The Incorrigible Optimists Club (16 page)

24

‘
N
ot a word to our mother either. I don't want to hear about her again. Do you understand? Work it out for yourself, otherwise…'

Franck had left me no alternative. With Cécile, all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and behave as though I knew nothing. At home, it was different. Ever since he had left, slamming the door behind him, Franck was a taboo subject. It was as if he had never existed. And yet he was all around us. In the way we said hello and in the way we looked at one another, whenever we said: ‘How are you?' or: ‘What did you do today?' In a family you are attached to one another by invisible strings that bind you even when you sever them. Nobody explained the rules of the game to Juliette or me. We followed them instinctively. My father was fully taken up with the new shop. We did not see him any more. He spent his life there. We had dinner without him, not saying a word. He came home late and tired. I would find him in the kitchen reheating the remains of the meal. He ate in silence, a vacant expression on his face, pretending to listen to me, but with his mind elsewhere. I wanted to talk to him about Franck without the risk of my mother coming in, but it was impossible to do so in the flat and at the shop. I had to wait for the right moment. Time went by. I never managed to be alone with him. There were only two days left before Franck's departure when, one morning at breakfast, my mother came in, all spruced up in one of the Chanel suits she brought out for important occasions. She was going on a three-day ‘Develop your leadership' course. One of those American seminars recommended by Maurice.

My parents at least had one cause for satisfaction. The opening of the new shop had earned us a photo on page eight of
France-Soir
, which my father had had enlarged, made into a prospectus and distributed to letterboxes in the fifth, sixth and eighth arrondissements. It did not take long to have an effect. The success far exceeded his most optimistic expectations.
They had the greatest difficulty in supplying the orders and delivering to customers. My father managed his team effortlessly, keeping an eye on everything, smiling, relaxed, joking, settling disputes between the salesmen in their garnet-coloured jackets, suggesting to customers who did not have the means to pay cash that they spread out their payments by laying out a modest sum each month. He had had to insist in order to foist this idea on my mother who, in spite of her seminars, remained attached to the old-fashioned principles of commercial trade.

‘Since the poor are more numerous than the rich, if you want to sell a lot, you have to sell to those who have no money and who long to buy what they can't afford to give themselves. You have to provide them with credit accounts.'

Philippe Delaunay had rejoined the firm and was giving a helping hand because of the demand. Among his acquaintances, he shamelessly claimed credit for the success of the venture. But you could sense his bitterness about certain aspects. He was conscious of the total immorality and deep injustice of commerce: that an idiot such as Paul Marini, a self-made man without any education could make a fortune with a good idea. Business was not what it once was. People no longer needed to have read the classics in order to succeed. Tomorrow's world would belong to the parvenus and the wily. My father never missed an opportunity to remind him of his dire predictions and took pleasure in turning the knife in the wound by pointing out that he had increased the turnover tenfold and the profit by fifteen. My mother did the accounts. The electronic calculator crackled away and never stopped producing lists of figures that left her flushed with happiness. There was talk of opening another shop. My father had found premises in avenue du Général-Leclerc. When he mentioned the selling price, my mother had backtracked, terrified by the magnitude of the investment, and they began arguing. He had not given up and he had an eye on a place in rue de Passy too, in the fashionable district, while he waited to be able to realize his life's dream: opening a shop in Versailles.

‘Being poor and not having money is not too bad, being rich and having a bit is better.'

*

When I entered the shop, my father spotted me and left his customers with a salesman.

‘It's lovely to see you here.'

‘I must speak to you. It's important. Come.'

I dragged him outside. We walked down avenue des Gobelins. I found it hard to explain things to him. He never stopped interrupting me and asking me questions. I lost the thread of what I wanted to say. We sat down on a bench, close to Saint-Médard church.

‘Why should we wait till tomorrow?'

‘That's what he asked.'

‘Where is he?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What's he playing at? Eh? He had a deferment. It's because of his girlfriend, is that it?'

‘She doesn't know. She's desperate. She tried to commit suicide!'

‘What? I'm your father. Do you know what that means? I'm the only person you can trust and you treat me like a stranger!'

‘I've only known for two days. Before that, I thought he had another girlfriend.'

‘I don't believe it! You don't enlist like that! Me, I was obliged to. It was a general call-up. We had no choice. If I could, I wouldn't have gone. No one's so bloody stupid to enlist out of idealism. He doesn't know what war is. It's not a game.'

‘If you knew Cécile, you'd say he's completely crazy.'

‘I'm going to call Philippe, he knows people at the Ministry of Defence.'

‘There wouldn't be any point. He'll refuse.'

‘So we can't help him?'

‘He'll be waiting for us tomorrow at four o'clock at the Terminus, it's by the exit from the Château-de-Vincennes métro… Oh, by the way, he doesn't want you to talk to Mother about it.'

‘Because of that row about the opening?'

‘Because of… I'm not too sure. You must ask him.'

‘I've got a massive amount of work tomorrow, but I'll come to give him a kiss.'

25

A
fter his night's work, Igor went back to the hospital to take the man home with him. He stopped by to see Suzanne to ask which medicines he should take to treat him or whether he could have a prescription, but she shrugged her shoulders.

‘There are no medicines!'

She left the nurses' area, grabbing him by the arm.

Igor was in the process of putting the things he had bought for the man into a plastic bag when there was a knock at the door of the room. Inspector Mahaut appeared, with a sheet of paper in his hand.

‘I was bothered by this business. I put in a search request at the missing persons department at police headquarters. I've a West Indian friend who works there. He's from Martinique, but when we can, we do favours for one another. He spent the night there. In the file containing descriptions of people who had disappeared but who were of no cause for concern, he came across a landlady who had reported that her lodger, a stateless person of German origin, was missing. That's all we have.'

‘You think that…'

‘I thought we might go and call on her. It's not far. It would be quicker than summoning her to the station. At least we'd be certain.'

‘Let's go. What's his name supposed to be?'

Inspector Mahaut put on his spectacles and read the scribbled name on the paper.

‘Wener Teul… Werner Toller.'

Igor took the man's hand and smiled at him.

‘Are you Werner Toller? … Is that your name?'

The man considered the matter.

‘Werner Toller?… It means nothing to me. I don't know any Werner Toller.'

‘Perhaps it's not him,' the inspector opined.

The month of May was dreadfully dreary, with leaden skies and drizzle. They got on the métro at Saint-Marcel. The inspector did not have his police car. During the short journey, he questioned Igor, appearing sceptical: ‘If I've understood correctly, you were a porter when a Russian taxi driver brought in this injured man to the hospital, and you took a liking to this fellow countryman of yours. Now, you work for him as a night driver.'

‘He has French nationality. I don't. Yes, that's what happened.'

‘It's a bit odd, don't you think?'

‘That's life. I've been obliged to adapt.'

‘Why are you taking care of him?'

The inspector jutted his chin at the supposed Werner Toller who, with his nose pressed to the window, was making the most of the elevated railway line to store up images of the strange city that was flashing past.

‘He was alone. I was alone.'

‘You're…'

‘Homosexual? Oh no, not in the least. In Russia, I had a family, and I still would if I had not had to escape in order to save my life.'

‘Really, you didn't know him beforehand?'

‘I swear to you.'

‘If it's true, he was lucky to come across you.'

They got off at Denfert-Rochereau. The man seemed unfamiliar with the area. The woman who had reported the missing person was supposed to live at 110 avenue Denfert-Rochereau, but the name Toller did not figure on the list of residents of the building and the concierge was out.

‘You've no idea how much time is wasted searching for information,' Mahaut observed. ‘It's only in films that it happens quickly. Come on, we'll ask in the bistro and I'll buy you a
café crème
. We've deserved it.'

He pushed open the door of the large café that stood at the corner of the two boulevards. It smelled of
boeuf bourguignon
and fried onions. At this hour of the morning, a few regulars were chatting at the counter. Four students were battling away around the two baby-foot tables. A man of about fifty with a paunch rushed over towards them.

‘Werner! Where were you?'

He took him in his arms, glad to have found him, and gave him a warm hug. Werner remained impervious to this outburst. He clearly did not recognize him. The man eventually relaxed his grip, turned round and announced in a loud voice: ‘Madeleine… It's Werner! He's come back!'

Igor and Mahaut watched as a large woman in a white apron appeared. She stood stock still at the kitchen door, behind the counter, her face lit up.

‘Werner! It's you!'

Thrilled and moved to tears, she clasped him in her plump arms and raised him off the ground as she hugged him.

‘Well, what's the matter with him?' she said.

Inspector Mahaut introduced himself. The owners of the Balto recognized the man known as Werner Toller without a moment's hesitation and explained they had been renting a studio flat in rue du Val-de-Grâce to him for over ten years. They all sat down in the backroom of the Balto. Werner sat on the bench, a little further away, uninvolved with the conversation. Igor told the Marcusots about his amnesia and his disturbing condition.

‘It's not like him to leave without warning,' Madeleine pointed out. ‘We suspected something odd. At the Edgar-Quinet police station, they didn't believe us. They said he'd gone back to Germany. We knew that was impossible. By the way, is he going to regain his memory?'

‘No one can answer that question,' replied Igor. ‘He suffered a cranial trauma during his attack. As to how deep the injury is, or whether it is serious or irreversible? Nobody knows. His memory may return tomorrow morning when he wakes up, or in six months, ten years, or never.'

Igor described how Werner had been thrown out of the hospital because he was German. Albert Marcusot turned red, and he declared loudly: ‘I don't believe it! It's crazy! Tell me I'm dreaming! Werner Toller is a German who's anti-Nazi! In the Monnaie network, he specialised in infiltrating German intelligence. He's been decorated by the Resistance and his Forces Françaises de l'Intérieur card was signed by Kriegel-Valrimont himself. What country are we living in?'

‘I didn't know there had been any Germans in the Resistance,' said Mahaut.

‘At the beginning of the war, there were Austrians and Germans here, at least three or four thousand of them, who had fled their countries in the thirties. Many of them did an enormous amount of work providing information, they served as liaison officers, as translators, they recruited deserters from the Wehrmacht, they provided a mass of information to the resistance movements, and they were turned in by the French police. Most of them were Jews or Communists. But there were also Christians and Social Democrats, or ordinary people who disagreed with the Nazis. Before the war started, Werner had already had experience in resisting. He knew what was going to happen to us. We didn't. You could write a book about what he did and how he slipped through the net. He disowned his country. After the war, he didn't want to go back there. It's not easy to have next door neighbours or office colleagues who denounced you or arrested you and cheered on the oppressors. He refuses to speak German. He still has that wretched accent. He hasn't managed to get rid of it. It sticks to his tongue. When he tries, he can get by. We were once stopped by a patrol. I heard him speaking to his fellow countrymen in a Parisian accent. He's no longer German, he's not French; he's what's called a stateless person.'

‘What does he do for a living?' Mahaut asked.

‘He's a projectionist at a cinema in rue Champollion,' replied Albert Marcusot. ‘The owner knew him in the Resistance and, with a job like that, he doesn't speak to anyone. After his work, he comes and has supper with us. He's almost one of the family. Every evening we play draughts together.'

‘Did Werner have any enemies?'

‘Not to my knowledge.'

‘Before he went missing, did he have a quarrel or a disagreement with anyone?'

‘He said nothing to me. What about you?'

‘He's a quiet, very ordinary man,' Madeleine confirmed.

‘And yet he was beaten up and left for dead.'

‘That really frightens me. You see motiveless acts nowadays that didn't happen before. It may have nothing to do with the war or Werner's past.'

‘I'd like to believe you, Madame. But in our job, there are never coincidences, or very seldom.'

During this time, Werner sat there, beside them, on the bench, as though not involved. It was hard to believe that he was the man the Marcusots were talking about. Igor went and sat down opposite him.

‘How are you, Werner?'

‘Fine.'

‘Are you glad to be back in this bistro? You're at home here.'

‘I don't know.'

‘Don't you recognize them?'

He shook his head. His gaze fell on the nearby table where several games – a chessboard with pieces in a box, a game of draughts with black and white counters, a game of tarot and a Yams / 421 board – were all piled up in a jumble.

‘Do you want to play?' Igor asked.

His eyes glued on the table where the games were, Werner did not answer.

‘A round of belote?'

Igor waited for a reply which was slow in coming.

‘Or 421? Do you know the rules? Could you show me? We can play for the apéritif, if you like?'

Werner remained silent.

‘Or a game of chess, perhaps? I haven't played for four years, but I used to get by reasonably well.'

Werner continued to gaze at the table, in silence. Igor turned round, unsure what to do. Madeleine nodded in agreement. Igor took the chessboard and placed it between them. He laid out the pieces in the box.

‘We could have a quick game? That would be fun, wouldn't it? Here, I'll let you play white. It's an advantage. Your go.'

Werner stared at the chessboard, not moving, not speaking. Igor waited. The others, at the neighbouring table, followed this game that took ages to begin, in religious silence. The shouting and yelling of the baby-foot players, and the ball slamming against the metal goals, could be heard in the background. It didn't disturb them. Madeleine and Albert
had pins and needles in their legs. Igor had a bad back. Nobody moved. They were waiting for Werner to move, but Werner didn't move. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the chessboard, his eyebrows arched, face taut, rigid as a marble statue. Opposite him, Igor sat patiently, not fidgeting or showing any sign of irritation, a slightly knowing smile on his lips, as befits a player worthy of the name who allows his opponent to determine his strategy and to reflect a little before making his first move. Except that there wasn't one. After two hours and countless glances between them, Igor could feel weariness gaining the upper hand, there was somewhat heavy sighing, much clearing of the throat and coughing, and the bench creaked beneath painful posteriors. He was convinced that nothing would happen. They might remain face to face for years without Werner reacting. This game was not a good idea, thought Igor, nodding gently, his lips clenched, his eyelids flickering. Then he made an unpremeditated move. He advanced his black pawn two squares on the board. It was an incongruity, an absurdity. No player since the game of chess was invented several centuries ago has begun a game playing black. It was a sacrilege. An impossibility. Something that couldn't be done or imagined. Playing white first was an organic, integral aspect of chess. Werner sat up straight, astounded and perplexed. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide open, and he was staring at Igor. He shook his head and grunted, as if to point out that what he had done was unbelievable. Then, without further ado, he took his white pawn and moved it two squares so that it was opposite Igor's black pawn. The game had begun. Igor followed with another black pawn. Werner responded similarly. When Igor continued with his third black pawn, Werner moved his knight. Any player will tell you, including beginners, that when you bring out your knight on the third move, it indicates hostile intentions. And everyone knows that when you are aggressive you can't be feeling too bad. Werner took two pawns with this knight. They played another twenty or so moves and then, to everybody's surprise, Werner castled and put Igor in a dangerous position.

‘I've got the feeling it's not going too well,' Igor admitted.

‘You'll be mate in four moves.'

‘You've won and I'm delighted,' said Igor as he toppled over his king.

‘May I be permitted an observation?'

‘Please.'

‘You're not allowed to open with black. It's not allowed.'

They were astounded by this memory that had come back like a flash of lightning. They surrounded him. They congratulated him. They embraced him. They plied him with questions. Werner now remembered almost everything. He remembered his life both before and after his recovery. But nothing about the assault of which he had been the victim, or about its perpetrators. Inspector Mahaut looked piqued. Igor tried to cheer him up: ‘The important thing is that it should end well.'

‘Werner's not telling the truth. He knows his assailants.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘The way he hesitates when he talks about it. He has thought carefully and invented this memory lapse.'

‘I'd be very surprised. He's constantly searching for his words. A man doesn't think of lying when he's got his memory back.'

Albert offered everyone some Clairette de Die that could easily be mistaken for the best champagne. Jacky, the waiter, opened half a dozen bottles and twenty or more customers made the most of them. Some thought that Albert must have won the lottery to behave so generously. He didn't have a reputation for splashing out lavishly. Igor advised Werner against drinking sparkling wine. He followed his advice and ordered a glass of beer without any froth. Madeleine never stopped repeating that it was a sign from Heaven, where she was seriously in debt. As she grew older, she had returned to religion, though she never set foot in a church, Sunday mornings being taken up with her work at the Balto. She felt bad about her negligence and was convinced that sooner or later she would pay for her thoughtlessness and her casual behaviour. She promised herself she would light a large candle to thank St Anthony for his intervention. As far as Werner was concerned, the Good Lord had nothing to do with his cure, which was as speedy as it was miraculous. Werner was a poor prospect. Not the kind whom the Lord would reward.