The Incorrigible Optimists Club (17 page)

‘It's not good to blaspheme, Werner. God sees everything.'

‘If it's true, Madeleine, he's got no excuse. If I need to thank anyone, it's Igor and him alone. He looked after me and he found the key. Thank you, Igor.'

They hugged one another. Whether it was the effect of the Clairette or the emotion, Igor's head was spinning slightly.

‘I've done nothing extraordinary. The credit is due to Inspector Mahaut.'

This citation in despatches at the Balto brought him a round of applause and the eternal gratitude of those present. He was deeply moved. It was not every day that he was cheered. Usually, it was the opposite. In those days, the police and police officers were not liked. Igor proposed a toast. This suggestion pleased everybody. Jacky filled the glasses to the brim.

‘To Werner's good health!' Igor cried, before downing the contents of his glass in one and then hurling it to the ground where it shattered on the floor.

Everyone imitated him; they all drank their glasses dry and threw them down in an infectious outburst, where they broke into a thousand slivers – with the exception of Albert, Madeleine and Jacky, who gazed in horror at the damage done to their glassware. Ever since that day, they continue to celebrate important events at the Balto, but Russian toasts are forbidden by the owners.

Heated discussions took place in small groups. There were two opposing camps: the mystics who saw this as divine intervention and the unbelievers who regarded it merely as yet another mystery concerning the human body. Was this inexplicable cure to do with the supernatural? Or was it conclusive proof of our ignorance? Did physical, even bodily materialism exist in the way that historical materialism did? Voices were raised. People interrupted. They grew excited. None of them was short of edifying arguments and examples. It was sad to observe that not one of these magnificent outbursts had any effect. Our inability to convince others is absolute proof of the value, according to our means, of the scornful insult, the punch, the sharpened knife, the automatic pistol, the stick of dynamite tied to a detonator, or the nuclear aircraft-carrier. Our misfortunes have only one cause: our opinions are sacred. Those
who change their points of view are idiots and so too are those who allow themselves to be persuaded.

Seated on the bench, Igor and Werner were talking about their past lives and they remained uninvolved in this uproar.

‘It can't have been easy for you,' Igor said to him.

‘It can't have been easy for you either.'

‘The important thing is to be alive, isn't it?'

‘Yes, we have to think of the future.'

‘If we ourselves are not optimists, who will be?'

The official launch of the Club dates from 30 May 1956. Apart from occasional headaches, Werner did not suffer any after-effects from the attack on him and he did not speak about it again. The following day, he resumed his job as a projectionist. Igor and he became friends; they got into the habit of meeting one another at the Balto for their games of chess and the only thing that ever kept them apart was the fact that Werner was an early riser and Igor a nightbird. Very soon, Igor became part of the family and acquired the habit of dining with Werner, the Marcusots and Jacky. He would get in touch with Victor Volodine, who allowed him to have the taxi for the night. He had arranged with Victor that from now on the handover should take place at Denfert and no longer at Nation.

The first time he went to the Balto, Victor set eyes again on the man whom he had picked up, half-dead, on the Rue de Tolbiac and taken to the hospital. He demanded repayment for the cleaning of his bloodstained white car seat. Igor thought he was joking. Victor was in earnest. Werner reckoned the bill was somewhat steep, but he made it a point of honour to repay Victor down to the last centime and refused to let Igor contribute. Each of us must pay our debts. This explains why Victor was not admitted as a member of the Club.

When, four years later, Igor recounted this episode to me, I made a pathetically trite observation: ‘It's unimaginable.'

‘There is no adjective that describes this story, no words that can portray what doesn't exist and what can't be imagined. Werner's recovery was inconceivable a few seconds beforehand,' Igor explained to me. ‘On the contrary, the story causes us to put our imaginative capacity, which we
think is infinite, into context and to question ourselves about the frailty of our imagination, which we often confuse with understanding. There is nothing unimaginable about the gulag, genocides, death camps or atomic bombs. They are human creations, rooted within us, and it is only their enormity that overwhelms us. They go beyond our understanding, destroy our willingness to believe in man, and reflect our own images of monsters back at us. They are, in reality, the most accomplished forms of our inability to convince. The apex of our creative ability. We can imagine such unimaginable things as travelling in space-time, or discovering what the lottery numbers are in advance, or meeting the ideal or perfect man or woman, for after all, people have invented abstract painting and concrete music; we can imagine everything, but not that. Not a miraculous cure. That is purely a matter of chance or luck.'

As I was walking along rue Champollion, I spotted Werner. The projection room looked out onto the sloping street, and he was opening the door to air the room. His boss had acquired the cinema next door and he was looking after both theatres. He had twice the amount of work, but since the screenings were staggered, this did not bother him. When he had a moment of quiet in between changing reels, he would smoke a cigarette on the doorstep. We exchanged pleasantries. He offered to let me see the films free of charge. Usually I declined his invitation. At the Club, he occasionally informed us about a masterpiece that shouldn't be missed under any circumstances. But it wasn't very comfortable in his narrow room and the projectors made a noise. When the cinema wasn't full, he arranged for his friend the usherette to give us a folding seat. The foreign, subtitled films that were shown at his cinema were long-winded and deadly dull. He went into raptures as he talked about them. I didn't dare tell him that they bored me stiff and I avoided rue Champollion. He must have been aware of this and kept his distance. There are books that we ought to be forbidden to read too early. We should avoid them or pass them by. And films too. They ought to carry a label: Not to be seen or read before one has lived.

26

A
s I arrived at Cardinal-Lemoine métro station, I bumped into Sherlock, who was standing there reading
Le Figaro
. Hard to find a plausible excuse. He looked me up and down with his eagle eye.

‘Haven't you a maths class, Marini?

‘I've a very bad back, Monsieur. I'm going to the Cochin Hospital.'

‘I'll come with you, my lad.'

‘I may be there all afternoon.'

‘I hope it's nothing serious. Bring me a note from your parents. In fact, for Cochin, it's not the right métro line, you'd do better to catch the bus. The 27. You'll get there quicker.'

He was obliging enough to wait for the bus with me. When I reached the Terminus, Franck wasn't there. Two conscripts were fooling around by one of the baby-foot tables. I inserted my coin and found them standing opposite me.

‘Are you playing on your own?' the elder of the two asked.

‘Does that bother you?'

I pulled out all the stops. Like Samy. I hadn't practised for three weeks, but I felt more energetic than I'd ever felt before. I passed them at will. A real pro. There was a respectful silence as the balls slammed in. I thrashed them without even giving them a glance. Others followed the same path. I strung together seven successive games. My powers were fading. A hand was laid on my shoulder. Franck was standing in front of me, his head shaved.

‘Looks like you've improved.'

We sat down on the terrace. It was a quarter to four. He put his large bag down on the ground and ordered drinks: ‘A beer and a really weak lemonade shandy.'

‘Well, they certainly did a good job on you.'

‘It'll grow again.'

‘Papa will be here soon. Do you know where you'll be posted?'

‘That's the army for you. We don't know a thing. We may find ourselves in Algiers, in Djibouti or in Berlin. We assume it'll be Algeria. That's where they need non-commissioned officers.'

‘Will you let me know where you are?'

Franck considered the matter.

‘No.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't want Mama to know where I am. I've cut all ties with her.'

‘You promised to write to Cécile.'

‘How is she?'

‘If you want to know about her, you only have to ask her!'

‘Please, Michel, talk to me about her. What's she up to? Has she gone back to uni? Has she made any progress on her thesis?'

‘She wants to quit.'

‘What's this all about?'

‘Didn't you know? She doesn't know where she is. She's not sure whether to go on. She likes the idea of psychology. She's good at that.'

‘What is all this nonsense? With her thesis, she'll be able to teach literature. It's a fine job, it's what she loves and it means security. Psychology's a leap in the dark. There are no jobs. You've got to stop her doing such a crazy thing.'

‘If you're so keen, go and tell her yourself. She won't listen to me.'

Franck was furious. Head bowed, he considered the matter. His right hand drummed on the table feverishly.

‘The only person who can do anything is Pierre. I'm going to write to him.'

‘Do you know where he is?'

‘He's based in Souk-Ahras. Psychology's not his thing.'

‘When he writes to her, he mustn't mention you, or me. She's become oversensitive. As soon as you give her any advice, she jumps on you.'

‘You've become her friend. Has she… has she confided in you?'

‘She doesn't want to hear about you any longer. Don't ask me about her any more.'

‘You'll have to look after her.'

‘Don't worry. She doesn't need anybody.'

‘We share the same views. She's even more outspoken than I am, on a mass of things. Rather like Pierre. This war's not going to last long. De Gaulle's going to deal with Algeria. I'll be back home soon and we'll sort it out. She'll be proud of what I've done. It's far from being over between us.'

‘She won't forgive you for having deserted her. If you'd had the courage to tell her to her face, she would have understood and she would have waited for you. You stabbed her in the back. She wasn't expecting it. She's erased you from her life. Don't delude yourself, you won't find her again when you return.'

‘I'm sorry Michel, but you know nothing about women. They say one thing in the morning, another in the evening, and the following day they've changed their mind. Right now, she's feeling livid. When I get back, we'll discuss it all again.'

Franck glanced at the clock. Twenty-five past four.

‘Did you really tell Papa?'

‘He won't be long.'

‘I have to be there at five.'

We had two more drinks. He offered me a Gitane.

‘I don't smoke. May I ask you a question?'

He didn't answer, but allowed me to continue: ‘Why are you going there? What with self-rule, we know how it'll all end. What's the point? The game's over.'

‘You're wrong. The game is over if you play by their rules. I don't want to talk about it.'

‘How can you treat us this way?'

Franck paused. He was searching for words. It seemed too complicated to explain or impossible to get to grips with.

‘If I say to you… revolution, what does that mean to you?'

‘You want there to be a revolution?'

‘I haven't time to explain. We can never fill the gulf between the profiteers and those who get screwed. It's the one and only question:
what side are we on? There'll be no peace on earth and no settlement, no progress, no dialogue and no social breakthrough. The time has come to act.'

‘We can improve things, bit by bit. Try to understand one another, even when we don't agree.'

‘Respect is what the bourgeoisie has invented to achieve its ends. No one respects the proletariat.'

‘You're going to fight for people who couldn't give a damn.'

‘The world's moving on. People are fed up. And not just in France, everywhere. The Third World War has begun. This time they're not going to steal our victory from us.'

‘You're either dreaming or indulging in wishful thinking: the vast majority of people wouldn't go along with you.'

‘We don't think in the same way. That's why there's no point in discussing it.'

It was as though there were a brick wall between us. We sat there not knowing what to say to each other. I heard the door open. Franck's face lit up. I looked round. Richard was coming in, carrying a large bag. My brother stood up.

‘I can't wait.'

He paid for the drinks. The three of us left. We set off towards Fort de Vincennes. Some young conscripts were there, showing their call-up papers to one of the soldiers on duty who was allowing them in. I was watching out for my father, but there was only a crowd of anonymous people. We arrived at the small drawbridge.

‘There must have been a problem.'

‘It's too late, Michel.'

He grabbed me by the shoulders and clasped me to him. We couldn't stop patting one another on the back.

‘Take care of yourself.'

He picked up his bag and crossed the drawbridge. Richard followed close behind. The soldier checked their papers and let them pass through the metal gate. He went in without looking back. By my watch, it was exactly five o'clock. I turned round. My eyes were stinging.

A taxi screeched to a halt in front of the entrance. My father got out, yelling at the driver and threw him a hundred-franc note through the open window.

‘If you don't know how to drive, take lessons! I've never seen such a numbskull!'

He saw me and hurried over.

‘Where is he? Hasn't he arrived yet?'

‘Papa, he's gone in.'

My father looked up and gazed at the dark and hostile fortress.

‘It's not true!'

‘Why are you late?'

‘That bitch of a DS broke down! The clutch has gone. On the way out of Versailles. Bloody old banger! Try finding a taxi in the middle of the forest! I tried hitching, but no one gave me a lift. I walked ten kilometres. And I did find a taxi! A real slowcoach, I'm not joking. He was driving along at forty! He stopped at every traffic light! I could have strangled him!'

Before I could utter another word, he had stepped over the drawbridge. I followed him. He went to see the soldier on duty, who told him that he was there to check the conscripts' papers. He set off in search of the duty officer. Five minutes later, he came back with a man built like a house who looked like Chéri Bibi.
*
My father tried to explain to him, but he went about it in the wrong way. He began with the shop he had visited in Versailles, a good deal, a bit pricey; the DS, which was under guarantee and blew up right in the middle of the Marly forest; and the novice taxi driver. Chéri Bibi interrupted him. Three conscripts who were late were waiting to get past.

‘You're interfering with procedures.'

‘It's for my son.'

‘Where is he?'

‘Inside. I should have liked to give him a kiss before he goes away.'

‘Kiss him?… That's over, Monsieur. You must get off the gangway.'

‘I'll be five minutes.'

‘You're in a military zone. You're forbidden to stay here.'

‘Five minutes. That's not going to alter the course of the war.'

‘There is no war. If you don't leave, I'll call the military police and they'll arrest you.'

‘And for what reason, may I ask?'

‘For obstructing the conscription of recruits. Get out of the way!'

I pulled at my father's sleeve. We moved back and found ourselves on the pavement once more.

‘What an arsehole!' he yelled. ‘Good luck to the lad. If they're all like that, he's going to have a tough time.'

The sergeant glared down at us. My father held his gaze. We were in front of the entrance to the fortress. My father was smiling at him arrogantly, hands on hips. The sergeant, arms folded, stood still as a statue. A sort of arm wrestling. It began to rain heavily. The sergeant stepped back inside the sentry box. A mocking smile lit up his square-jawed face. All of a sudden, the crowd dispersed. We were the only two left, getting soaked, like two lonely, forgotten leeks.

‘Papa, he's not going to let us see him.'

‘Why did he do that?'

‘I don't know. Come on, let's go home.'

Cars, trucks and buses, making a deafening din, were snarled up as far as the eye could see. There was a stench of petrol and exhaust fumes. Drivers were getting irritated, pushing their way through, blocking each other, sounding their horns and yelling insults. An everyday traffic-jam in the heavy, dismal Paris rain. We searched for a taxi. They were all occupied and there was no point in waiting. We walked up avenue de Paris for two kilometres as far as porte de Vincennes. We were moving faster than the stationary cars. We were soaked. In spite of my insistence, my father refused to take the métro and was searching for a taxi.

‘I haven't taken the métro for over fifteen years and I'm not going to start now.'

Eventually, we did grab a taxi. Paris was at a standstill.

‘I'll go along tomorrow to see about the DS. They're going to hear about this at Citroën.'

‘Papa, you must write me a note for school.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of Sherlock…. of Monsieur Masson, the supervisor. I told him I was going to the hospital to get treatment. I couldn't tell him the truth: that my brother's a communist – that would have gone down very badly. He supports French Algeria.'

He wasn't listening to me. He was gazing out through the streaming window. His lips were moving. He was mumbling some inaudible words. He stared at me distractedly.

‘What did he say to you?'

‘Nothing of interest.'

‘He might have waited for me.'

‘Whatever you do, not a word to mother.'

He began nodding his head up and down as if to convince himself.

‘You have to believe that that's the way it is and that's the way they're going to be,' he murmured.

Delighted by her seminar, my mother was unstoppable over dinner and she tried to make us share her enthusiasm. My father didn't eat. On two or three occasions, he tried to talk to her. I shuddered and had a fit of sneezing. A filthy cold that dragged on.

I spent a week at home, reading. My father wrote the note. Everything returned to normal. I didn't say anything to Cécile. She didn't ask any questions. When we cleaned the balconies or polished the wooden floors, she became dreamy and would stop rubbing. I didn't need to ask what she was thinking about. I was waiting for Franck to send her the promised letter. I didn't want to circumvent him. He had to reflect, weigh up each word, mull over his sentences to explain the why and the wherefore, ask to be forgiven, and persuade her that their relationship wasn't over and that there was a future for them. The months went by. Love and revolution must be incompatible. He never wrote to her.

 

 

*
The hero of Gaston Leroux's serial adventures.