The Incorrigible Optimists Club (22 page)

‘Say we're quiet and peaceful and behaving like good citizens, and that we're not involved in any politics,' said Gregorios. ‘And remember that it was the Greeks who invented revenge!'

After that, we spotted him only four or five times a year. He was unpredictable and discreet; we never saw him enter or leave. He would be there, following a game, without any of us knowing whether he came out of duty or for pleasure. When one of the players lost his temper, said something stupid, or moaned about the government or the authorities, they would look around to see whether he was there and would be relieved not to see him. Leonid or Pavel threatened whoever was grumbling: ‘Watch it, if you go on causing trouble, I'll denounce you to Big Ears!'

7

I
opened the door with my bunch of keys and put the shopping on the kitchen table. I heard her voice, coming from the far end of the flat: ‘Is that you, Michel?'

‘Who do you think it is?'

Cécile was in the bath and was speaking to me through the door.

‘You can come in, if you like.'

‘I'll wait for you in the sitting room.'

After changing her mind several times, Cécile had decided to finish her thesis on Aragon and to follow this with a degree in psychology. Pierre's request to read her dissertation had stuck in her throat and she had returned to the subject on various occasions.

The spring-cleaning of the flat was progressing slowly and was hampered by technical difficulties that had nothing to do with good old-fashioned housework. What appeared simple became complicated. Each room revealed a problem we did not know how to resolve. Could one rescue antiquated wooden shutters? Carpets stained by goodness knows what? Water marks on the wall? Why did the gas burner above the sink no longer light up? It rattled when touched. Were we going to be suddenly asphyxiated or would you smell it beforehand? How could one remove painted wallpaper with a knife without loosening the rendering? Why did this vacuum cleaner no longer vacuum? Cécile refused to call in professionals on principle.

‘They're Poujadistes! I wouldn't pay them a penny.'

We asked the advice of Monsieur Bisson, from the ironmonger's shop in rue de Buci, who had sold us half of his shop. Either the goods were defective, or else we didn't know how to use them, or we didn't have the right equipment. She lost heart.

‘I'll let you finish it, Michel. I've got to work on my dissertation.'

Aragon always got the blame. She spent her time dissecting his books,
his articles and his speeches, taking notes, sorting them, filling in index cards, and filing them in wooden boxes with coloured dividers, and she spent hours on the telephone to her friend Sylvie, curled up on the sofa, swapping the latest bits of gossip from the Sorbonne. When I asked whether I could read her work, she told me to get lost: ‘Why are you pestering me like this? You'll read it when I've finished.'

‘You need to come and look under the sink.'

‘What is it now?'

‘Mice.'

Were those tiny black balls mice droppings? According to Monsieur Bisson, they certainly were. He suggested either a one-kilo box of rat poison – very effective, although once they got used to it they wouldn't eat any more of it – or the traditional mousetrap with a blade on a spring like a guillotine, sold without the cheese that lured them. The best solution would be to take both. Cécile refused: ‘If a mouse gets decapitated, will you pick it up?'

‘If you like, I'll lend you Néron. There are no more mice at home and he's getting bored.'

‘I don't like cats.'

We hid the food in two top cupboards that could be locked. I had no talent for DIY. I abandoned it so that I could go and read in an armchair in the sitting-room while she worked nearby. Sometimes I observed her when she wasn't looking. She wasn't working. She looked thoughtful, a vacant expression in her eyes.

‘And you haven't talked to Franck at all?' she asked me out of the blue, one day when I was scrubbing the parquet floorboards with wire wool to get rid of some stains.

‘I haven't written since he's been away. He hasn't either.'

‘Hasn't he phoned you? Haven't you had a single letter?'

‘Not one. He'll write to you eventually, that's for sure.'

She didn't reply. She immersed herself in her book again. I could see she wasn't reading.

‘Aren't you fed up with working? How about going for a run?' I suggested.

‘I don't feel like it.'

‘How about going to play chess?'

‘I can't see the fun in sitting on your bum for hours on a chair just moving pawns about and hanging around. Personally, I find board games a drag.'

‘I'll introduce you to my friends. You'll get on well with them. They're former communists. Well, not all of them. Some of them aren't communists. Others are. You'll understand. Some of them know a great deal about literature. You might see Kessel or Sartre.'

‘Do they come often?'

‘In the evening, generally. Sometimes during the day.'

‘Let's go.'

We caught the number twenty-one bus. In ten minutes, we were at Denfert. I had not picked a good day. The room was buzzing with noisy excitement.

‘Is it a chess club?' Cécile asked me in a low voice.

‘Normally, it's silent.'

We had arrived in the middle of a slanging match. You could spend several weeks in complete quiet and then suddenly an outburst and confrontation would flare up. In this case, there was no way you could remain uninvolved. Those looking for peace and calm had to cross the square and move to another café. When, on 12 April 1961, Yuri Gagarin made the first human flight into space, aboard the rocket
Vostok
, the entire world realized that this was one of those major events that change the history of mankind. But what gave rise to admiration and unanimity elsewhere produced, at the Club, cries and the gnashing of teeth among the ‘severed' and the ‘unsevered', as Igor used to say. That is to say among those who loathed the leftward-leaning ideology and looked towards America, and those who had escaped from the Eastern-bloc countries, but had continued to be socialists. For the latter, it was merely the system that had gone wrong. The principle remained eternal and the ideal exciting. They were caught in a net of their own contradictions, going into great raptures about the breakthroughs and victories of a country where they were pariahs, and where they would have been done away
with had they not gone over to the West. The planetary struggle of the USA versus the USSR would interrupt their games of chess and their reading, and the best of friends would trade insults and hurl invective at one another. Between these two factions of equal importance and eternal irreconcilability, there were countless opportunities for such rows. From Gagarin, who had just screwed the Americans, to Botvinnik, who had crushed his rivals for the umpteenth consecutive time with depressing ease and who was going to remain chess champion of the world for decades, by way of the influence of Lenin's philosophy on the invincibility of the Russian hockey team and the Soviet hammer throwers who threw higher and further thanks to the quality of Russian steel and the coaching of the masses.

‘It really is absolute proof, isn't it?'

‘I thought you were against the system.'

‘I try to be impartial, to admit the rightful value of the results.'

‘It's the system that produces them.'

‘I respect those who are admired by decent folk.'

‘You said you agreed with this system.'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Yes, you did!'

‘No! This system is an aberration. It crushes man and does not respect him. I'm a Marxist, not a Communist.'

‘Communists and Marxists are shits and bastards!'

‘And as for you, you're nothing but a dirty fascist!'

They were at it again. People were divided into two camps, with nothing in between. Everybody got involved and contributed his own testimony and his own experiences. No one knew who had said what. No one was listening any longer. Voices soared like a geyser. They ended up shouting at one another in Russian, in German, in Hungarian and in Polish.

Cécile made the foolish mistake of intervening. I would never have imagined that she would do such a thing and there was nothing I could do to stop her.

‘If I may be allowed,' she ventured, interrupting Tomasz. ‘I think one has to place this event in its historical perspective and consider the
revolutionary nature of this technological feat from the point of view of where the USSR has come from. They have created a space industry within fifteen years. It's the result of a planned approach and research—'

Cécile did not complete her sentence.

‘Who's she?' yelled Tomasz.

‘I agree with you, Mademoiselle,' Pavel chimed in. ‘But it should be made clear that most of this research was provided by friendly countries and particularly by—'

‘Who are you?' yelled Tomasz, beside himself.

‘She's a friend, I brought her,' I explained.

‘Women are not allowed in the club! It's bad enough to have to deal with these old commies without having to put up with a woman as well!'

‘The woman says fuck off! You're just an old reactionary!'

Cécile shouldn't have hit Tomasz. The slap resounded like a clash of cymbals. There were two or perhaps three seconds of complete silence, astonishment and alarm. We tried to come to terms with what had just happened. We watched his stunned face slowly turning red with the mark of her fingers imprinted on it. Later on, Leonid explained that this very brief interval was necessary for the impact of the pain to rise from Tomasz's cheek to his brain. Leonid didn't care for the Poles. Tomasz hurled himself at Cécile and tried to strangle her. She was quick and avoided him. The din reached fever pitch. Tables were knocked over, games of chess were interrupted for good, pieces were stepped on, and glasses were smashed. With difficulty, I managed to haul Cécile away by the arm before Tomasz, who was being restrained by Pavel and Leonid, could tear her to pieces.

‘What's got into you? Are you crazy?' I exclaimed.

‘That beats everything! Are you going to defend that prick? You're a real friend!'

Before I was able to respond, she was making her way across boulevard Raspail, where cars were slamming on their brakes and hooting their horns. I saw her disappear into the métro. I went back to the Balto. A new subject for dispute had been added to the recurring rift. Were women allowed to come to the Club? The problem was no longer one of left– right confrontation. Those who had agreed a few moments beforehand
were now confronting one another and joining forces with their former enemies.

‘There's no rule in this club that forbids a woman coming along,' Igor confirmed, speaking with the authority of the founding member.

‘The rules are those of democracy and the majority,' said Gregorios. ‘I would remind you that it was the Greeks who invented democracy. Let's vote! And I'm voting against. It's peaceful just among men.'

It was the first time Imré and Tibor had expressed their disagreement in public.

‘We're not in an English club,' Imré explained. ‘Here, the only rule is liberty.'

‘We can't allow the communists to take over and spoil everything.'

‘You're talking nonsense, Tibor.'

‘The real problem is women and Gagarin!'

One sensed that a harmful topic had just been raised, like an unknown virus that contaminates without one being aware of it. The few who played conciliatory roles and wanted to avoid the point of no return were reviled by both sides. Were they going to come to blows? Allow ideology to decide what we wanted instead of us? Forget who our friends were? Were politics and women going to be the cause of our misfortunes once more? Could there be such an important discussion without there being a winner?

‘We have no reason to quarrel. Our wives have forgotten us and nobody wants us.'

‘Are you playing games or fomenting revolution?'

Silence returned, until the next victory or the following defeat. I slipped out. I had let the wolf into the fold and I was expecting to bear the consequences. But as paradoxical as it may be, nobody held it against me.

Next day, I rang Cécile's bell. She opened the door with an enormous smile on her face and greeted me as though nothing had happened. When I set foot in the Club again, nobody made any comment, apart from telling me I was useless at chess. Which just goes to show that notions of fault and blame are relative. Grandfather Delaunay proclaims loud and clear that there is nothing worse than wanting the best for people against their
will. But for me the worst thing is not wanting to make others happy or giving up trying to do so. No one could say that I hadn't tried. Perhaps if Gagarin had waited for a day or two before looping the loop in the firmament, Cécile would have been welcomed with open arms.

8

I
was in a nasty situation. Not desperate, no, but damned difficult. When I moved my bishop from g2 to c6 to put Tomasz's queen in check, I thought I had struck a superb blow, but I play too quickly without considering all the possibilities. Igor shook his head in sorrow. He had seen my mistake before I did. Tomasz sensed the danger. On my right, Pavel was following the game impassively, his head resting on his fists. Tomasz had the reputation of being a good player. He played very little. He preferred to watch and make comments even though kibitzers were not allowed to speak. In reality, he avoided pitting himself against the best players and he did not play against Leonid or Igor. Tomasz hesitated. All he had to do was to move his rook to f4 to checkmate me the following move. It was glaringly obvious. He reached over to his queen, as though it was in danger, and kept his hand poised in the air.

‘You're playing like an ass,' Pavel moaned.

‘Right, and I suppose you're Botvinnik?' Tomasz replied.

‘Michel's a beginner. How can you play so badly?'

Tomasz glared at the chessboard. His face lit up.

‘Now that I can't allow,' I protested. ‘If there are two of you against me, it's no longer a game.'

Tomasz's hand was reaching over towards his rook and he was about to pick it up when the door slammed. We jumped. Vladimir came in, excited and animated, and so out of breath that he broke one of the rules of the Club. He spoke to Igor in Russian – a few bellowed words that caused Igor and Pavel, who spoke Russian fluently, to leap to their feet.

‘It's Nureyev. He's gone over to the West!' Igor translated for us.

‘When the plane landed at Le Bourget airport,' continued Vladimir frenetically, ‘he shoved aside the two KGB agents who were accompanying him. He jumped over the barrier and he ran like a madman,
pursued by other KGB agents. He managed to take refuge in one of the French customs offices. Nureyev is free!'

‘Who is he?' asked Tomasz.

‘You don't know Nureyev?' said Igor in surprise.

‘How could he know the greatest dancer in the world?' Leonid exclaimed. ‘What do the Poles know about dance?'

‘Leonid, Vladimir and I went to see him dance last week in
La Bayadère
at l'Opéra de Paris,' said Igor. ‘We had tears in our eyes. In the third act a frisson went through the audience. He began to carry out a series of leaps, twirls in the air and running steps with incredible grace and at an amazing speed. No one had ever seen anything like it. Nureyev is not a dancer, he's a bird. A seagull. He doesn't touch the ground. Weight doesn't affect him. He flies. He filled the vast stage of the Kirov on his own. There's just him, the light and the music. He pirouettes in the air. You follow him with your eyes and he transports you with his spins. Today we're going to crack a few bottles. Jacky, bring some champagne.'

‘Wouldn't you prefer the sparkling wine? It's the same thing.'

‘The best, the Cristal!'

‘Some Roederer? It's expensive.'

‘Give us two bottles!'

Old Marcusot brought over the champagne with plastic cups.

‘You're not expecting to make us drink from these?' said Leonid in a fury.

‘Your little parties cost me a fortune.'

‘Don't worry about that. Today's an important day.'

‘I'll have a beer,' said Tomasz.

That afternoon, Albert Marcusot had his best takings of the year; he finished his stock of champagne and sparkling wine, and renewed half of his glassware. The little party cost Igor, Leonid and Vladimir a fortune. But Nureyev's freedom had no price. Igor requested silence for a toast to the Kirov, the best ballet company in the world. He raised his glass in the air and was interrupted by Vladimir: ‘I agree that we should drink a toast to Nureyev, who is an exceptional dancer, but the best ballet company is the Bolshoi!'

‘You're joking, I trust. The Kirov is the absolute benchmark.'

Vladimir called on the gathering to be his witness; scarcely any of them knew the work of either company.

‘In the past, perhaps; nowadays the Bolshoi is everyone's choice.'

‘You Muscovites are simply jealous. The Marinsky is so vast that you could fit the Opéra de Paris inside it twice over.'

‘I'm not talking about the size of the theatre, but the reputation of the ballet.'

‘Diaghilev, Nijinsky and Vaganova, have you heard of them in Moscow?'

‘They retired thirty years ago.'

‘The Ballets Russes, who created them?'

‘That was before the war. Ask whoever you like, ask the connoisseurs, and they'll tell you the Bolshoi is the best by far.'

‘Oh, really? And Nureyev? Where's he from? From Moscow? No, my dear fellow, he's from Leningrad! When he was about fifteen or sixteen, when he wanted to join the Bolshoi, you didn't want him. Are you aware of that? The Bolshoi passed Nureyev over! They didn't spot his talent. The poor guy slept in the street like a pauper. It was the Kirov that welcomed him and made him famous. When his genius erupted in
Le Corsaire
, the Bolshoi tried to lure him away, but it was the Kirov he signed up with! Name me one dancer from the Bolshoi to compare with Nureyev? Even in the last twenty or thirty years.'

Vladimir reflected and could not come up with any. Leonid went further: ‘I've seen the Bolshoi twice and the Kirov ten times. Igor's right. I don't say that just because I'm from Leningrad. Nothing can surpass the Kirov in beauty.'

Vladimir shrugged his shoulders.

‘One can't discuss the matter with you lot. You're in cahoots.'

‘You disappoint me, Volodia. The Kirov is beyond compare. It's quite obvious. To be forgiven, you must buy a bottle,' Leonid concluded.

Tomasz came to find me so that we could finish our game of chess. I pretended I didn't have the time.

‘We're discussing important matters.'

‘I was on the point of winning.'

‘Didn't you see you were about to be checkmate?'

He stared at me incredulously. It was time to deal the final thrust, as I'd often seen Pavel or Leonid do: ‘There's no hope for you. You'll always be a small-time player from the suburbs.'

Tomasz sat down at the chessboard and spent the rest of the afternoon looking at the game from every angle without being able to understand, and rightly so, where the danger was coming from.