The Incorrigible Optimists Club (36 page)

‘These are Pierre's personal belongings. I've just received them.'

She put her hand in the box and brought out a batch of letters. With a nervous gesture, she threw them down.

‘Do you want to read them?'

I stared in bewilderment at the letters scattered over the table.

‘What's wrong?'

‘When I asked you whether you had warned Pierre that I was giving up my thesis, you swore to me that you hadn't written to him.'

‘It's true.'

‘It was your fucking brother who wrote to him! You talked to him about it before he joined up!'

She took out an envelope from inside a notebook. I recognized Franck's handwriting.

‘Would you like me to read it to you? It's touchingly thoughtful.'

‘Wait, I'll explain.'

‘So you've got an explanation as well!'

She stood up and grabbed a large bundle of envelopes, which she threw at my face. I caught it.

‘You were the only person I trusted and you've betrayed me. You! You lied to me. You Marinis, you're all the same!'

‘It's not true.'

‘You had no right!'

‘It's just that—'

‘Get the hell out!'

‘I didn't want to—'

‘Get out! I never want to see you again!'

I left. I waited on the landing for her to call me back. I shut the door behind me. It was finished. I couldn't get over it.

Over the next few days, I hoped I would bump into her so that we could talk. I hung around the Luxembourg and the quai des Grands-Augustins,
but I didn't see her. Judging by results, lying is totally pointless. All you get is a hell of a lot of trouble. If I had broken that bloody man to man promise, my father would not have held it against me. My mother might have understood that my father had no choice other than to help his son and she would have forgiven him. If I had told her the truth, Cécile would have kept her trust in me. I felt like a tightrope walker looking for something to hang on to before he falls and discovers the void beneath his feet.

After several months in hospital, Grandmother Jeanne died in her sleep. Grandfather Enzo was asleep in the armchair beside her and was not aware of anything. When my father received the phone call telling him the news, he was getting ready to go to work. He collapsed in a heap on the chair and began to weep. He had not been to see his parents since the end of August. He asked me whether I wanted to go to the funeral with him. My mother answered for me, saying that it was the week of the exams and that I couldn't miss them. She advised him to go with Baptiste. My father refused to call his brother.

‘He's a railwayman. He'll go by train.'

He set off for Lens immediately. I phoned my grandfather. There was no reply. I wrote to say I was sorry I couldn't be with him and that I was thinking a lot about him and Grandmother Jeanne. Juliette signed the letter.

My father returned ten days later. I asked him how Grandfather Enzo was.

‘I don't know. I hope he's not losing his marbles.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘He's got some funny ideas.'

He didn't want to tell me what they were.

It was only at the Club that I found some respite. Thursday 22 November was a very special day: Kessel was elected to the Académie Française. It's not every day that a friend becomes an academician. We knew he was a candidate, but there had been such opposition to this son of multiethnic Jewish émigrés that we were sure Brion would be elected instead.

We were gathered around the radio, and when the news came on and the reporter announced his election, we exploded with joy. Before he arrived, the champagne corks were popping. Even Jacky and old father Marcusot stood their rounds. When he arrived, there was hysteria. Everyone congratulated him and wanted to embrace him. Sartre joined us and stood a bottle. Kessel clinked glasses with each one of us.

‘We were afraid that the hatred of certain academicians would prevent you from being elected,' Igor said to him.

‘You can always achieve more than you think,' Kessel replied with his huge grin.

It was late. Reluctantly, I had to go home. I was told that the party had continued until dawn and that Marcusot had ordered a new set of glassware. By common consent, it was the greatest party ever in the history of the Balto.

Every passing day made Cécile's absence harder to bear. Leonid tried to persuade me that you had to hope, force the hand of destiny, and wait for the right moment.

‘You've got to be tenacious,' he began. ‘She won't be the first woman to change her mind.'

‘I'm sorry to contradict you,' Igor interrupted. ‘But there's no point in deluding yourself. When it's important, they don't change their minds.'

‘That's not true,' yelled Leonid.

They embarked on an endless and heated discussion. Without realizing it, they were speaking in Russian. Igor was the first to become aware of it and he reverted to French.

‘We're never going to agree. We don't know whether it's better to wait and hope, or to resign oneself and give up.'

‘Tomorrow will be better. I'm sorry to have to point this out, Igor Emilievitch, but you are negative. Me, I'm an optimist.'

‘I'm an optimist too,' Igor replied. ‘The worst is ahead of us. Let's rejoice in what we have.'

JANUARY–SEPTEMBER 1963

1

A
t the Club, there was one man who kept to himself, separate from everyone else. He never spoke to anyone. He stood watching the others playing chess without saying anything. Everyone avoided him. On several occasions, I asked who he was, but I just got the reply ‘I don't know' or ‘Don't concern yourself.'

He would turn up occasionally, rather like Lognon. He appeared without anyone realizing, and disappeared for several weeks without anyone noticing. He was slim, almost thin, his face was emaciated and bore a three-day growth of beard, he had dark wavy hair, a bulging forehead, protruding cheekbones, dark brown eyes sunk deep in their sockets, a slender nose and a dimpled chin. He chain-smoked. Summer and winter, he wore a shabby grey overcoat that was too big for him. You could glimpse the cuffs of his stained, threadbare nylon shirt. With his baggy trousers and his worn shoes, you could have mistaken him for a tramp. Jacky, so attentive to orders and refills, didn't ask whether he wanted a drink. Leonid never missed the opportunity to jostle his shoulder whenever he walked past him. The man didn't respond, neither did he avoid him. At the party celebrating Kessel's election, I was witness to an incident that went otherwise unnoticed.

The man was standing apart from the group. Kessel saw him, picked up a glass, filled it with champagne and went over to him. Leonid noticed this and, with a nod of the chin, pointed it out to Igor who approached Kessel at the very moment he was handing the glass to the man. Igor put his hand on Kessel's arm and kept it there. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Neither of them said a word to each other. Kessel stopped what he was doing, placed the glass on the table and turned around. With a clumsy movement, Igor brushed against the glass. It fell to the floor and shattered. The man stepped back, cast his gaze over the jolly gathering that was rejecting him, and disappeared.

*

I missed Cécile. In early January, I told myself it was time for us to get back together again, time for me to be forgiven. I phoned her. A voice replied that the number I was calling had changed and that I should consult the directory or the information centre. I went round to her place, but there was nobody there. Her concierge had not seen her for two months. No post arrived for her any more. Last January, we had wished each other a happy new year and it had been the worst one in our lives. Even if you know there's no point, that's what wishes are for – to wipe away the past. But perhaps compared to what awaited us, the year that had just passed would come to seem happy to us.

Every day, I would go and sit by the Médicis fountain. There is nothing more idiotic than these rituals we impose on ourselves, as though they could keep misfortune at bay. I was convinced that sooner or later this would be the place where I would find Cécile again. It was merely a question of being patient. If she had left Paris, sooner or later she would return and would come past this spot. I brought a book and would read beside the pond. I took a photo from time to time. I used to pick out a detail and wait for the light to lend the statues an unusual aspect. Nicolas had suggested that I change my subject matter, but for me there was no shortage of material in the Luxembourg. Over five years, I had taken hundreds of photographs of this fountain and its surroundings. Dreamers, strollers, readers sitting on benches, students, retired people, gardeners and policemen. And Acis and Galatea lying beneath the rock. There was an aura of inexplicable and fascinating mystery about it, and until I understood its meaning, I had no wish to do anything different.

I recognized him from his round shoulders and his weary gait. He stopped by a rubbish bin, picked out a newspaper, sat down on a chair and began to read
France-Soir
, beginning with the back page, the one with the comic strips. Then he stuffed it into his pocket and sat down facing the pale January sunshine. With his legs outstretched, he appeared to be asleep. An attendant came up, holding her book of tickets, and tapped him on the shoulder. He woke with a start, got to his feet and set off grumbling in the direction of the fountain, without paying her. When he
drew level with me, he stopped. I didn't know whether he was pretending not to recognize me or whether he was trying to recollect where he had seen me before.

‘I noticed you at the Club,' I ventured.

‘Your face is familiar. Are you a regular at that old folks' home?'

‘I'm learning to play chess.'

‘You should be having fun with people of your own age. Anyway, they don't know how to play.'

‘Leonid's a champion. People come from all over Paris to take him on. He never loses. Even against students from the Polytechnique.'

‘Do you know Leonid?'

‘I know them all.'

‘My congratulations. The place was beginning to smell of stale herrings. A bit of new blood would do them no harm. May I?'

He didn't wait for me to reply before sitting down on a nearby chair, stretching out his legs on another one, and continuing his siesta. A ray of sunshine lit up his bearded face. He spoke impeccable French. This distinguished him from the other members of the Club, who offered a full array of Central and Eastern European accents. I was struck by the elegance and whiteness of his hands. He folded them over his threadbare overcoat. The attendant came up. He didn't stir. I paid for the three chairs.

‘You shouldn't have,' he said without opening his eyes.

‘You can't get out of it. Or else you have to sit on a bench.'

‘And what's more, he's law-abiding. The sort of people you mix with have rubbed off on you. It's outrageous to have to pay for the right to sit down in a park, don't you think?'

‘Yes.'

‘With people like you around, they don't have to worry. Me, I refuse. One day, they'll make you pay for the air that you breathe.'

He hadn't opened an eyelid. His breathing was calm and regular. I started to read again and paid him no further attention.

‘What are you reading?' he asked, his eyes still closed.

I held up the cover so as to make him sit up.

‘
Témoin parmi les hommes
. Happy reading.'

‘And inscribed by Kessel. Not to me. To one of my friends.'

‘He gave me a copy too.'

‘I was there when they celebrated his election.'

‘I'm glad for him. He deserved it. It's a great honour.'

‘Igor prevented him from giving you a glass of champagne.'

‘I don't remember.'

He sat up and shrugged his shoulders. He took out a pack of Gauloises from his coat pocket, offered me a cigarette that I refused, and lit one for himself.

‘They don't seem to like you.'

‘I wasn't aware of it.'

‘Why don't they like you?… They don't talk to you. They ignore you. Leonid jostles you. Igor stops you clinking glasses and Kessel doesn't say a word.'

‘To be a member of a club, you have to pay a subscription. I didn't want to subscribe. I'm a bit stingy.'

‘There's no subscription in this club.'

‘I find it hard to make friends.'

‘Nobody forces you to go there.'

‘The days are long. I call in when it's raining. I'm still slightly hopeful. But I must have a face that puts them off. Do I frighten you?'

‘No.'

‘You believe me, at least?'

‘I know Igor. He wouldn't do anything without a reason. Neither would Leonid.'

‘At your age, you ought to know the reasons why men quarrel. For money: we're all broke. I don't owe them anything. For a woman: I've given up on that score. Or for an idea, and there we're all in the same boat.'

‘You're the only one they treat like that.'

‘The truth is simple. When I enter a room, people stop talking. When I walk in, they disperse.'

‘Are you from the police?'

‘Look at me. Do I look like a cop? Be honest, do I make you feel uneasy?'

‘No.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Marini. Michel Marini.'

‘I'm glad to have made your acquaintance, young man.'

He stood up and walked away. I had forgotten to ask him his name.

2

‘
L
a donna è mobile
' was back again. My father no longer went to work. He spent his time on the sitting room sofa listening to his favourite tune. He switched the gramophone arm to ‘repeat' and played it continuously. He knew the words by heart and sang softly to himself, barely audible. He didn't disturb anyone, but we weren't used to seeing him at home during the week. Sometimes he left without anyone noticing, leaving the turntable spinning. He spent his afternoons in the little café on rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques playing tarot with his pals. I would go and find him there and sit down beside him. Occasionally, he would ask my opinion: ‘What shall I play: a
petite
, a
pousse
or a
garde
?'

He was a good player, cunning and teasing. When he asked me the question, it was just to fool his opponents. They played for drinks. Some of them weren't able to afford it and he paid for the round.

‘Pity we're not playing one franc per point, I'd have made some dosh today.'

I returned home as usual before seven o'clock. He came back after dinner, rummaged around in the fridge and put on his record without paying any attention to us. This little game went on for four months. The disappearance of the Treasury bonds had had unexpected consequences, but he refused to justify himself. My mother wouldn't accept this. On two occasions, she went back on the offensive and cross-questioned me. Trapped by the promise I had made to my father, I stood my ground. She was not convinced by my reply. The presence of the Delaunays from Algeria did not make communication any easier. Perhaps if my parents had been on their own, they might have been able to overcome this ordeal and stand up for themselves. He would have had the courage to reveal the truth and she would have been able to accept it. Louise gave bad advice, urging my mother to stand firm and pretend to be shocked and upset. She put her own interests first, and advised my mother not to forgive
and to discover the truth at all costs. My father had made the mistake of giving ground to them and returning to Paris over the summer holidays. I overheard their conversations during damp walks along the coastal path: ‘After all you have done for him it's outrageous that he behaves like that behind your back. It's theft. He's treating you like an imbecile. I wouldn't have allowed my husband to do something like that to me. Your brother's a man of stronger calibre. He's been educated. Who's to know whether he's not keeping someone. Five million, it's a huge sum. And what if he did it again?'

At the beginning of October, my mother had announced that her brother would work with her in the business. Maurice had been appointed manager of the shop. My father had no say in the matter. To begin with, the division of duties was clear-cut. Maurice would look after the running of the business and the administration with my mother, who wanted to step back a little. My father would continue to manage the commercial department. His reaction was immediate: he switched off completely. Instead of struggling to find new customers, he waited for them to get in touch with him. Three months went by before they realized that the order book was looking empty. My father calmed them down: ‘It's because of the slump.'

We lived in a state of chaos. Maria had left the family in the lurch. In the rush of her departure, it was hard to understand who had died: her father or her brother. She had announced one morning that she was going to Spain for the funeral and had jumped on the bus for Valencia. We thought she would come back after a week, but she didn't turn up. We made calculations about the length of mourning in Spain, which was longer than in France, where you started work the day after the funeral. My mother didn't have her contact details. She made enquiries among other Spanish cleaning ladies in the neighbourhood. In actual fact, Maria had had enough of the Delaunays from Algeria and had invented an excuse to get away. The apartment was in a pitiful condition. The dishes accumulated, and neither broom nor cleaning cloth, nor feather duster, was used. The dirty clothes piled up. My father blamed Louise, who never lifted a finger.

‘My health is delicate. After all the hardships we've had to endure, I don't intend becoming your skivvy!'

The climax came when my mother tried to do the laundry using the washing machine bought at the Ideal Home Exhibition. Maria was the only one who knew how to use it, and the kitchen and the neighbour's flat below were flooded. Maurice, realizing that the atmosphere was becoming highly charged, cleared the table and did the washing-up. He suggested that my father might help him. My father sent him packing. ‘The last time I washed up other people's plates was in the German prison camp. Unless the war's started again without anyone telling me, you won't see me with a washing-up brush in a hurry.'

One particular incident triggered hostilities. Néron had disappeared. We looked for him everywhere: under the beds, in the cupboards where he sometimes hid, among the furniture, in drawers, inside the washing machine and the fridge. We turned the place upside down, to no avail. We worked out that he must have managed to slip out through the front door. We asked the neighbours, but no one had seen him. It was a real mystery. Juliette and I searched the cellars, the courtyard and the service stairs. No tomcat. We asked old Bardon, the concierge, who revealed the truth of what had happened. In the morning, he had seen the cousins leave the building, carrying Néron. They swore that he was mistaken, that he was lying, and that they loved all animals, especially cats. But the harm had been done. We scribbled out fifty or so little notices which we pinned up all over the neighbourhood. Juliette became hysterical and she began to hate the Delaunays and to make their lives impossible.

In early December, they found a flat in Daumesnil in the remotest part of the twelfth arrondissement, an unfamiliar district, which we had been through only once, when we went to the zoo at Vincennes. They moved in without any help from us. Juliette and I refused to go to the house-warming party. My mother went on her own.

After their departure, we hoped that family life would return to normal, but nothing was the same any more. At dinner times there was a deathly silence. Our parents didn't open their mouths. They no longer asked us what we had done at school, so we switched on the television.
Maria didn't come back. My mother started to do the housework, from dawn till dusk, and from floor to ceiling. Louise came to have tea with her and watched her polishing, scrubbing, sweeping and ironing. My mother wore her apron all day long. She didn't want to go out any more and she no longer wished to go with Louise to the shops. At the beginning of the year, Maurice went on the offensive. He rejected signed orders on the grounds that they were not cost-effective. My father did not appreciate his work being called into question. My mother sided with her brother: we did not have enough customers to waste time on those who brought in no money. Maurice asked my father to organize a daily ‘debriefing' on his market expectations and to put in a ‘report' on his activities.

‘A what?'

My father told him to get lost. He stopped working.

‘In a firm, it's the person who brings in the cheques who's the boss.'

He listened to
Rigoletto
. He bought himself
La Traviata
, with la Callas, and played it over and over again. He played tarot, believing it was just a matter of time before they would come to beg him on bended knee to return. But Maurice came up with a riposte. He hired three sales reps, who were paid on commission. He didn't ask my father for his opinion. Business took off without him. When I think about it, I can see he didn't have much luck with his sons. At a time when he could have done with a helping hand, I was no support to him. Feeling obsessively gloomy about Cécile's absence, I didn't notice what was happening and I did nothing to help him. We never spoke about it.

Amid this wreckage, there was one piece of good news. A woman phoned. She had seen one of our notices. Néron had been found. He had taken shelter with a hairdresser in Jussieu. He had lost two or three kilos. He showed no joy at seeing us again, nor any gratitude. He spent his time by the front door, hoping to escape each time it was opened. Shortly afterwards, Maria came back from Spain and started work again.