's got a strange taste, but you quickly get used to it.'

‘I'm not very keen on anything American.'

‘Be careful, real whisky is Scottish.'

Igor drank his first glass of whisky in the Russian way. Not as pleasant as vodka, but not bad even so. The two men swore eternal brotherhood, vowed never to part and recounted the stories of their lives to one another. Victor was cunning. He knew that a fellow-countryman would soon uncover his fibs. He told the truth. Quite simply. He knew that after the euphoria of their reunion would come the moment of suspicion about the historical enemy. Like all liars, Victor could not believe that people told the truth, and he did not believe Igor: ‘No, you're not a doctor. I don't believe you.'

‘I swear to you. I graduated from the Leningrad Medical Institute. The degree isn't recognized in France. I specialised in cardiology. I practised for fifteen years. I held a consultancy at the Tarnovsky Hospital in Leningrad. During the war, I was a military doctor in Zhukov's army with the rank of lieutenant. I was a good doctor. My patients adored me.'

‘You're talking nonsense. You're a porter! You know a bit about medicine through seeing sick people and listening to doctors. No one fools father Victor. We're alike, you and I. Clever guys can diddle both the ignorant and the stupid. Stop taking the piss, comrade.'

Igor found himself confronted by an insoluble problem. How could he prove that he had been a doctor? His attempts at explanations and
corroboration, and his sketches, were all met by a wall of incredulity. Victor wanted real proof. On embossed paper, with official rubber stamps in colour, on headed paper and with ministerial signatures. The degree certificate was still in Leningrad. Victor smiled.

‘You're no more a doctor than I'm Prince Yusupov's cousin!'

‘You… Prince Yusupov's cousin!'

‘I tell the tourists that for fun. I have to admit you've got the knack. The important thing is to look the part. I know grand dukes and counts who look like housekeepers or cobblers. When they let it be known that they're from the nobility, they're treated as liars. In my case, everyone believes me.'

Igor no longer had a combative nature. His flight from the USSR and his wanderings had led him to see notions such as truth or lying from a different viewpoint. At present, he was unsure about anything apart from the fact that he was alive. For him, it was the one and only truth on this earth: you were either alive or you were dead. The rest was nothing but belief or hypothesis.

‘Believe whatever you like, it's all the same to me. You're right, here I'm not a doctor, I'm a porter.'

Victor took this rapid renunciation as proof that Igor was a downright liar and that he would therefore make a good taxi driver.

‘How much do you earn on this job?'

‘Not much.'

‘Would you like to earn a decent living, pay yourself whatever you want and be free?'

‘Who would say no to such an offer? If it's honest, I accept.'

‘Are you insulting me or joking? I'm a former officer in the army of the Tsar, and don't forget it. I hope you're not Jewish?'

‘I'm alive, isn't that enough for you? I agree to work for you on one condition: that I work at night. I only sleep during the daytime.'

‘It's not that simple. Driving at night requires special skills.'

‘Take it or leave it, Victor Anatolievitch.'

‘My wife will be grateful. The guy who works for me during the daytime rips me off. With you, I won't have to worry. The one good thing
about Commies is that they're honest. What should I take to get to sleep at night?'

‘I'm not familiar with French medicaments. I refuse to take sleeping pills. How long have you had insomnia?'

‘I haven't slept since I first arrived in Paris. In my youth, I was scrawny and slept like a log. You're one hell of a liar, if you were a doctor you'd know how to cure insomnia.'

Igor became a taxi driver and worked for Victor, who had a flexible notion of honesty and paid scant attention to his customers, especially the foreigners.

‘You're wrong to bother about these minor details, Igor Emilievitch. You know me, I'm a believer and I respect the commandments. If God created mugs, it's in order that they should be ripped off.'

Igor took some time to become a real Parisian taxi driver. Paris was a vast city, Parisian men were stark raving mad, Parisian women were hotheads, the suburbs were snarled up and those who lived there were skinflints. But thanks to his doctor's memory, he eventually came to know the street map by heart. The traffic jams were inescapable, though.

‘In the old days, the traffic moved. At the time of the Liberation, it was perfect. After that, the 2CVs came and wrecked our lives and ever since Renault invented the Dauphine for these ladies it's been a shambles.'

Victor taught him the various ways of making a little extra on the side that had enabled him to afford the white house he was so proud of on the heights of L'Haÿ-les-Roses from where he had a view over Paris, the Eiffel Tower and the Sacré Coeur. Up until Victor's death twelve years later, during the événements of May 1968 – caused by a heart attack in a gigantic traffic jam on the Nationale 7 near Orly, when he was driving a Texan who was yelling because he had been caught up for two hours in the southern suburbs – he was convinced that Igor was an inveterate liar and had never been a doctor in his life. After making him swear on the Novodievichny icon not to tell anyone, not even his confessor, he revealed to him the art of distracting the customer's attention and turning full circle while
appearing to drive straight ahead; how to lengthen the journey by catching the red traffic lights; which streets were used by the dustbin lorries so that you could get delayed behind them; the route followed three times a week by the horses of the Republican guards; the advantages of taking the avenues in which there were roadworks rather than those which were free of traffic; how to get yourself stuck behind a delivery or removal lorry without the customer suspecting, and the thousand and one ruses that allowed you to buy yourself a fine detached house in the course of twenty years of honest labour. He also taught him how to avoid like the plague those sadistic taxi policemen whom the Préfecture despatched in pursuit of cab drivers so as to harass them under any pretext – taught him how to recognize them and how to come to an agreement with them when you could not do otherwise.

‘There's a flawless way of spotting them: they only drive around in black 403s. As soon as you have one on your tail, turn your sign back on. You're lucky, they don't often work at night.'

Igor and Victor hadn't any need to sign a contract. They had done a deal and they'd embraced. Igor grumbled that he was being exploited by Victor, but he continued to work for him. He never followed any of his advice, and he took his passengers on the most direct and economical route. He could have worked for himself, but in effect he was his own boss and he made his living without any worries. That was what mattered to him. Unlike Victor, who used it to blow his own trumpet, he never told any of his customers that he was Russian. Sometimes he drove Soviet Communist Party dignitaries, who loved the Russian cabarets in Paris. He overheard secret conversations murmured in the back of his taxi. Thus was how he was able to inform us four days beforehand that Nikita Khrushchev was about to be dismissed and replaced by Leonid Brezhnev and that, during his visits to Paris, the unremovable and Buster Keaton-like Andrey Gromyko took the opportunity to call on a very dear ladyfriend whose name was Martine.

20

F
ranck was leaning against a wall at the church of Saint-Etienne-du-Mont and smoking a cigarette. He was waiting for the classes at Henri-IV to come out. He had been at school there himself, and seven years later I encountered the same teachers, who examined me doubtfully.

‘Are you related to Franck Marini?'

‘Yes, Madame, he's my brother.'

‘He was more talented than you are.'

Ten days previously, he had left the flat, slamming the door behind him. I crossed over the road to join him and instead of shaking hands he kissed me on the cheek. I put that down to emotion.

‘I got your message. Supposing we go for a drink? Have you got time?'

We crossed back over rue Clovis. We bumped into Sherlock who, as a good supervisor should, was presiding over the pupils leaving school. He came over to us and shook hands with Franck in a friendly way.

‘How are you, Marini?'

‘Very well, Monsieur Masson. And how's Michel getting on?'

‘His accident has had no repercussions, thank God.'

‘You had an accident?' exclaimed Franck.

My legs began to wobble. I came out in goose pimples. I managed to stammer out: ‘It… it's nothing. I'll explain to you.'

‘You've got to be vigilant, Michel,' said Sherlock. ‘I was observing you when you crossed the road with your brother. You didn't look.'

‘I swear to you that I'll be careful, Monsieur.'

‘It's incredible, he's taller than you, Franck, but he's not in the least like you. He does the basic minimum. The average is good enough for him.'

‘It's not for lack of trying, believe me, Monsieur.'

‘I get the impression he's more gifted at baby-foot.'

‘Ah, baby-foot's over, it's chess now.'

‘Chess? How very interesting, my dear Michel, you must show me one of these days.'

We left to go and have a drink at La Chope, in place de la Contrescarpe.

‘What's all this about an accident?'

‘Just a story I told him to justify my being away one day.'

‘You're out of your mind!'

‘Oh, I'm careful.'

‘You could be expelled from Henri-IV for a prank like that! Can you imagine our parents?'

‘Are you worried on their account?'

‘It's for your sake I'm saying this. You've got to stop playing the fool and think about your future a little. You've got to swot if you want to make it.'

The waiter put a half of beer on the table for Franck and a really weak lemonade shandy for me.

‘What about you, do you never fool around?'

‘I've got my degree. I do as I want. What's all the hurry about? If it's for the parents, there's no point.'

‘Cécile… Have you forgotten her already?'

‘What's the matter with Cécile?'

‘The matter is she's unhappy. You told her you'd ring her back. You didn't ring her back. For weeks, she's not heard a word from you. She doesn't understand what's going on.'

‘What's it got to do with you?'

‘I thought you loved her.'

‘Mind your own business.'

‘She's an extraordinary, wonderful girl… “I love a girl who's got a very pretty neck, very pretty breasts, a very pretty voice, very pretty wrists, a very pretty head, very pretty knees…” Do you remember?'

‘Stop it! What's your game? Did she ask you to come and find me? To preach at me?'

‘She's convinced that you're with someone else and that you haven't the guts to tell her to her face!'

‘These are old wives' ravings. I'm not with anyone.'

‘Are you ditching her?'

Franck didn't answer me. His head dropped. He shot me occasional dark glances. He took out a Gitane and lit it before realizing that there was already one alight in the ashtray. He stubbed it out.

‘Are you able to keep a secret?'

‘You're not going to join up too.'

‘I've brought forward my call-up. I've enlisted. I'm leaving for Algeria.'

‘You're a student.'

‘I've withdrawn my reprieve.'

‘You're crazy!'

‘Try to explain to a woman that you're leaving her to join the army. You could spend years trying. I haven't said anything to her. There was no point. Beyond my capabilities.'

‘She thinks you're deserting her for another woman!'

‘I did that deliberately. So that she could free herself from me.'

‘Why didn't you explain that to her face to face?'

‘Because I love her, you stupid bastard! I wouldn't have been able to. I don't want her to wait for me. I don't want to be tied down. I'd decided to leave without talking about it.'

‘And so why are you telling me?'

‘You've alerted the whole of Paris! I thought something serious had happened.'

‘Something did happen!'

‘What?'

‘Fuck off! You don't deserve her!'

I stood up and left the bistro. Franck caught up with me at the square. He grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket and yelled as he shook me: ‘What has happened, for God's sake?'

I had never seen him looking so tense. We sat down on a bench. A tramp was sprawled at the side of the road, asleep. I told him everything. He allowed me to speak without asking a single question. He looked distraught. By the end, he was deep in thought, his shoulders drooping. He was crushed. His head nodded gently.

‘Thank you,' he said feebly. ‘Has… has she come through it all?'

‘It would have been better had she spent a day or two under observation at the hospital. She doesn't listen to anyone.'

We heard a sepulchral voice coming from the ground: ‘You're a real bastard!'

The tramp was sitting up, he had listened to what was being said and, sitting on the edge of the pavement, he was gazing at Franck with a look of disdain and pointing his finger.

‘Got to be a complete moron to join the French army and ditch your girlfriend. The guy's a nutcase! Ah, you can be proud of yourself!'

Franck was furious. I thought he was going to hit him.

‘Mind your own business! Go on, get lost or I'll give you a hiding!'

The tramp picked up his bags and his bottle of wine. He wandered off, grumbling to himself and taking his sour smell with him.

‘Morons! They're all morons!'

He disappeared down rue Mouffetard, shouting and insulting the passers-by.

‘Are you going to see her?'

He shook his head.

‘Franck, it's Cécile!'

‘It was a difficult decision. Face to face with her, I wouldn't have had the courage.'

‘She could have died because of you!'

‘I'm sorry and I feel bad about it. It's too late. I'm leaving in four days time. When I get there, I'll write to her to explain myself. When I get back, we'll see.'

‘Do you think she'll wait for you? She loathes you!'

‘It's my life, Michel! I have to do it.'

‘Bloody hell, Franck, you're a real arsehole!'

‘I beg you not to say anything to her. Not before I leave. Let me deal with it.'

‘You're out of your mind. You'll regret it all your life.'

‘Give it a rest! Come on, let's go and get a bite to eat.'

‘I don't want to. I'm going home.'

I hesitated about leaving him standing there. He seemed confused.
I still hoped to be able to persuade him.

‘I'll phone and say that I'm staying at Nicolas's place for dinner.'

He took me to the Volcan, a small Greek restaurant where the owner cooked as they do in Salonika. We went into the kitchen where we lifted up the lids and chose according to the aroma. The dishes smelled of aubergines, courgettes and peppers stewed with caramelized onions, cumin and bay leaves. That evening, Franck told me the history of our family, our parents' meeting, the war, his birth, their five years of separation, their reunion and their forced marriage. He needed to get things off his chest. I didn't utter a word. Children don't know about their parents' lives. When they are young, they don't think about such things because the world only began with them. Their parents have no history and have the bad habit of only talking to their children about the future, never the past. It's a serious mistake. When they fail to do so, they always leave a gaping hole.

‘She hates me. It's taken me a while to admit it. Because of me, she was obliged to marry our father and she's made a mess of her life. Had I not been born, she would have made a good marriage, to a man from her own background.'

He was right. I could raise no objection.

‘And me, does she hate me?'

‘With you, it's not your fault. Later on, she wanted a family. For her, you're a Marini, not a Delaunay. Don't forget that. I don't say it to turn you against her. I'm not angry with her. You needed to know.'

Now there was an even greater difference between us. But I didn't feel concerned. There was nothing I could do to change anything. I was only interested in Cécile.

‘Why did you join up?'

‘If you don't do anything, you leave the path wide open to the fascists. It may be too late. At least I shall have tried.'

‘Do you think you're going to be able to change society on your own?'

‘I'm not alone.'

‘And Papa? … He doesn't hate you. You can't leave without telling him. It's not fair.'

‘Papa, I agree. But not a word to Cécile!'

I was shocked and powerless. To conceal his enlisting from her struck me as disgraceful. But if I let her know about it, I lost my brother. He had made his choice and it wasn't Cécile. I felt besmirched, trapped and full of anger. Had I been stronger, I would have smashed his face in. I have a problem with logic. I've never understood how people can say one thing and do the opposite. Swear they love someone and then hurt them, have a friend and then forget him, claim to belong to the same family and then treat one another like strangers, hold lofty principles and then not practise them, profess that they believe in God and act as though he did not exist, think of themselves as heroes when they behave like bastards.