The Incorrigible Optimists Club (2 page)

‘I never noticed anything, throughout all those years. I was young. I had the impression that he liked you.'

‘I used to tell him jokes. They made him laugh. He had such a good memory, and yet he never remembered them, and he would ask me to repeat them again.'

‘I remember Leonid and his joke about Stalin and the sun.'

‘Go on, tell it to me, I'd love to hear it again.'

‘Wait, I'm trying to remember. One morning Stalin gets out of bed. It's a fine day. He speaks to the sun: “Sun, tell me who is the handsomest, the most intelligent, the strongest one of all?” The sun doesn't hesitate for a second: “It is you, O Stalin, light of the universe!” At midday, Stalin asks again: “Tell me Sun, who is the most brilliant, the greatest, the most outstanding man of all time?” The sun confirms: “It is you, O great Stalin.” Before dinner, Stalin can't resist the pleasure of asking the sun once more who is the best Communist in the world. The sun replies: “You're just a nutcase, Stalin, a psychopath, a raging lunatic, so fuck you, I've now gone over to the West!”'

Pavel burst out laughing as though he were hearing it for the first time.

‘You're no good at telling jokes. The French don't know how to tell them. When Leonid told it, it went on for an hour.'

‘It's true. It was extraordinary. Do you really think he told it to Stalin?'

‘That's what he said to me. Leonid's not the type to brag. You tell me – you were close to him, if I remember correctly?'

‘Very close. I'd love to see him again.'

‘And yet he loathed Sacha.'

‘They had long-standing squabbles that no longer interest people. These days, they're not very important any more.'

He hesitated, said nothing, and shrugged his shoulders. He took another croissant.

‘Are you paying?'

‘By the way, your book on the treaty of Brest-Litovsk, was it ever published?'

‘You're joking! I retranslated it, I rewrote it, I altered it, I shortened it. There was always a good reason. I had some interest from a young
publisher. I'd reached 965 pages. He wanted me to cut 250 of them. I decided to drop it.'

‘Tell me another joke, Pavel.'

‘Do you know the difference between a rouble and a dollar?'

I had already heard this pointless joke. It may even have been he who told it to me fifteen years ago. I racked my brain.

‘No, I don't know.'

‘One dollar!'

He was delighted and burst out laughing.

‘What happened, Michel? We used to hear about you for a while, and then you disappeared.'

‘After Sacha died, I went on seeing Igor and Werner. Do you still see the others?'

‘You're the only one we don't see any more.'

OCTOBER 1959–DECEMBER 1960

1

I
t was the only time in my life that I had seen both my families reunited – well, a good number of them anyway, and there were already twenty or so people there. It was my birthday and I'd had a bad premonition. I had sensed danger, without being able to pinpoint it. Later on, I worked out certain signs that should have been obvious to me, but engrossed in the feasting and the presents, I was too young to understand them. My friends seemed to have just one family each; I had two, and they were quite different. They did not get on with one another. The Marinis and the Delaunays. My father's family and my mother's. That was the day I discovered that they loathed each other. My father, who was always cheerful, was the only one who ventured from one to the other with his tray of fruit juices, mimicking the voices of famous actors such as Jean Gabin or Louis Jouvet.

‘A little orange juice? It won't do you any harm, it's made of fruit.'

The Marinis collapsed with laughter. The Delaunays rolled their eyes.

‘Paul, do stop, it's not funny!' said my mother, who hated imitations.

She remained seated, talking to her brother Maurice, whom she had not seen since he settled in Algeria after the war. My father did not care for him. I liked him because he never stopped making jokes. He used to call me Callaghan. I don't know why. As soon as he set eyes on me, he would adopt a mock-English accent and say: ‘How do you do, Callaghan?' and I was supposed to reply: ‘Very good!' When we parted, I was entitled to a ‘Bye-bye Callaghan!' accompanied by a feigned punch to the chin. Maurice came to Paris once a year for an American business seminar. He made it a point of principle to be the first to benefit from the latest innovations. This was called management. He peppered his vocabulary with Americanized expressions. Nobody knew what they meant, but everyone pretended they did. He was thrilled by the seminar ‘How to become a Winner?' He explained the basic principles to my mother, who lapped up
his words. My father, who was convinced that it was all humbug, did not miss his opportunity: ‘You should have let me know,' he joked, putting on General de Gaulle's voice, ‘we would have sent the generals from the French army on this course.'

He burst out laughing, and so, too, did the Marinis. It did not help ease the tension. Maurice took no notice and continued trying to encourage my mother to enrol on the course. When he retired, grandfather Philippe had handed over the reins to his daughter. He was determined she should improve herself, even though she had been working with him for ten years now. On Maurice's recommendation, he had sent her on an American-style course called ‘How to become a modern manager'. She had travelled to Brussels for two weeks of intensive training. She had returned with a collection of thick volumes that had pride of place on the bookshelf. She was very proud of them, for they were a proof of and testimony to her skills. They ranged from ‘Winning over difficult customers' to ‘Building up a network of effective relationships' or ‘Developing your potential for decision making'. Every year, she attended a three-day seminar at a luxurious office block on avenue Hoche, and a new book would be added to the red leather-bound collection. The previous year, she had gone with him to the seminar ‘How to win friends?', which had transformed her. Ever since, she had worn a fixed smile, the key to her present and future successes. Her movement was relaxed, a sign of her inner tranquillity, her voice soft and calm, evidence of her personal strength and, according to Dale Carnegie, whose ideas the seminars were promoting, they were supposed to change her life. My father did not believe in them. For him, they were a waste of time and money.

‘In any case, you'll never make a thoroughbred out of a carthorse,' he proclaimed, with a little smile directed at Maurice.

One week beforehand, I had asked my mother to invite the Marinis.

‘We don't normally invite them. We celebrate birthdays in the family.'

I had persisted. Her new smile had deserted her. I, on the other hand, had not given up. If they did not come, there would be no party. She had looked at me with a mournful expression. My mother did not change her mind. I was resigned to the fact. When my father informed me with
a conniving smile that the Marinis had been invited, I had been over the moon, convinced that, thanks to me, the reconciliation would take place. I should not have forced her. She took no notice of them. The only outsiders at the gathering were Nicolas Meyer, my one friend, who got bored to death waiting for the cake, Maria, the Spanish maid, who went round from group to group with her tray of orangeade and mulled wine, and Néron, my brown tabby cat who followed her around like a dog. For a long time I thought that having two families was an advantage, for a long time I made the most of it. But, although those who have no family at all will think that I'm a spoilt brat who doesn't know how lucky he is, having two families is actually worse than having none at all.

The Marinis, in their corner of the room, were gathered around Grandfather Enzo. They were waiting. Franck, my brother, had made up his mind which side he was on. He was talking in a hushed voice to Uncle Baptiste and Grandmother Jeanne. My father appeared, carrying an enormous cake with chocolate icing, and began singing ‘Happy birthday, Michel'. The Marinis joined in the chorus. This was a custom with them: as soon as they were together, they sang. Each of them had his or her own favourite repertoire and, when they were all together, they formed a chorus. My mother smiled at me tenderly. She did not sing. I blew out my twelve candles in two puffs. Philippe, my mother's father, clapped. He did not sing, nor did Maurice, nor did any of the Delaunays. They clapped, and the Marinis sang: ‘Happy birthday, Michel, happy birthday to you'… And the more the Marinis sang, the more the Delaunays clapped. Juliette, my little sister, clapped, Franck sang. Nicolas too. It was at that precise moment that an unpleasant sensation came over me. I gazed at them uncomprehendingly, my awkwardness concealed by the din. This may be where my phobia for family gatherings stems from.

I received three presents. The Delaunays gave me a two-speed Teppaz record player: it played 33s and 45s, with a special loader for the 45s. It was a significant present and Philippe emphasized the delicacy of the pick-up arm and how carefully one had to follow the operating instructions.

‘Your mother didn't want you to squabble with your brother any more.'

Enzo Marini gave me a large book:
The Treasures of the Louvre
. He had retired from the rail company and came to Paris once a month with Grandmother Jeanne, courtesy of his discount railcard. She used the opportunity to call on Baptiste, my father's elder brother, who had brought up his two children on his own ever since his wife had been killed in a road accident. A railcar driver on the Paris-Meaux line, Baptiste had apparently once been talkative and outgoing. Whenever they spoke about him, my parents gave one another equivocal glances. When I questioned them, they avoided replying and their silence was even more oppressive than his.

I used to go to the Louvre with Enzo. In Lens, where he lived, there was nothing interesting to see. I don't know where he acquired his knowledge. All he had was his school certificate. He knew the paintings and the artists, and had a preference for the Italian Renaissance. We spent hours pacing up and down the vast corridors until closing time. I loved those days when we were on our own. He didn't talk to me as though he were addressing his grandson, but as if to a friend. I often used to ask him questions about his youth, but he did not like talking about it. His father had left Fontanellato, near Parma, driven by poverty. He had emigrated with his two younger brothers. The three of them had handed on the family farm to their elder brother. He found his way to Northern France where he worked in a mine. Enzo was the first to be born in France. His father, who had always wanted to become French and had forbidden Italian to be spoken at home, had cut all ties with his native land and had lost touch with the rest of the family. Enzo married a girl from Picardy. He was French and proud of it. When some idiot, out to upset him, referred to him as an Eyetie or Macaroni, he replied with a smile, ‘Pleased to meet you – I'm Lieutenant Vincenzo Marini, from Lens in the Pas-de-Calais.'

My father told me that he had sometimes had to resort to his fists in order to gain respect. For him, Italy was a foreign land in which he had never set foot. We were astonished when Enzo told us, that same day, that he had begun to have Italian lessons.

The Louvre gave me an education I hadn't expected. Enzo taught me how to recognize artists, to distinguish styles and periods. He pretended
to believe that my attraction to statues of naked women was entirely due to the perfect lines of Canova or Bartolini, then he teased me about it. My father had not said a word when Philippe had given me the record player, but he went into raptures over the book, making admiring comments about the quality of the reproductions. He turned the pages with ‘oh's and ‘ah's of admiration, in his usual slightly exaggerated way. He paused at Leonardo's
St John the Baptist
, with its raised finger and curly hair, unsettled by the mystery of that very irreverent smile.

‘You wouldn't think he was a saint.'

‘Why don't you come with us to the Louvre?' Enzo asked.

‘Oh, you know, me and museums…'

My father always knew how to create a sense of the dramatic. He placed a cube-shaped packet on the table, wrapped in dark blue glossy paper and tied with a red ribbon. Before opening it, I had to guess what was inside it. No, it was not a book. It would not have occurred to my father to buy one. A toy?

‘You're past the age to be given one.'

It was not a parlour game either. Everybody began guessing except my mother, who smiled. It was not a lorry you had to assemble, nor an aeroplane, nor a boat, nor a train, nor a model car set, it was not a microscope, nor a watch, nor binoculars, nor a tie or scent, nor was it a set of lead soldiers, or a fountain pen. It wasn't something you could eat or drink, nor was it a hamster or a small rabbit.

‘How could you think I'd put a live animal in a box? No, it's not stuffed.'

We found our imagination sorely lacking. I stood rooted to the spot, convinced I'd lost my chance of getting the present.

‘Do we have to open it for you?' my father said.

I tore off the wrapping paper in a flash. I thrilled with delight when I discovered the clear plastic box. A Kodak Brownie! I would not have thought my father capable of giving me such a present. Two weeks earlier, passing a photographic shop in the Rue Soufflot, I had stopped to admire it and I had explained the new features of the camera to him. He had been surprised that I was so well informed about photography. In actual fact, I was pretending, he just knew even less about it than I did. I threw
my arms around him and thanked him again and again for making me so happy.

‘Save some thanks for your mother too, she's the one who went to get it.'

In a few frantic seconds, I managed to feed the film onto the reel. I assembled the family in a compact group, facing the window, directing operations as I had seen the school photographer do for our annual class photo.

‘Smile, Papa. Uncle Maurice, stand behind Mama. Smile, for goodness sake, smile!'

The flash went off. I took another one just to be sure. Vocations are all to do with the luck of the draw. Later on, I made up my mind: I would be a photographer. This struck me as a glamorous and worthwhile aim. My father went further: ‘It's true, dear Michel, it must be fun being a photographer, and it pays well.'

If I had my father's blessing to boot, great possibilities were opening up before me. Franck, as usual, managed to dampen my enthusiasm: ‘If you want to be a photographer, you'll have to improve your maths.'

What did he know about it? Because of him, the discussion took a dangerous turn between those who maintained that photography was an art and that maths was unnecessary, and those who asserted that one had to know all about perspective, optics, emulsion, and masses of other technical stuff. This made me feel uncomfortable. They tried to convince themselves with lots of arguments that nobody listened to. I didn't realize that two people could both be right. As for Franck, he must have been jealous. He had not been given such a fine present when he was my age. Taking photographs is actually not a science, it's a matter of luck. This historic photo of the whole family gathered together, the only one of its kind, stood on the sideboard for three years. It disappeared, for reasons that have nothing to do with its artistic merits.

For a long time, I lived in complete and utter ignorance of my family's history. Everything was pretty perfect in my world. People never tell children about what went on before they came along. To begin with, we're
too young to understand, later on we're too grown up to listen, then we haven't got time, and afterwards it's too late. That's the thing about family life. We live cheek by jowl with people as though we knew one another, but we know nothing about anybody. We hope for miracles from our close relationships: for impossible harmony, for total trust, for intimate bonds. We satisfy ourselves with the reassuring lie of our kinship. Perhaps I expected too much. What I know comes from Franck. It was he who revealed the truth to me, following the events that shattered our family on the day of the shop's opening.

There is a gap of seven years between Franck and me. He was born in 1940. His story is the story of our family with its ups and downs and its imponderables. Without him, I would not be here. Our fate hinged on the early months of the war. At that time, my mother's father Philippe was running his plumbing and zinc-roofing business. Before the war, it had branched out into selling kitchen and bathroom equipment. He had never touched a zinc pipe or a blowtorch in his life. He was happy to let others do the work and, to judge by his comments, it was tough. He had inherited the business from his father and he managed it efficiently. The start of his problems can be dated precisely to 3 February 1936 when he took on Paul Marini as an apprentice. My father was seventeen and had no wish to follow in the family tradition of working for the railways from one generation to the next. He wanted to live in Paris. On the day he was hired, he impressed Grandfather Delaunay by soldering some pewter perfectly and in record time. For the next three years my grandfather congratulated himself on having recruited my father, who charmed everybody with his smile, his kindness, his willingness and his ability. Without realizing it, he had let the wolf into the fold. His daughter Hélène fell madly in love with this handsome lad with his velvety good looks, wavy hair and slight dimple, who danced the waltz tirelessly and made her laugh with his imitations of Maurice Chevalier and Raimu. These must have been the most wonderful years for my parents. They were seventeen or eighteen; they used to see one another in secret and no one would have had any idea that they were going steady. In those days, a boss's daughter was not allowed to consort with a worker, especially the son of an Italian
immigrant. It was unheard of. Everyone had to keep to his or her place. In time, things would probably have reverted to normal. But war was drawing closer, and there is nothing worse for lovers than being separated by armed forces. I can easily imagine the pain of their separation and what they must have been through, what with my father being called up, and the phoney war in the depths of the Ardennes, and then the disaster. For six months, my mother hid the fact that she was pregnant from her parents. She had felt unwell but the family doctor had diagnosed a fatty tumour. Then they discovered her condition. She refused to say who the father was of the child whom she christened Franck. My father was held prisoner for four years in a prisoner of war camp in Pomerania, without receiving any news. Convinced that she had forgotten him, he discovered the truth on his return to France. The young girl, so carefree and lighthearted before the war, had become a woman. They had changed and scarcely recognized one another.