The Incorrigible Optimists Club (34 page)

19

T
hrough the window, in the distance, Cécile caught sight of a mountain covered in forests. She turned round and looked intently at the man in the white coat sitting opposite her, behind a metal table. He was checking through a pile of papers. He was taking his time and examining the figures carefully. She searched for the slightest sign on his impassive face. He wore a satisfied expression.

‘Your tests have been excellent and I give my consent. But we must respect our laws. We're going to make an appointment in the afternoon with a colleague who will give you a second opinion. My secretary will give you his contact details. Afterwards, we'll do the operation. You'll come in the morning, having fasted, and you'll leave again in the afternoon.'

‘And what if there's a problem?'

‘We've never had any problem.'

‘The sooner the better.'

The doctor consulted his diary.

‘Friday morning, if you like.'

‘That's fine.'

‘The day before, you must take this sachet in a glass of water and these two pills.'

‘Afterwards, what should I do?'

‘Spend some time in the fresh air so that you can rest. You have slightly high blood pressure. A week at least, two would be ideal.'

Cécile walked along a path lined with chestnut trees in blossom. The setting sun lit up the lake and the mountains. She sat down on a bench and gazed at the huge jet of water that rose up, turned to spray in the breeze and vanished into the sky. Five wild swans were flying in single file. It was dark when she entered an imposing hotel surrounded by parkland. She went up to the reception desk and, when he spotted her, the receptionist passed over her key. She walked over to the lift,
hesitated, turned around and came back towards him.

‘I'd like to phone Paris. Will it take long?'

‘The connection is quick today,' the employee replied in a heavy accent.

‘Odéon 27 53.'

‘I'll put you through in a few minutes.'

Cécile entered the phone booth and lay down her things on the chair. The telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, good evening, I'd like to speak to Michel.'

‘Hang on, I'll go and get him,' a girl's voice replied.

Juliette went into her brother's bedroom.

‘There's someone on the phone for you.'

‘Who is it?'

‘I don't know. A lady.'

Michel picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?'

‘Michel? It's me. How are you?'

‘Well… it's…'

‘I'm OK.'

‘Are you at home?'

‘I'm … I'm on holiday. I needed to get away for a bit, do you understand?'

‘Your concierge told me that you'd gone to stay with your uncle.'

‘Er… yes… And I went to see a girlfriend. You must do something for me, Michel. You're the only one I can ask.'

‘Go ahead.'

‘Can you go to my place? You've got my keys?'

‘Yes.'

‘Take my thesis and send it to me. It's in my bedroom, in the right-hand drawer of the desk. The key's in the little Greek vase on the radiator. I'm going to get down to it again. I must get on. I've got some time to work on it. Is that possible?'

‘No problem.'

‘Can you send me some books? I don't want to have to buy them again.'

‘Wait, I'll get a pen.'

‘I need
Les Voyageurs de l'impériale
,
Les Beaux Quartiers, Aurélien
,
Le Crève-coeur
, the
Cantique
and
Les Yeux d'Elsa
. They're on the shelves. They're annotated. Put them in a cardboard box and send them to me by post. There's a box with my card notes. I need that too. I'll give you the address. I'll pay you back.'

‘Are you joking?'

‘Wait. Don't bother with
Les Voyageurs
and
Les Beaux Quartiers
. The others are enough. You should read them yourself.'

‘Really? May I?'

‘Take any books you want. I'll give you my address. Are you ready?'

‘I'm listening. Go on.'

‘Send the parcel to me at… poste restante, Evian.'

‘Don't you want me to send it to your friend's address?'

‘The post office is more convenient.'

‘As you wish. Which region is it?'

‘Mmm… Savoie, I think. What about you, is school OK?'

‘Cécile, I've got to talk to you.'

‘Yes?'

‘Something has happened.'

‘What?'

‘It's Pierre.'

‘Pierre? What's wrong with him?'

‘He's been… he's…'

‘He's been what?'

‘He's been… He's been killed.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘In an ambush.'

‘What?'

‘Cécile, he's dead.'

‘Stop it, Michel!'

‘I swear to you.'

‘It's not possible!'

‘It happened five days ago.'

‘It's not true! The war's over!'

She could feel her head spinning. A hot flush rose to her face and prevented her from breathing. She tried to get her breath back and collapsed in a heap.

‘Hello… Hello?… Cécile!… Answer me! What's going on? Cécile?' Michel yelled down the receiver which swung in mid-air.

20

A
t the Club, Leonid was a special case. He was the only one, along with Gregorios, to have remained a hard-line communist, a committed Soviet. He defended Khrushchev and later Brezhnev through thick and thin, and he read
Pravda
, which he bought every day from a kiosk in rue La Fayette. He hadn't fled for political reasons or because he was threatened, but for love. He had retained his opinions and he was proud to proclaim them. And those who had narrowly escaped with their lives and had been ground down by the system held his orthodoxy against him.

Imré and Vladimir were reading
Le Canard enchaîné
, as they did every Wednesday, each holding one side of the newspaper, and commenting on the headlines. They started to snigger.

‘Did you hear Jeanson's latest?' asked Vladimir merrily. ‘Why are the generals so bloody stupid?'

We came up with hypotheses that were logical, absurd, cranky and daft. We wondered whether it was directed at de Gaulle, Massu or Franco. Eventually we conceded defeat.

‘Because they're selected from among the colonels!' Vladimir continued.

Everybody burst out laughing, except Leonid.

I was the only person Leonid talked to about his life. No one else listened to him. Igor reckoned that bringing up the past made one melancholy and that it was the chief cause of his alcoholism. It was hard not to unpack one's baggage, hard to suppress the old, worn-out memories that were only too eager to stream forth at the first beat of the blues and some Côtes-du-Rhône. But Leonid had no excuse. The alcohol had no effect on him.

‘You're boring us stiff with your damned memories! Find yourself a woman, a real one, and give her a child while you can still get a hard-on,' Vladimir complained.

‘You'd have done better to think of your own children before you got out. A fat lot of good it does them now having a father like you!'

‘We agreed that we'd only talk about the present and the future,' Werner reminded them.

‘The kid wanted to know.'

‘The kid's a pain in the arse, he ought to be playing baby-foot!' moaned Gregorios.

‘He's my guest. And I talk about what I want with my friends.'

To be raised to the rank of a friend of Leonid's was a passport to respect and I felt rather pleased.

‘They're jealous. They ran away with their tails between their legs. I'm the only one to have chosen liberty for the love of a woman. No one forced me to do it.'

‘Don't you regret it?'

‘If you'd known Milène, you wouldn't have asked the question. And since I'm always thinking of her even now, every moment of my life is a happy one.'

‘When she threw you out of her flat, didn't you try to go back?'

‘I found myself on the landing, feeling like an absolute idiot. I reacted in the worst possible way. I went on down. I was convinced that she'd run after me. You can imagine just how stupid and arrogant I was. I waited for half an hour outside the building. She didn't come to look for me. When I went back up, my things were on the stairs. I've always fought to save my bacon. When my plane caught fire, when I was hit by a hail of machine-gun bullets, and when I crashed behind enemy lines, I never gave up. In that instant, I realized it was over, that there was no point in discussing, protesting, begging, or asking her forgiveness. It's all or nothing with that kind of woman. The problem is that by the time you realize it, it's too late. If a thing's broken, you can't glue it together again. And I still had a little pride left. Do you understand what I mean, Michel?'

‘I would have tried my luck.'

Leonid polished off the jug of Côtes and asked Jacky for another. He poured out two large glasses one after the other. He offered one of them to me.

‘I don't drink alcohol.'

‘What would you like?'

‘A half of really weak lemonade shandy.'

Jacky grumbled. Orders were being passed to him without being grouped together, and he was weary.

‘I'm telling you fibs. I did, in fact, try to win her back. I fought, but she was stronger than me. But when you're in love, you have no pride. I still hoped to make a fresh start. That evening, I don't know if I've told you, it was a Friday, and I found myself in the street with my belongings. I left them at the Gare d'Orsay, which was nearby. I spent my first night out of doors, opposite her flat. She switched off the light at twenty-five past one. For the past few days, she had been reading
Léon Morin, prêtre
by Béatrix Beck. She loved that book. In the morning, when she left, I rushed across the road. I was almost run over by a lorry. She got into her car. She had just been to collect it. I knocked twice on the window. She was surprised to see me. She lowered the window. ‘Milène, we must talk.'

She wound up the window, started the engine and drove off. I stood there on the pavement like a dummy. I waited for five endless days. She didn't come back. I didn't want to go away, for fear of missing her. I had no money on me. Not a penny. On the first day, the concierge at the building took pity on me and left something on his window sill for me to eat. After that, he refused to open his door to me and waved me away as though I were a dog. I didn't shave, I didn't wash. I had to beg. Because of the way I looked, people were frightened of me and avoided me. I was so hungry that I ate food from dustbins. I was filthy. I couldn't change my clothes. I had no money to pay the left luggage at the station. I was picked up by the police for vagrancy. On the second day, a guy came to see me at the police station. He was dressed in a very elegant suit. I didn't know him. The sergeant opened the door of the cell for him. He sat down beside me on the straw mattress. He had a brandy flask in the inside pocket of his overcoat. He took a sip and offered me some. He had a very slight accent. I grabbed the flask from him. No drink has ever given me so much pleasure. It did wonders for me. I could feel the alcohol trickling down my throat. I drained his flask. He offered me a
Winston. We sat there side by side smoking our fags like two old buddies. He knew everything about me. Who I was and what I had done. From his other inside pocket, he took out an enormous bundle of banknotes. He proposed a deal. He would give me this money if I promised not to see Milène again. To begin with, I didn't understand what it was he wanted. He explained the conditions to me. One hundred thousand francs, and in those days that was one hell of a lot, for me not to speak to her again. I told him that I could take this money and fail to keep my word. He replied that he trusted me to be honest. The choice was either to have a bit of money to sort myself out or not to have a bean. In either case, I had lost her. He gave me another cigarette and allowed me to think matters through while I smoked it. I made up my mind to agree to the promise, to take the cash and to come back later to plead my cause. When I told him that I agreed, he extracted the piece of paper wrapped round the notes and held in place by an elastic band. It was a brief note written in French and in English so as to be sure that I understood it. He asked me whether I believed in God. I replied that I didn't. He said to me: “It doesn't matter. You're Orthodox, you will read out this document and swear to it by raising your left hand.” I raised it. I hesitated. I found it hard to speak the words. He said nothing. He waited for me to decide. I'd never seen a man so calm and self-assured. I had my left hand in the air. I gave in. I promised. In that instant, I knew I had lost her. He told me that I had made the right decision, that he trusted me, and he gave me the money. I left the police station. And since that time, I've never seen Milène again. I sold her for a bit of cash. I didn't deserve her.'

‘What was this promise?

Leonid took out his black leather wallet and, from a flap, removed a piece of faded paper, worn at the folds, creased, stained and torn, and stuck together with adhesive tape, and handed it to me. It was difficult to decipher. The four lines, printed in red on a typewriter, were blurred:

I, Leonid Mikhaïlovitch Krivoshein, give my word never to see Milène Reynolds again, never to contact her and to respect her wishes until the end of my days. I make this solemn promise on my
honour as a serviceman who bears the two gold stars of Hero of the Soviet Union. Signed in Paris, Thursday 25th of June 1953.

He showed me the watch on his right wrist and stroked the glass.

‘I look at it a hundred times a day. It hasn't lost a second against the speaking clock. Isn't life strange? And all because of those bloody Rosenbergs. If their death sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment, we'd still be together.'

‘Leonid, they were innocent!'

‘They were criminals! They knew what they were risking. We don't have the right to betray our country. They don't convict innocent people in the United States. It was inevitable. What happened, however, was not their fault, it was mine. There are some people here who think that I regret having lost my job and wasted my life for a short-lived affair. As I've told you, I don't regret a thing. What I experienced with her over 794 days was so unusual and so intense that I've had my lifetime's satisfaction. If I had to go through it again, I'd do so without hesitation. I'm not one to complain about my misfortune. I was lucky enough to meet Igor – without him I'd be a tramp – and to make a few friends, and friends are for life. If ever you come across a woman by the side of the road, and she waves at you to ask for help, whatever you do, don't stop. Changing a wheel is a mechanic's job. Those fellows are tough. They don't mix work with feelings. If I had respected the good old Marxist principles about the division of labour, I wouldn't be where I am now. They stuff our minds with useless principles such as politeness and gallantry and they don't teach us the basic rule: beware of women who smile, for they are concealing ulterior motives. It's when a woman doesn't smile that she's at her most natural. If she falls in the water and cries for help, throw her a lifebelt and go on your way. These are the basic rules that a father should pass to his son in order to protect him from the perils of life. Mine never warned me.'

‘There's one thing I don't understand, Leonid. How can you love a woman and not fight to be with her?'

‘I gave my word. It's my fate, my own way of being faithful to her. You don't need to be loved in order to love. For the past nine years, on 5 April
each year, she has received a bunch of mimosa. An anonymous bunch. She knows it's from me. It would be entirely up to her if she wanted to see me again. All she would have to do is go to the florist, who would give her my address. She doesn't want to. I respect my promise. Maybe she'll change her mind one day.'

‘You've been apart for ten years. You can't possibly go on believing that she might.'

‘I would have preferred to put it behind me. But you don't decide whether to love or forget. The thought never leaves you. I live with her during the day, and at night, when I wake up, I think of her. I'm as much in love as I was on the first day. You can grow tired of a woman and want someone else. That's not love, it's desire. Because love, real love, is intellectual. It's in the mind that it takes place, and there are days when I tell myself that it would have been better if I'd forgotten her. Jacky, give me a 102.'

Whether it was for the hundreds of games of chess of which he had memorized every move and which made him a much-feared player, or for his affair with Milène every detail of which remained vivid to him, Leonid was admired and envied for his exceptional memory, and yet this was the very cause of his unhappiness. It would have been better for him to have been like the rest of us and to have remembered just two or three games, if that, and to have retained only the sunnier moments of his love life. We always fear losing our memory, yet it's the source of our troubles. Happy people forget. This regrettable story explains why Leonid was the only Paris taxi driver who refused to take passengers to Orly airport, even though it was a lucrative fare. Ten years later, he still doggedly refused. As though he feared an unpleasant encounter there.