The Incorrigible Optimists Club (26 page)

‘Leonid,' Igor would say, ‘You're not eating anything. You're getting thin and people no longer recognize you. I wonder how you manage to go on. One day, you won't have the strength to drive.'

‘I've never had an accident in my life.'

‘It's none of my business,' Madeleine went on doggedly. ‘But you're all skin and bone. You're a good-looking man, Leonid. If you go on like this, no woman will want you.'

‘That's one thing less to bother about.'

‘I think you have a problem with alcohol.'

‘Madeleine, it's when I have no alcohol that I have problems. As my father used to say: as long as your hands don't shake, life is fine. It's when you start to fall over that things get serious. Vodka warms the heart. It's
the only alcohol that doesn't freeze… Did I tell you the joke about Lenin and Gorky?'

They tried to remember and shook their heads one after the other.

‘One day, Gorky is visiting his old friend Lenin and invites him to drink a rouble's worth of vodka. Lenin reminds him of the restrictions imposed by the revolution and refuses to drink more than half a rouble's worth. Gorky knows him well. He had invited him to Capri before the war. They had had one hell of a time. He insists and points out that two people with their level of eminence can give themselves a little extra. No one would dream of saying anything to them. Lenin is determined to resist and Gorky asks him the real reason why he is so obstinate. Lenin puts his head in his hands: “You see, Alexis Maximovitch, the last time I shared a rouble of vodka with a friend, it had such an effect on me that as I left I felt obliged to make a speech to the workers who were waiting there for me and, at this moment, I'm still trying to understand what I could have said for them to have behaved so bloody stupidly.”'

3

O
ften I didn't have time to go to the Club after school, and I didn't feel like going home. I would call by at the city library, especially after Christiane started working there. Her husband had been transferred by his firm from Toulouse to Paris, where she knew nobody. The transition had been sudden. She hadn't managed to adapt to the city and its grim weather, nor to Marie-Pierre, the chief librarian, who didn't like her, she wasn't sure why, and made her do the least pleasant jobs such as sorting out the books or fining readers one centime for every day they were late with their returns. Christiane complied without making a fuss. As soon as she spoke, you noticed her accent. The first time, I thought she was being funny. And she didn't simply stamp the cards as Marie-Pierre did; every loan came with a comment: ‘A very good choice', or ‘You'll love it, it's one of his best novels.' And when she did not like a book or an author, she would merely remark: ‘It's a book about which there's a great deal to say.'

I got to know her at the beginning of my Dostoevsky period. After
The Gambler
, I had felt so moved that I decided to embark on his entire oeuvre. It was the least I could do to show my gratitude. There were twenty-nine of the forty novels by the great Fyodor on the shelf, as well as some other writing. I took five of them and put them down on her table.

‘Ah,
Poor Folk
, not bad for a first novel,' Christiane remarked. ‘But I've never liked epistolary novels. You should read
Notes from Underground
. It's the sequel, twenty years later. It's a dreadful tragedy, about cynicism and self-hatred. One of Nietzsche's favourite novels.'

She carefully stamped the cards and then stamped the yellow sheets that were glued to the flyleaf with the date four weeks later, which was the last day for the books to be brought back.

‘
The Double
? I haven't read it.'

‘Why doesn't the public library have the entire works of Dostoevsky? Something must have happened. Why are eleven missing?'

‘I don't really know. I agree something must have happened. I'll find out.'

About ten days later, I brought back the five books and took out five others.

‘You're not going to tell me that you've read five novels in eleven days?' she asked in her sing-song accent.

‘I read all the time, even in class.'

‘In class?' she repeated incredulously.

‘I put the book on my lap. I pretend to be listening and I manage to read in peace. The lessons are so boring.'

Almost every evening, we discussed books. She tried to persuade me to give up this habit of reading an author's entire works in one burst.

‘It's silly. You've got to stick to the best, go for the classic ones. At least half of what Balzac, Dostoevsky, Dickens or Zola wrote is of no interest. You're wasting your time reading their bad books.'

‘How will I know if I don't read them? You might praise a novel to the skies, and I wouldn't. I loved
White Nights
and you're telling me it's Dostoevsky's worst book. Who's right?'

But then I followed her advice and gave up reading writers systematically. She urged me towards contemporary novels, but we didn't share the same tastes.

‘You should read
Portrait of a Lady
,' she suggested to me one evening when I had mentioned the mysteries of Anna Karenina's suicide. Before I could reply, she had got down from her platform, disappeared between two sets of shelves and returned with a book in a beige cover.

‘Tell me what you think of it.'

I knew neither the title nor the author of this novel. I leafed through it and stopped at a random paragraph. I read three lots of ten lines, fifty pages apart. There is something irrational about reading. Before you read a book, you can know immediately whether or not you are going to like it, just as with people, you can tell just from looking at them whether or not you'll be their friend. You smell it, you sniff it, you wonder whether it's worth spending time in its company. The pages of a book have an invisible alchemy that imprints itself on our brain. A book is a living creature.
Christiane could tell that I was hooked. She couldn't stop herself adding, ‘I don't want to anticipate. But compared to Isabel Archer, Karenina isn't worth the candle.'

Portrait of a Lady
, and afterwards
The Wings of the Dove
, each earned me three days of detention. I still had the old habit of reading as I walked to school. But this time, I stood glued to the pavement, beside a zebra crossing, transported to Gardencourt:

It stood upon a low hill, above the river – the river being the Thames at some forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather had played all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented to the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers…

My repeated lateness incurred the wrath of Sherlock, who was convinced that I was a dilettante or someone who couldn't care less – the type he loathed. How could I explain to him that I couldn't help it? I was late. Whatever he said – that's all there is to it, there's no excuse, you'll do me three hours detention – it didn't matter to me. And I managed to keep all this from my parents. I would intercept the letter informing them of the detention and on Thursday afternoon, I'd be able to read in peace.

Cécile was the only one who knew about my habit. We were due to meet by the Médicis fountain before going for a run in the Luxembourg. I was standing facing the gardens, waiting for Isabel Archer to sort out her problem with Gilbert Osmond before I crossed the road. Eventually, I started walking. I heard Cécile yelling: ‘You're crazy!'

‘What's the matter?'

‘Did you see how you crossed over?'

‘How?'

‘Reading! When you cross the road, you look: to left and to right. You crossed on the green light, with your nose stuck in your book. You nearly got run over by three cars. One of them had to swerve, didn't you notice?'

‘Well, no.'

‘Are you all right, Michel?'

‘Not specially.'

‘Are you taking the piss?'

‘I've been doing it for years. Nothing has happened to me. Apart from being late and getting a detention.'

‘You're stark raving mad!'

‘I'm not the only one. There are lots of people who read while they walk.'

‘How can you see them if you're reading? I've never seen anybody reading in the street. Sometimes people read the headlines of the newspaper. But they're standing still. When they start walking, they don't read. I can't believe it. It's madness. Pure and simple.'

‘I have a radar.'

‘You've got to swear to me that you won't read any more when you walk!'

The great novelists have frequently observed that women have a compelling need for certainty. Long passages of their narratives are to do with obtaining a promise. Their female characters mount fresh attacks, they insist over and over again, they make it a matter of life and death, and the men eventually yield.

‘As you wish.'

‘Swear to me.'

‘Maybe we don't need to go quite so far.'

‘Swear! Or else there's no point saying we're friends.'

‘I swear to you.'

Cécile favoured me with one of those smiles of hers that made me melt. She kissed me as though I had just saved her life. She didn't bother to ask me what I was reading. We did four circuits of the Luxembourg then she bought us each a waffle with chestnut puree. The great novelists have observed that if women obtain clear-cut pledges from men, the men usually go on to break them For some writers betrayal is a matter of great importance, while for others it is less so. Those who cope with it successfully have material for a second book. Perhaps the originality of the modern novel, the mirror of its age, lies in the fact that it has allowed women, too, to break their promises, to be as disloyal as men are, and to become lonely.

4

‘
I
t's a very important matter! What does that mean?' my father yelled at the telephone.

‘Paul, there's no point shouting like that. The entire building can hear you,' complained my mother, who was holding the earpiece.

‘I don't care! I couldn't give a damn. What is it that's so important?' he continued berating Maurice, who had just phoned us. ‘Did your madame from the brothel tell you that?'

‘Paul, the children,' said my mother.

‘What about the children? What's wrong with the children? Don't they know what a whore is? Michel, do you know what a whore is?'

‘I think so, yes. It's—'

‘That's enough! Go to bed, children,' cried my mother, taking the receiver and handing him the earpiece.

‘Maurice, it's me… What do you mean by: “it's not a simple matter of desertion”?'

My father snatched the phone from my mother.

‘What's this bloody story all about? Where are we? On the moon? We're in France! There are laws, fucking hell. I've a right to know what's happened to him. Do you understand? I've a right!… Are there still lawyers in Algiers? You haven't killed them all? What are you waiting for before you get off your arse and go and call on the best lawyer in the fucking city?… They can get stuffed, the court, the judge and the whole of the French army! It's not the Gestapo! I'm going to show them that this is a lad who's got some balls!'

He put the phone down unceremoniously.

‘I'm leaving for Algiers tomorrow morning!'

‘Let's let Maurice deal with it.'

‘He does nothing. Apart from going for a shag in the brothel.'

‘Paul, please.'

‘My son's in difficulty. I'm not just going to sit here twiddling my thumbs. He needs help.'

‘We have to know where he is in order to help him. How are you going to find him? Do you think it will just happen? He had a deferral, the idiot. No one obliged him to join up. He was lucky to be able to study. He's only got himself to blame. He's no longer a child, he's a man.'

‘I have to go there. That's the way it is and that's the way it's going to be!'

My father left the next day. For five days, we heard no news of him. Maurice had gone to meet him at Maison-Blanche, the airport for Algiers, but my father had told him that he intended to manage without him. Maurice had watched him get into a taxi and he didn't know where he was. My mother continued to work as though nothing had happened. We listened to the news on the radio and, between the bombs and the assassination attempts, what we heard was not reassuring.

Cécile telephoned when I failed to turn up for our meeting in the Luxembourg. I told her that I was ill. I could tell from the sound of her voice that she didn't believe me.

‘What's wrong, Michel?'

‘Nothing.'

‘You've got a strange voice.'

‘It's this chronic bronchitis.'

‘I'll be at the Luxembourg tomorrow, if you can make it.'

I called in at the Balto. I wanted to tell Igor everything. He was playing a game with Werner, which Imré was watching attentively. I sat down opposite him, waiting for an opportune moment.

‘What a face you're making,' Imré said.

‘What's the matter?' asked Werner.

‘I don't want to bore you with my problems.'

‘You look as if you're going to a funeral,' said Igor.

‘Did someone die at home?' Imré continued.

‘It's not that.'

‘If no one's dead, don't make that face,' Igor concluded.

‘You're overdoing it,' replied Werner. ‘Let him speak.'

I was about to begin when I noticed Lognon. There he was, in between Werner and Igor, and, as usual, no one had seen or heard him arrive. We had just noticed his presence, without knowing how long he had been there.

‘So, Big Ears, still nosing around?' asked Imré.

‘Forget it,' said Igor. ‘It's best not to talk here.'

‘That's true,' Lognon responded in a low voice, looking at me. ‘Particularly on the telephone. But if we don't talk to one another, life's going to become rather sad, don't you think?'

He turned and slipped away stealthily to the nearby table where Vladimir and Tomasz were playing and were not aware that he was kibitzing.

‘What did he mean?' Werner asked.

‘I think I know,' I said, staring at Big Ears' massive silhouette.

That evening, we waited in vain for a call from my father. Juliette was clearly anxious.

‘There's no point worrying about your father, my girl. He'll phone us when he can.'

To reassure her, my mother rang Maurice, who had no news.

‘You see what I was saying to you. How can he think he'll do better than Uncle Maurice with all his connections? He always thinks he knows best.'

I decided to tell Cécile what was going on and I met her at the Médicis fountain. No sooner had I arrived than she took out of her pocket a letter from Pierre.

‘So, he's replied to you at last.'

My Cécile,

Sorry for the delay, I'm failing in my epistolary duties. I was feeling a bit low. The first chapter of your thesis reassures me about your involvement but I'm not sure you're on the right track when you mention that old bore. You do him a favour by suggesting he was subject to all those influences you credit him with. Be careful not to over-interpret: communism is neither a variant of nor a development of surrealism as you imply. I would take advantage of the fact that the old croc is still alive to go and ask him a few
questions that will make him appear less attractive. I'll wait impatiently to hear what happens next.

The poll carried out among my belote and jokari friends has proved a disaster. They couldn't care less about politics. The fabulous invention of democracy is capitalism's ultimate way of preserving the existing order. The exploited are neither numbed nor worn out, they are bought. They are given crumbs and they hurl themselves at them like starving rats. They trust in de Gaulle to guide them, especially since there's talk of sending our regiment home to metropolitan France. What they want is to make the most of it. They're not interested in hearing about the revolution. Today's working class dreams of pressure-cookers, cars with caravans, and televisions. How can you create a revolution with guys like that? I've lost any desire I had to write anything. My great book on the happiness of the world vanished on the high plateaux south of Constantine. Saint-Justisme was simply crap. Even Saint-Just didn't dare make a theory out of it. What's the point of trying to prove you're right when reality just comes down to surviving or dying? Here, you realize that humanism is a load of rubbish. There's no point in respecting others. They have to be crushed. It's a matter of life or death. It's the law of evolution. I had filled three notebooks of one hundred and twenty pages each to demonstrate that the imbeciles and the enemies of freedom have to be bumped off remorselessly and prevented from doing harm, and I had written a mass of drivel about the revolution, the crassness of democracy and how disgraceful it is for the load of morons that surround us to have the right to vote. Yesterday evening, on our return from patrol, I destroyed the lot. Saint-Justisme was a fine dream, it has vanished for ever in the flames of a camp fire.

Yesterday, I became a shit, just like the other guys. I killed a man I didn't know. I lined him up in my sights and I had a choice. To shoot or not to shoot. He didn't suspect a thing. I wondered what he was thinking, what his opinions were, whether he was rich or poor, whether he had parents, a wife, children. I had no answer to these questions. His mistake was to be a fellagha and so I fired. From about
a kilometre away, his head exploded. We got eight of them but it won't change a thing.

As for you, Michel, I'm interested in meeting your revolutionary pals. I didn't know any still existed. Do me a favour. Ask them before they forget: what's the best way of making a Molotov cocktail? It might well come in handy. I'd be glad to play a few games of chess with them. Better take some lessons, you little bugger, because I was a champion even though it's been donkey's years since I've played. What I have improved at is baby-foot. There's a table at the mess and I am the goalkeeper selected by a lieutenant in the Legion who's a baby-foot champion. We won the match against the paras from Constantine. No comment. Have you had any news of your ass of a brother? He's vanished into thin air…

I handed the letter back to Cécile. She paused. I was expecting her to ask me for an explanation, but she didn't want to pose the question. She got to her feet and set off at a trot. I followed close behind. As usual. Sport is a common escape from communication.

That evening my father called. My mother picked up the phone. There was a moment's hesitation. I rushed over and grabbed the earpiece.

‘He mustn't speak, he mustn't say anything!' I yelled. ‘They're listening to us!'

‘What?'

‘He mustn't say anything on the phone. The police are listening to us!'

‘Paul, Michel's here and he's saying that you shouldn't speak.'

‘Why?'

‘You mustn't tell him, Mama.'

‘If I don't tell him, he won't know. And—'

‘Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?'

‘Paul, have you any news?'

‘It's a disaster. They're prosecuting Franck for the murder of an officer. That's why he deserted.'

‘What is this all about?'

‘He killed a captain in the parachute regiment. I've engaged the best lawyer in Algiers. Franck vanished two months ago.'

My mother slumped back into her chair.

‘It's unbelievable! Are you… are you sure of what you're saying?'

‘According to the lawyer, he may have gone over to the FLN. That's why they can't find him.'

‘I don't believe it!'

‘We haven't actually been able to get hold of his case file. We managed to get some information from—'

I took the receiver out of my mother's hand.

‘Papa, it's Michel. How are you?'

‘Don't worry, my boy.'

‘When are you coming home?'

‘I don't know. We must find him before the military police do. Apparently, deserters—'

‘Is it dangerous? Are there bomb attacks?'

‘Sometimes you can hear explosions. You don't know where they're coming from. I'm at the Aletti Hotel in the centre of town, and it's just like Paris. People go out in the evening, they go to the restaurant, they stroll about with their families and eat ice cream. I speak to a lot of people. They're convinced they're going to stay put. They haven't understood a thing. You wouldn't think you were in a country that's at war.'

‘Look after yourself, Papa.'

I gave the phone back to my mother.

‘Listen, I don't know what he's on about, but you can't stay away for long. There's nothing we can do for him. There are masses of orders to deal with. This is where you are needed.'

‘Have you understood nothing, Hélène? I've come to look for my son. I won't leave until I've found him.'

She put down the receiver, shrugged her shoulders and stared at me suspiciously.

‘What's all this business about phone tapping?'

‘With modern devices, the police can record calls. You have to be discreet on the phone.'

‘How do you know this?'

‘I've read about it. In a novel.'

‘You read too much, Michel. You'd do better to get on with your work.'

I was reading in my bedroom when Juliette came in.

‘Am I disturbing you?'

‘Juliette, I've told you a hundred times to knock before you come in.'

She sat down on the side of my bed. Néron joined us and began washing himself.

‘What are you reading?'

‘
Le Lion
by Kessel. A friend lent it to me. Kessel inscribed it to him: “To Igor Emilievitch Markish. For our wonderful past evenings and the even better ones still to come. With my best wishes. Jef.” I can't let you have it, but you'll find it in the library.'

‘I don't like library books. They're not clean.'

‘You're more at risk when catching the bus or going to the cinema.'

‘Is the book good?'

‘There's not much plot and the story is magical. It takes place in a game reserve in Kenya with Masai warriors everywhere. It's about a girl of your age who makes friends with a lion. He's not tame. He's a monster. She knows how to live with wild animals but not with humans.'

I handed her the book. She had a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Does this mean that Franck has killed someone? Is that it?'

‘For the time being, he's disappeared. He's in hiding. Papa's taking care of it.'

‘What are they going to do to him if they catch him?'

‘I think he'll go to prison.'

She continued to look thoughtful. Néron rolled himself into a ball at the foot of the bed and went to sleep.

‘For how long?'

‘That depends on what he's done.'

‘Will it be awkward for us?'

‘I don't know.'

‘If he doesn't find him, will Papa not come back?'

‘He has to look after the shop.'

‘May I sleep with you this evening?'

When I woke up, Juliette was no longer in my bedroom. Néron and
Le Lion
had disappeared. I had two hours of maths with Shrivel-face and I couldn't make up my mind whether to go in. I almost rang Cécile to find out whether I should ask about how to make a Molotov cocktail and whether she wanted to go for a run. But I told myself that it wasn't the right day to see her. I could never have kept anything from her. I grabbed
L'Arrache-coeur
by Boris Vian, which I kept hidden, and set off for school.