The Incorrigible Optimists Club (18 page)

JANUARY–DECEMBER 1961

1

M
artha Balazs was a flighty girl who was bored to death in Debrecen, a godforsaken hole in the depths of Hungary, to where Edgar, her husband, chief engineer of the Magyar railways, had been transferred in 1927 as regional manager. She missed her carefree life as a singer of operetta, when she lost herself in Offenbach and Lehar. The breathtaking stage-fright before the curtain rose, the thrill that ran through the audience when well-known pieces were sung, the jolly dinners with the cast after the show, the endless tours by train or the bus journeys to Bratislava and Bucharest, to Austria and to Germany, the applause of the spectators that caused her to come out in goose pimples, and the curtain calls, as many as seventeen of them, that made her head reel in Zagreb. She kept the newspaper articles in two large Venetian blue exercise books and, even though she didn't understand the language, she could find her name. These yellowing cuttings mentioned her, her spiralling soprano voice that reached such high notes that it should have opened the doors of the Opera to her, the real one where Verdi and Bizet are sung, if … if… she was no longer really sure, she had had a bit more luck, or courage, or had spoken out a bit. She could have gone on for a few more years if she had not had that panic about the future and about becoming one of those bloated old singers who make up the herd of backstage choruses and who tend to be dismissed unceremoniously. Martha had been able to pull out in time, make a good marriage, and she had maintained her position in society while scorning the uncultured petit-bourgeois women of Debrecen with their hoarse Hajdu accent, that remote province where there was nothing but yokels, bears and forests.

In her exile, Martha had two passions, her little Tibor, who was admired by everyone for his beauty, his angelic smile and his sweet nature, and France. Martha had gone to Paris after the war. She had been marked for the rest of her life by the Roaring Twenties, which, in her case, had
only lasted for six months. She still spoke about them with emotion as being the great period of her life. Each month she received French fashion magazines as though they were gifts from heaven. It was the light of the banks of the Seine that illuminated her life and those of the three friends she had converted to her religion: being a Parisienne. Living, talking, walking, eating, dressing like a Parisienne. Martha cultivated refinement in all its forms. In this country where the culinary peak was over-boiled stew, she did her best to carry the flag for French gastronomy and, in time, she had become an exceptional cook. She despised the mocking smiles of the local flibbertigibbets who got their clothes from the seamstress on Arpad Square, and who thought that the centre of the world was Vienna. Martha had her clothes sent from Madeleine Vionnet, whom she worshipped for her corolla skirts, her slanting cuts and the friendly little messages she sent along with her New Year wishes. Martha had been the first Hungarian woman to have an Eton crop. She was mad about cloche hats and she maintained the tradition of wearing ribbons as codes, but Hungarians were graceless folk for whom a hat had no other purpose than to cover the head. They did not know that a ribbon with flounces meant that the lady was engaged to be married, or that a rose wrapped in a ribbon signified that she was unattached. Martha read French novels that were sent to her by a bookseller in rue du Bac. Her gods were Radiguet, Cocteau and Léon-Paul Fargue, an ardent and elusive poet she had met at a party in Montparnasse, and with whom she had had an affair. He had shown her Paris. He was funny, inexhaustible, and he knew everybody. Thanks to him, she had met Modigliani, Picasso and Erik Satie. She preserved as though it were a holy relic a small collection of love poems he had written for her, just for her, and which she knew by heart. They had corresponded for two years, after which he no longer replied to her letters. That's often the way with late-night poets.

Tibor Balazs knew how to speak French before he knew Hungarian. But Martha never succeeded in ridding him of that accent which exasperated her. She tried relentlessly to correct his pronunciation. Little Tibor never managed to do so. She wrote a begging letter to Cocteau, who had such a beautiful voice, to ask his advice. She never received a reply. She
told herself that it would disappear once he grew up and went to live in Paris. She could not imagine that he would live anywhere else. She spoke to him for hours in French. The father could not stand all the whispering, of which he understood nothing, but he was not capable of standing up to Martha and he left her to her Parisian whims, even though he found the monthly bill a little steep. She did her best to develop the artistic qualities of her son, who entered the Budapest drama school and was about to embark on a brilliant career, when Europe was set ablaze.

It was just a matter of time and, once peace had been restored, despite the advent of the Communist regime, Tibor became the juvenile lead whom Hungarian directors fought over. For ten years his agent, Imré Faludy, staged the French and German classics for him. Tibor triumphed in
Dom Juan
,
Bérénice
,
Lorenzaccio
and
The Prince of Homburg
. The few producers who managed to make films took him on. Tibor had his actor's card.

In 1952, one of his films,
The Return of the Travelling Players
, directed by István Tamás, was selected for the Cannes film festival. The film was well received by the critics, but less warmly by the public. Festival goers had avid discussions as to whether this was a subtle propaganda film or an ode to lost freedom. For a week Tibor was tipped for the prize for best male performance for his role as a pathetic bastard. What with climbing the steps to the sound of applause and the flashes from the photographers' bulbs, it was the apotheosis of his career. Everything was possible. The world belonged to him. But they were up against
Viva Zapata
and the fact that all the actors seemed old-fashioned. Marlon Brando walked off with the prize and Tibor was forgotten. On the night of the awards, Imré tried to use Tibor's new celebrity to procure political asylum in France. He had had proposals for him from Italian producers for a cloak and dagger film starting in September and for a gangster film early the following year. The screenplay was adapted from a novel by Chester Himes. Tibor agreed enthusiastically. The fee was not huge, with just a share of the takings, but for a small-budget film, one could not be choosy. The main thing was to get work.

‘And Mama?'

‘You must realize that…'

Tibor was aware that if he went over to the West, he would never see her again. There is a threshold of vile behaviour beyond which no man can go. He imagined her, alone, in Debrecen, endlessly wondering why her beloved son had deserted her. With heavy hearts, they returned to the land of happy workers, where Tibor was regarded as a national hero, the finest of actors and a victim of imperialist injustice, and he succeeded at last in staging his
Galileo
.

In Hungary, the number of those who knew the truth could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Dashing Tibor, the most popular actor in the country, for whom Hungarian women would have sold their souls, was madly in love with his agent Imré. Their love was as secretive as it was passionate. In those years, the party did not treat social outcasts and their anti-proletarian love affairs lightly. Imré went so far as to arrange for the man of his life to marry his female assistant, thus confirming rumours that were circulating about him, much to the despair of millions of Hungarian women.

There were cracks in the leaden sky. Small, unexpected openings, unknown spaces where a whiff of liberty blew in. You take a step. You wait for the policeman to blow his whistle. There is no policeman. You take a second step, a third and still another. There comes a moment when you have moved so far forward that you can't go back. You have to continue, come what may. It's called a revolution. Tibor had put on
Galileo Galilei
at the Vigszinhaz theatre. It was not the first play of Brecht's in which he had acted. Imré had obtained the official approvals. There was no reason to be anxious. He was a Marxist writer and a much admired one. On its third performance, the play was suspended without explanation, the authorities foolishly mirroring the intolerance and dogmatism in the play. Previously, this ban would have gone unnoticed. It would not have occurred to anyone to mention it. But it took place on 16 October 1956, during a wave of agitation and popular protest, and the students demonstrated against the censorship. Within three days, Tibor became the symbol of violated freedom. He gave several interviews, expressed his solidarity with the protesters, burned his actor's card in public and
encouraged his fellow countrymen to rise up and resist. Like others, he was convinced that it was the end of the hated regime and they were about to regain their liberty. Elated, the actors in the company unanimously decided to perform the play. Every evening, in the great amphitheatre of the university, they defied the ban in front of an enthusiastic crowd who constantly interrupted, booed the Inquisition court and applauded
Galileo
. Tibor was not a hero. Nothing in his previous life had prepared him to carry the flag. He allowed himself to be borne along by the wave of rebellion that was overrunning the country. When the Russians laid siege to Budapest on 4 November, he realized there was no point in resisting. You don't fight an army of seventy-five thousand men with two thousand six hundred T54 tanks, and armed with coaxial machine-guns, with your bare hands.

For a week, the resistance was heroic, desperate and useless. Tibor set off for Debrecen to search for Martha. What with strikes, people taking flight and panic, it turned out to be a futile quest. During 6 November, men were consumed by folly. British and French parachutists were dropped over the Suez Canal in order to recapture it. As soon as the Russians and Americans glared at them, they gave up the idea and retired, tails between their legs, and while the Russians were threatening them with strikes from their atomic rockets, no one bothered about what was going on in Hungary.

On the ninth, after three days watching and lying in wait in the snow and the cold, Tibor and Imré succeeded in fleeing to Austria. They left their belongings behind them and found themselves in Vienna without a penny. By selling the car, they managed to subsist for a month. What work could they hope for in this bleak city that resembled a set for an operetta and where thousands of their compatriots were wandering around looking crazed and lost? ‘In Paris, they know me,' declared Tibor who remembered his reception in Cannes.

2

I
loathed sport. I loathed those who engaged in sport. They were idiots and they stank. Nevertheless, I ran like lightning behind Cécile, who romped along in spite of her two packs of fags a day. I was about to faint. My heart was thumping, my head was on fire, my legs felt like cotton wool, and I didn't smoke. From time to time, she glanced back and slowed down and allowed me to catch up. As soon as I drew level with her, without pausing for breath, she asked me: ‘All right?'

I was crimson and dripping with sweat. Steam was rising from my head. My nose was dripping like a fountain. I had given up answering her because she never waited and would set off again at a trot. I was holding up Pierre's shorts, which were threatening to fall down, with both hands.

‘Are we never going to stop?'

However much I shouted, she pressed on. And just supposing, behind this silly need to exercise, there was something else? Supposing, behind that angelic aspect, there was a hypocritical smile lurking? Might she want to avenge herself on me for what Franck had done to her? One only had to read Racine's
Iphigénie
. It could not be ruled out. I slumped onto a bench. She was disappearing from view. Once she could no longer see me, she would be obliged to come back. I was fed up with running circuits of the Luxembourg in the dust. These were gardens that were meant to be walked in. Not a race track. A park in which to dream and read beside the Médicis fountain. Not in which to clown around in a pair of shorts that was too big for me.

That morning, I had rung the bell for ten minutes in order to drag her from her bed. I had made her a very strong café au lait. She appeared in lemon-yellow woollen leggings.

‘What do you reckon?'

‘They're original.'

‘They're American. I paid a fortune for them. Where are your things?'

‘I thought we were going to go for a walk in the Luxembourg.'

‘You'll need some clothes.'

She dragged me off into Pierre's bedroom. Ever since his departure, fourteen months ago, I had not set foot in there. It was in the same state he had left it in. The bed unmade, the blankets rolled in a ball, two squashed pillows, ten or more piles of books, a record player on the floor with 45s lying everywhere, clothing strewn about and, on the table, a bottle of brandy with its cork removed and two empty glasses. This clutter and the dust that covered every object gave the impression of a room that was dead, as if Pierre had not lived in it. Cécile opened the cupboard and pulled out masses of pullovers and shirts, which she piled on the floor. She grabbed hold of a pair of white shorts with violet trim and handed them to me like a trophy.

‘You're not expecting me to wear those?'

‘They're Pierre's shorts. Stop sniffling, it gets on my nerves.'

‘I'm trying to get better. Two of me could fit into those.'

‘They'll be fine, with a belt.'

I found myself kitted out with these white shorts and an enormous white, mud-stained Paris University Club rugby shirt with a violet collar, with the number 14 on the back. When I saw myself in the mirror I looked like a clown.

‘You look like a real rugby player,' she announced.

‘Wouldn't you prefer us to do housework? I could tackle his bedroom.

He'll be glad to find it neat and tidy on his return.'

‘We'll do it later. I must sort out his books.'

The doorbell rang. It was the concierge bringing the post. There was a letter from Pierre. Cécile tore open the envelope eagerly and started to read it. Her smile vanished. Her eyebrows knitted and before I could say a word, her face had turned crimson, she had torn up the letter and had thrown it in the dustbin.

‘What's it got to do with him? Do I involve myself in his affairs? He's another one who pisses me off!'

She left the room in a fury. I picked up the torn pieces and, with some
difficulty pieced the letter together again on the coffee table, like a jigsaw puzzle.

My dear Cécile,

Nothing to report since my last letter. It's damned cold, just as it is in Paris. We spend our time glued to the radio, trying to follow events in Algiers. You probably know as much as I do. I've resolved none of the questions I posed myself. Time doesn't matter here. I don't know whether it's the landscape that is affecting me, but I'm becoming fatalistic. I explained my theory to my three friends with whom I play belote. They consider me a lunatic. In between games, I have long discussions with them. I've read several passages of my book to them. I thought they would praise and encourage me. They don't understand a thing I'm saying, nor why I'm busting my gut working on a theory of revolution. They just don't want to know. It's all the more interesting because they're workers, peasants, or guys who have no jobs. Before immersing myself in writing the final part, I'm going to conduct an enquiry in depth. I think I'll manage to do this because my men regard me as an exceptional NCO, and because I don't insult them and don't yell at them from morn till night. I'm expecting a great deal from this full-scale survey to clarify what I do next.

How's your thesis going? I'd like you to tell me a bit about it. I'm waiting impatiently to see how you tackle the question of Aragon, surrealism and his break with Breton. You may have to ask yourself what the historical basis for surrealism was and who betrayed what or whom. Send me a few pages. You'll have to buckle down to it. I know you. You're going to want to make a change. That would be a great mistake. Your thesis is the priority. You must pass with distinction. You could do psychology afterwards. Doing so now would be the height of stupidity. You haven't the right to sacrifice years of effort on a whim. With psychology, you're not sure of finding work, whereas with your doctorate, you would get a position as a teacher and even though you may grumble, it's a real job. You're made for it…

There was almost a page in the same vein. Pierre wasn't exactly subtle. I was in the process of deciphering the rest of it when Cécile came back in like a fury.

‘Was it you who told him?'

‘No!'

‘You're the only one I've talked to about it!'

‘I haven't said a thing. I haven't written to him.'

‘How does he know that I want to give up my thesis?'

‘I really don't know.'

‘I don't believe you, Michel. You're lying!'

‘He's talking about it in the conditional tense, as if it were a hypothesis.

The proof of it is that you haven't made up your mind. You're thinking of stopping. It's normal for your brother to give you advice.'

‘He and his lousy advice can get stuffed!'

‘Pick up your pen and write and tell him that. It would please him.'

‘What's it got to do with you? Did I ask you for your opinion? I'm sure it was you. You're a sly little rascal who does things sneakily.'

‘How could I have mentioned it to him, I haven't got his address?'

‘Swear to me that you didn't write to him.'

‘I swear to you!'

‘Word of honour? Look me in the eyes.'

‘You have my word, Cécile. Whether you do literature or psychology, it's all the same to me.'

‘He's pretty sharp, the kid brother.'

‘He knows you.'

‘He hasn't got a hope of reading my thesis. Come on, let's go for a run.'

On the bench, I got my breath back. Cécile was retracing her steps.

‘You're not going to keep stopping every five minutes.'

‘I'm exhausted. And these shorts keep slipping down.'

‘I'm fed up. You've spent the entire time moaning!'

‘And you're nice to be with, are you? You're a pain in the neck! A real bitch! If you want to go running, go on… have fun. Without me!'

‘Pierre's right, you're just an arsehole!'

In a fury, I made my way out of the park. We had occasionally clashed
before, but never to this extent. I reached the gates without hearing the sound of her voice. I turned round. Cécile had disappeared. I couldn't go back home dressed like this. I'd left my things at her place. I was obliged to go there. I waited for her for a good hour, sitting on a stair. She was surprised to see me.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘My clothes are inside.'

‘Come on, let's go and have a coffee.'

‘I don't want any.'

‘Shall I make you a chocolate, then?'

‘Listen, Cécile, I'm going to change and I'll leave straight away.'

‘Aren't you my little bro' any more?'

I didn't feel like fighting. She knew it.

‘You've become a real bore.'

‘I've stopped smoking.'

‘It's not true! Since when?'

‘I haven't touched a pack for a week. You're the only one I can take it out on.'

She swept up the scraps of Pierre's letter that were on the table, put her foot on the dustbin pedal, and threw them in. We found ourselves sitting down facing one another with our café au lait. She had run out of chocolate.

‘Couldn't you have told me?'

‘Why do you think I started doing sport? I've put on over a kilo.'

‘You're looking flabby.'

‘I'm going to put on seven kilos. Definitely. I've got a friend who's put on ten. I'm going to have a spare tyre. Do you find that attractive?'

‘Maybe it won't show much.'

‘There's no way!'

She disappeared. She returned with a photograph album. She took out a photo.

‘That's my mother, before her marriage. She weighed forty-eight kilos.

She flipped through the pages at speed, stopped towards the end of the album, and pointed to a black and white photo in which her mother was posing in a fur coat somewhere near the Acropolis.

‘Fifteen years later, weighing thirty kilos more. I don't want to become like her.'

‘It's not automatic.'

‘Yes it is, girls end up looking like their mothers and boys like their fathers. That's why we have problems.'

‘I don't have any problems with my father.'

‘You will have. Pierre tried to escape from them. Few boys have put so much effort into driving their families to despair. He was drawn to misfortune like a magnet. They couldn't agree about anything, and yet they thought alike. The same mechanism, but in the opposite direction. He's become as boring as Papa.'

‘You never speak about your parents.'

‘They're dead and buried. There's nothing to say about them.'

‘Will you show me the album?'

‘Out of the question. Personally, I'd have thrown it away. Pierre insisted on keeping it. You see what I'm saying. We always get hoodwinked by our feelings.'

There was someone else who got hoodwinked. Twice a week, I found myself running like an imbecile around the Luxembourg. Cécile gave me a tracksuit that was my size. To begin with, it was hell. After a month, I managed to complete a circuit without stopping. I couldn't believe it. We ran on Thursdays and Saturdays for one hour, and on Sundays I did the housework. With practice, it became easy. I ran for Cécile's sake, to help her keep her promise never to touch a cigarette again. But she would fall back into bad habits at the slightest provocation and she always had a good reason. When I arrived at her home, I could smell the stale tobacco even though she had opened the windows wide to air the flat. It was her thesis, which was not progressing, that was to blame, or Pierre, who wrote to her saying he wanted to read it, or a girlfriend who had been ditched by some bastard, or the enjoyment of smoking… It was impossible to reason with her.

But then an unforeseen transformation took place. It was a Thursday afternoon, towards the end of March. It was cold and drizzling. The
Luxembourg was deserted, swept by a north wind that bit into our cheeks. As usual, she was running ahead of me, and I was trotting along at her heels. I drew up alongside her. She accelerated. I didn't slacken. I could hear her panting. I'd never felt so light. We remained elbow to elbow. I upped the pace. She was unable to follow me. I overtook her. I could hear her straining behind me. I took a ten metre lead, then twenty. I waited for her to come back at me. She was out of breath. I accelerated.

‘Stop, Michel, I can't go on.'

She was doubled up, her hands pressed to her knees, trying to catch her breath. It took her two minutes to do so. I waited, smiling to myself.

‘You look great.'

‘Do you think so?' she murmured, breathing rapidly.

‘Pity I haven't got my camera. You could see how you look.'

‘I feel as if I weigh a ton.'

‘Are you sure that running makes you lose weight? Perhaps, in your case, it has the opposite effect.'

She turned scarlet. I set off without waiting for her reply.

‘You little bastard!'