The Incorrigible Optimists Club (31 page)

12

‘
C
écile, I've got something to tell you.'

She stopped running, bent down and, with her arms dangling, she got her breath back. She had phoned me in the morning, surprised that I was no longer coming to the Luxembourg.

‘What's the matter, Michel? Have you forgotten me? Have you got a girlfriend or something?'

I couldn't talk properly: ‘I don't have one. I'm weighed down with work.'

‘Wait a moment, I'm going to sit down and I want you to say that again.'

The previous Monday, my father had come with me to school. He had seen Sherlock and had explained that my absence was due to a death in the family and a burial in the country. He lied with such conviction that for a moment I wondered whether someone had died without anyone telling me. That night, my father had come to my bedroom. Franck had got in touch with him as he was leaving a client's office. They had had a long discussion. He had tried to persuade him to give himself up, but this idea was met with categorical refusal. Franck wanted money in order to escape abroad. My father had promised to help him.

It had become a routine: when the house was asleep, my father would come and wake me up and keep me informed. The only difference was that Néron would join us for these nocturnal confabs and, to prevent himself stepping on the cat's tail, my father used to switch on the bedside light. When he didn't come, I waited for us to be alone at breakfast; I would give him a questioning look and he would shake his head, which signified that nothing had happened.

One night, he came in with a damn stupid idea. The sort of idea you think is brilliant on the spur of the moment and that turns out to be such a disaster that you wonder how it could have taken shape in a sane mind in the first place.

‘What if you talked to his girlfriend?'

‘To Cécile?'

‘She might manage to persuade him.'

‘They broke up two years ago. He dropped her in a really unpleasant way. He didn't dare tell her to her face that he was joining up and that it was over between them. He told me he would write to her to explain, but he never has. You just don't behave like that. She doesn't want to talk about it any more. Every time I've raised the subject, she's switched off.'

‘You know nothing about women. It's when they say no that they are thinking yes.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘Believe me. I know. We've got nothing to lose. If she refuses, at least we'll have tried. She may manage to persuade him not to leave and to stand up for himself. She could do that in memory of their relationship. There's no need to love a person in order to help him. There are lots of people who were once together, who separate and who remain friends.'

‘Let's suppose she agrees. How would she manage to meet him? He's in hiding. He won't want to see her.'

‘Do you remember Sanchez?'

‘Your engineer who took retirement?'

‘Franck is at his place. Sanchez lives alone at a house in Cachan. He's always worked for the Delaunays. I trust him. He hasn't asked any questions.'

‘I think she'll refuse.'

Cécile sat down beside me on a bench facing the tennis courts.

‘So, Michel, what is it?'

I told her about the police arriving on Christmas Eve, my father's departure for Algeria, Franck coming back and his life as a fugitive. She glared at me in a way that made me feel rather uncomfortable. She expressed no criticism. She heard me through.

‘You were right to talk to me about it.'

‘It's only natural. If I hadn't said anything to you, I would have blamed myself for it all my life.'

Her hand brushed my cheek.

‘Thanks, little bro'.'

I ought to have felt like a shit. It's shameful to lie to someone who trusts you. I didn't feel I was to blame though, quite the reverse. Later on, I realized that it hadn't mattered at all whether I told Cécile or not, and that whether this idea came from me or my father, I was merely a messenger. It was she who took the decision. Had she wanted to, she could have shrugged her shoulders and carried on with her life. She decided to go to Cachan. I did my best to dissuade her with arguments worthy of
L'Armée des ombres
.
*

‘Why all this crazy fuss? We've got to stop being paranoid.'

She caught the Sceaux line train and didn't want me to go with her. I don't know what went on there. The following day, she asked to see my father. We met again near her flat, at the Alsatian brasserie on Place Saint-André-des-Arts.

‘I've seen Franck. He told me you were preparing for his departure.'

‘It's what he's asked me to do. I can't go into details. It's harder than we thought.'

‘He agrees to the notion of giving himself up. He wants to see a lawyer.'

‘We could consult Maître Floriot. He's the best.'

‘Franck wants a lawyer from the Human Rights League. It will be a political trial.'

Both lawyers had been to see them, but it didn't mean they were any further forward. The lawyers could not give a view without knowing what was in the file and they were both of the same opinion: the allegations were serious. Murder and desertion in the course of fighting the enemy were punishable by death. Were Franck to be granted extenuating circumstances, he risked life imprisonment or a twenty year sentence with possible release after ten years. Sanchez was used as an intermediary. Franck didn't leave the house. My father gave me no details; he no longer came to my bedroom in the evening.

On several occasions, I called on Cécile, but to no avail. I had my bunch of keys, but I felt embarrassed to use them. I phoned her. She wasn't at home. One evening, I rang the bell without much hope of finding her in.

‘Michel! I'm glad to see you.'

‘You disappeared. I wondered what had become of you.'

‘Didn't your father tell you?'

‘He doesn't tell me anything. What's going on?'

‘I'm going away with Franck.'

‘What?'

‘We're leaving France.'

‘I thought you…'

‘So did I…'

‘It's crazy.'

‘I saw another lawyer. What with the new court martial where they try you without a preliminary enquiry, he's not very optimistic. Franck's taking a huge risk. He's not going to ruin his life and serve fifteen years for having killed some bastard.'

‘You're putting yourself in an impossible situation.'

‘I'll go with him, but I'll come back whenever I want. They can't prevent me. We'll go to a country where there's no extradition. We'll live freely in a free country. We're back together again. Do you understand, Michel? Why poison your life when you can be happy? We're not disappearing. We're going to live somewhere else. You can come and see us. Your father and his friends are trying to find us a cargo boat that will take us to South America. We'll probably leave from Rotterdam.'

‘When's that?'

‘Any moment. I feel sorry on Pierre's account. I won't be able to write to him any more. When we're in Holland, I'll drop him a line so that he doesn't worry. I'll tell him I'm going away for a few months. I won't give him any details. The post might be opened. We can never be too careful. When he gets back, you can explain to him. Can I count on you?'

 

 

*
Jean-Pierre Melville's 1969 film based on Joseph Kessel's book of the same title about his experiences in the Resistance. Tr.

13

A
t about ten o'clock at night, Leonid left the pilots' lounge. He never tired of watching the planes land. Two hours to wait before she arrived. He wandered around the air terminal where there were fewer and fewer people. An electrician was laying cables and two joiners were busy working at the Pan Am stand. The main indicator board was still showing yesterday's flights. The mail planes were not listed. He passed the deserted customs desk and walked out onto the tarmac. Silvery reflections came from the aircraft lined up in a row. He strolled around, inspecting them, unbothered by the rain. He walked over to the new Super Constellation and admired it with an expert eye. He pricked his ears. To the east, he caught a familiar sound. Just above the second runway, two yellow dots appeared in the darkness, and the Dakota mail plane hovered, landed and rolled towards its hangar. A lorry drew up and the unloading of the post began. Leonid walked over to the DC3 and recognized the co-pilot, Jean-Philippe, with whom he got on well. He waited for Milène to appear at the front door.

‘How are you, Jean-Philippe?'

‘We were blown about over the North Sea. We were overloaded.'

‘As usual.'

‘There's nothing we can do. However much we moan, they couldn't give a damn. It felt like being inside a drum.'

‘I can imagine. You've got to climb high. Isn't Milène with you?'

‘We haven't seen her.'

Leonid walked back to the air terminal. They were filling up with fuel and loading the hold with post for the continent. Why wasn't she there? Was she ill? Had she missed the flight? Why hadn't she warned him? There would be news at the hotel.

He hurried, and caught the last shuttle. There was no message. He asked the receptionist to contact Milène in Paris. They called him in his
bedroom to say she wasn't at home. He felt a strange throbbing at the base of his neck. He had nothing left to drink. The receptionist refused to open the bar. Not even a beer. He offered money. The man remained adamant.

Leonid went out, walked around the neighbourhood and remembered that, in this country, the pubs closed very early. Back in the hotel, he woke Sergei and grabbed his bottle of vodka from him. Leonid asked them to try Milène's number again. Twice, he let the telephone ring for ten minutes without her answering. He felt hot and sweaty. He opened the window wide and the freezing air soothed him. He sat down in the armchair. He felt anxious, without knowing what it was he should be frightened of. He fell asleep. He had a restless dream about planes droning around amid flashes of lightning, and drunken receptionists. And the unbearable noise of the bell ringing. Like the siren of a ship in distress. The telephone cord was wrapped around his neck, it was suffocating him and burning his skin. The interminable ringing was earsplitting. He opened his eyes. The telephone was ringing and ringing. He rushed over and picked up the receiver.

‘Ah, I was afraid you might be asleep, sir,' said the receptionist. ‘I'm putting you through to Paris.'

‘Hello, Leonid, this is Milène.'

‘At last. I'm so glad to hear you. What happened?'

‘I tried to reach you at Heathrow. They couldn't find you.'

‘I went for a walk while waiting for you. Why haven't you come?'

‘I won't be coming any more, Leonid.'

‘What?'

‘It's over between us.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘It's finished.'

‘That's not possible!'

‘I've had enough of this lopsided life. I've had enough.'

‘You know the situation I'm in. I've got no choice.'

‘It's too complicated, Leonid. I was hoping for something else for us.'

‘We can't part like this. You should have talked to me about it.'

‘For months, every time I've raised the subject, you've replied that we love each other and that the important thing is the present moment.'

‘Isn't that true?'

‘We've no future, Leonid. When you love someone, you live together. We're in an impasse. The longer we wait, the harder it will be. How long can we go on like this? Two years? Five years? Longer? I want a man for every day of my life, to make plans with, to create something that lasts. Time goes by so quickly, we can't waste it. We could have had a wonderful life. We're not enjoying anything. It's best to stop now.'

‘Why didn't you tell me this to my face?'

‘I wouldn't have had the courage.'

‘I love you, Milène.'

‘I love you too, Leonid, and I'm leaving you.'

‘We can talk about it. Try to find a solution.'

‘There is no solution. We know that.'

‘We can't part like this, not on the telephone!'

‘I won't be coming to London any more. It's over, Leonid, over. Forget me, I beg you.'

Milène hung up. For a long time, he stood there with the receiver beeping in his hand. He left the hotel and walked around a deserted London. Early glimmers of daylight appeared. The milk floats began their rounds. Later on a delivery man noticed that an off-licence had had its window smashed with a stone and several bottles of spirits were missing.

In the afternoon, Leonid embarked for the return flight. He looked as though he were in a filthy mood. Sergei discussed purely technical matters with him.

‘This is my last London flight, Sergei Ivanovitch, I'm going to ask to be transferred to domestic flights. The essential thing is to be above the clouds, and they are the same everywhere.'

Sergei knew him well and knew that he shouldn't reply. Alexandra brought tea and biscuits. Leonid was in a foul mood. He looked tense and he kept sniffing.

‘This plane stinks! There's a body rotting inside it! Can't you smell it?'

‘No, captain.'

‘You could clean it up instead of putting on airs!'

14

C
écile was not at home over the next few days. I didn't know where she was. I was waiting for my father to say something to me, but he was employing his usual tactic: he left at dawn, came home late and went to bed immediately.

One morning at about five o'clock, I managed to pull myself out of bed. I joined him in the kitchen where he was having his breakfast standing up.

‘What are you doing here? Go back to bed.'

‘What's going on?'

‘I've told you; the less you know about it, Michel, the better.'

‘Why?'

‘You're not old enough.'

‘It's not fair.'

‘What are you on about? Do you think I enjoy playing at spies? We're going to be in the shit, and I don't want you to be mixed up in it. You're going to promise me that, whatever happens, if anyone asks you whether you have seen or heard word of Franck, the answer is no. I insist, Michel. Whoever it is. Do you hear? You know nothing. I want a promise, man to man.'

When my father extracted a man to man promise, it was a solemn matter. Anyone who failed to observe it would bring down everlasting wrath on himself and be reduced to the status of a worm without honour, despised by the whole of mankind. He looked me straight in the eye. I had no choice but to swear and go back to bed.

The following evening, my father came home earlier and we had a family dinner.

‘How long are you going to stay there?' my mother asked him.

‘It should be settled in two or three days' time. It's a one-off opportunity.'

‘We're already finding it hard to supply our customers, if we have to fit two hundred bathrooms, we won't be able to cope.'

‘We'll manage. If we want the company to expand, we have to acquire large building sites.'

My mother didn't appear convinced. She got up to clear the table and went back into the kitchen. Juliette was keen to know more.

‘What is this building site, Papa?'

‘A development for two hundred houses. They grow like mushrooms up there.'

‘And where is that?'

‘In the north of France.'

I no longer understood a thing.

‘Weren't you going to Rot—'

I was given a kick under the table.

‘It's in the suburbs of Lille, my darling.'

My mother summoned Juliette to come and bring in the salad. My father winked at me and put his finger to his lips.

At breakfast, my mother mentioned that she had not realized my father had left. I was sorry not to have been able to see Franck and Cécile, to say goodbye to them. I imagined them in the port of Rotterdam, surrounded by sailors, ships and cranes. I called in at the Club. Virgil was playing chess with Vladimir and didn't know where the others were.

In the middle of the night, the telephone rang. I struggled out of bed. When I got to the sitting room, the ringing had stopped. I picked up the receiver. There was no one there. My mother was in a bad mood at being dragged from her slumber.

‘That must be your father. He's out of his mind calling us at three in the morning. I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep. Leave it off the hook, I don't want it to ring again.'

The following evening, I got the shock of my life. Outside Henri-IV, on the opposite pavement, Cécile was waiting for me. It couldn't possibly be her. She was meant to be in Rotterdam with Franck and my father, or somewhere else, not here. Although it was late April, the weather was cold, and people were dressed as if for winter. She was wearing the flimsiest of pullovers and was standing there frozen, on the corner of rue Clovis.
I saw her before she saw me. I waved to her. From her strained expression, I could tell that nothing had gone as planned. I was shivering. I couldn't get across the road because of the traffic. She was yelling at me, but I couldn't hear a thing. I almost got myself run over trying to reach her.

‘Where's Franck? He's no longer in Cachan!'

I realized that my father hadn't been thinking of my mother when he made me swear not to say anything. He had tricked me with his bloody stupid promise.

‘I don't know.'

‘Don't lie to me, Michel! Where is he?'

A small group had gathered around us. I took off my duffel coat and put it round her shoulders.

‘Come.'

Watched by my classmates, we set off towards place de la Contrescarpe. We sat down at one of the tables outside La Chope, and I ordered two
grands crèmes
. She was shivering.

‘Franck's disappeared. Your father must know where he is.'

‘My father didn't tell me anything. When I asked him, he didn't answer me.'

‘Is your father at home?'

The waiter brought our coffees. She put her hands on the cup to warm herself. I wondered whether I should tell the truth, but which truth? Should I break my promise and compromise my father and Franck? Or lie to Cécile and lose her trust?

‘He must be at the shop.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘He may be with customers.'

‘Did you see him this morning?'

‘He leaves before we get up. He's got a lot of work on. Why these questions?'

‘Yesterday, we were due to meet. Ready to leave. At midday, in a bistro at porte de Pantin. I waited. They didn't come.'

‘Who?'

‘Your father and Franck. We were due to go to Holland then take a
boat for Argentina. I waited until four o'clock. I couldn't ring, there's no telephone. I went to Cachan. The house was shut up.'

‘Was it you who rang last night?'

‘I wanted to talk to your father. This morning, I went back. Still nobody. Where are they?'

‘They must have changed hiding place.'

‘They didn't warn me. There's something wrong.'

‘There may have been a hitch.'

‘I must speak to your father.'

‘As soon as I see him, I'll tell him to call you.'

‘If there was anything, you'd tell me?'

‘Cécile, go home.'

She took my hand and squeezed it tightly.

‘Don't be like that, Michel.'

‘Come on, I'll take you home.'

My father came back late. We were watching TV. The look on his face made my mother exclaim: ‘Looks like it went wrong!'

‘They wanted to make us slave away for nothing. I told them they shouldn't mess around with us.'

‘You're right, Paul. We've got enough of that sort of work.'

I caught up with my father in the bathroom. He sent me packing.

‘Now's not the time. Go to bed!'

During the night, I felt a hand shaking me in the darkness. I switched on the bedside light. My father was sitting on the side of the bed. Néron had joined us and had begun washing himself methodically.

‘Franck has gone.'

‘Where to?'

‘Far away.'

‘To Argentina?'

‘That's not for you to know.'

‘He's left without Cécile!'

‘It was his decision. She wanted to go with him. I personally saw nothing wrong with that. He changed his mind.'

‘Why didn't he say anything to her?'

‘It was fairly complicated as it was. I don't think he wanted to foist that kind of life on her.'

‘How can he behave like that?'

‘I wanted to talk to him over those two days, but it was impossible. He wouldn't open up.'

‘We can't leave her in the lurch. You must phone her. Explain things to her. Tell her that I knew nothing.'

My father took out a white envelope from the pocket of his dressing gown and handed it to me.

‘Give her this.'

Written on the envelope were the words: ‘For Cécile'. I recognized Franck's handwriting.

‘He spent an age writing it. He finished it sitting on the gangway. He threw the rough drafts in the water. A sailor shouted at him to come up. He slipped the sheet of paper into an envelope and walked over to me. He told me that you would deliver it to her.'

‘Don't rely on me, Papa.'

‘I'll send it to her in the post.'

I took the envelope. My father stood up.

‘He's a strange fellow, your brother. When he boarded the ship, he didn't turn round. He disappeared inside. I waited on the quayside like an idiot. The ship set sail. He didn't wave to me. I couldn't believe my eyes. I told myself: “He'll show up. It's not possible for him to set off without saying goodbye to me.” I wasn't asking him to thank me. Just a glance, a little smile and a farewell wave.'

Cécile was unpredictable. She might throw herself out of the window or swallow half her medicine chest. I was awake all night. I turned the envelope over and over in every direction. What had he said to her? If I steamed it open and resealed it, she wouldn't notice. I could soften the blow. Or else not give it to her. Tell her some tall story. That he had to escape with the police on his tail. That he had had no other option and that he would be in touch with her soon. Gain time. Give her hope.