The Incorrigible Optimists Club (37 page)

3

G
etting my photographs developed was costing me a small fortune. I couldn't get away from the standard, skimpy format. For anything over 9 x 11 cm, the prices were prohibitive, but it wasn't a good time to ask for a rise in pocket money. I confined myself to one roll of film per month. Nicolas's father recommended a shop where the current prices were attractive, especially for large formats. Wedged between two shops selling religious knick-knacks in rue Saint-Sulpice, Fotorama did not just sell equipment. The two windows displayed a couple of dozen large prints that were of remarkable quality. Many passers-by stopped to admire them. The window on the right was set aside for traditional commissions: weddings, first communions, individual or group portraits. They avoided looking clichéd thanks to the use of flattering lighting, which disguised facial blemishes but still allowed character to show. In the left-hand window were black and white photographs of country landscapes in the snow, trees covered in white, and ice-covered telegraph posts and wires. I was examining another set of photographs, taken in the desert, showing Touaregs with furrowed faces, when the window panel opened. A technician in a white coat was placing a print of an encampment at dusk on a small easel. With his rounded shoulders and his weary manner, I recognized the man from the Club whom I had talked to in the Luxembourg a fortnight ago. I stood aside; he didn't see me. He laid out the photographs in a different order, alternating the brighter and the darker prints. I set off with my film in my pocket. When I was opposite the Sénat, I realized that I had been wrong to walk away. It was a good opportunity to get to know him. I retraced my steps. I went into the shop. A man in a suit was serving a customer and explaining to him how to charge his camera. I admired the pictures displayed on the walls while I waited for him to finish.

‘May I help you?'

I lay my film down on the counter.

‘What format would you like them? And glossy or matt?'

‘May I see your technician, please?'

‘Who are you talking about?'

‘I want to see the person who was putting the photographs in the window.'

‘I don't know who you mean.'

‘He was here a quarter of an hour ago. He was wearing a white coat.'

‘I'm the only person who serves in this shop.'

‘I saw him, I can assure you.'

‘You must be mistaken, young man.'

He gave me back the film. Puzzled, I left the shop and waited a little further away, but I didn't see anyone come out. Adamant though he may have been, I knew I was not mistaken.

It had been three or four months since we had seen him. One Sunday afternoon, Leonid and Tomasz Zagielovski were involved in a ferocious game. There were half a dozen of us kibitzing round the table. Leonid was playing black and he was in danger. He had lost a bishop and a knight. Tomasz was making his moves and Leonid was not responding. Igor and Imré exchanged questioning glances. We noticed Lognon at the same moment. He was standing behind us, his hands behind his back.

‘What's Big Ears doing here?' moaned Gregorios.

‘How are you, Monsieur Petroulas? I congratulate you on your last speech. It gave much pleasure in high places. You raise the general tone.'

‘Why do you come here? You're wasting your time with us. Haven't you a wife and children to spend Sunday with?'

‘If you didn't see me, you'd forget about me and you'd get bored. Nice play, Monsieur Zagielovski. You're going to win.'

‘He's check-mate in three moves,' Leonid muttered.

‘It's not possible!' said Tomasz.

‘Three moves. Whatever you do.'

We stared at the chessboard. Each of us tried to work out how it was possible. There were about twenty pieces on the board. After a few minutes' consideration, it was agreed all round that it was impossible.

‘You'll never get anywhere,' Leonid said. ‘You're just a gang of smalltime players from the suburbs.'

‘You're bragging,' Lognon replied.

‘Are you betting?'

‘You know we don't play for money here,' said Igor.

‘That's a rule for Club members. He's not one of them, as far as I know? If you're so sure of yourself, Monsieur Lognon, how much are you willing to stake?'

‘I'm going to teach you a lesson. You're a conceited fellow, Monsieur Krivoshein.'

He took out his wallet and drew out three hundred and thirty francs in notes, which he counted and placed under a glass.

‘I'm prepared to pay one hundred francs more if you want. On condition that you win in three moves.'

‘Bet taken.'

Leonid picked up the beer-mat beneath his glass and scribbled three lines on the back of it.

‘I suggest that Michel takes my place. He will play the three moves that I've just jotted down. Is that agreeable, Monsieur Lognon?'

‘It's fair.'

He stood up and handed me the mat. I sat down in his seat, opposite Tomasz.

‘Go on,' said Tomasz.

I followed Leonid's written instructions. Tomasz responded. I carried out my moves, took his rook and saw his face become anxious. He placed his chin on his fists and reflected for so long that he drew a comment from Gregorios: ‘Are you determined to send us to sleep, or something?'

He was trapped. He couldn't take my knight. His bishop was blocking it. He moved a pawn. I advanced my queen as Leonid had foreseen.

‘Check and mate!'

A murmur ran through the group. They congratulated Leonid, who feigned indifference.

‘Thank you, my friends. It wasn't so difficult. You should have spotted it.'

He took the money and fingered each banknote with conspicuous pleasure.

‘I'm glad you came, Monsieur Lognon. It's always pleasant to have good players watching one. You should come more often.'

‘I admit it was well played,' said the policeman, his jaws clenched.

‘You owe me a hundred francs. Don't forget to bring the money. If I'm not here, you can leave it with Jacky. We'll drink to your health. Don't go. And a bottle of champagne, courtesy of the Préfecture.'

‘We've got Cristal-Roederer, if you'd like. Special vintage,' said Jacky.

‘If it's special, bring us two. It'll save you the journey. And no paper cups!'

Jacky disappeared. I followed him with my eyes and noticed the man standing a little way away, by the door. He smiled at me and gave a little wave. He stood aside when Jacky brought the bottles of champagne. Leonid poured some for everyone, including Lognon, but not for him. They drank toasts to one another, wished each other good health, drained their glasses and paid no attention to him. It was as though no one saw him. I clinked glasses with Igor and Imré. I turned round. In a flash, he had vanished. Leonid tapped me on the back.

‘I'd like to give you a present, Michel. What would give you pleasure? Thanks to our friend Lognon, I've got some money, make the most of it. Hurry up.'

‘Can we have a game one evening?'

‘You're asking a lot.'

‘It won't cost you anything.'

‘Playing against a bad player is a drag. Come on, sit yourself down and, for once, play well.'

‘Not this evening. My head's in a whirl. I must go home. We can do it another time.'

I left the Balto, leaving them to drink Lognon's health. Outside, I searched for the man, but couldn't see him. When I reached the Port-Royal crossroads, there he was, sitting on a bench. I went up to him.

‘Was it you who created panic at the shop?' he asked me.

‘Why did he say you weren't there?'

‘Because I'm not supposed to be there. I work there occasionally. I help out. It's off the record. Yesterday, you brought the boss out in a cold sweat. Don't do it again. I need that job.'

‘You're not registered, is that it?'

‘One can't hide anything from you.'

He shrugged his shoulders in a resigned way. With his creased, cat-like eyes, he looked as though he was smiling.

I sat down on the bench with him. He took out a pack of Gauloises and offered me one.

‘I don't smoke, thanks. Are you… are you a foreigner?'

He nodded.

‘One wouldn't think so. You haven't any accent.'

‘I learnt when I was young. With a Frenchman. When there are cops around, I put on a Vosges accent.'

‘Haven't you any papers?'

‘I'm drowning in papers, but they're not the right ones.'

‘Don't you have political asylum?'

‘I filled in a form a long time ago. They lost it. I've let the matter drop.'

‘What's your name?'

He smoked his cigarette down to the filter, in no rush, threw it to the ground and trampled on it.

‘My name's Sacha,' he said absent-mindedly, staring at his dusty shoes.

‘Why do the others cold-shoulder you?'

‘I've told you, I don't know. I've committed no offence. Nothing objectionable. You'd better ask them that question.'

‘I did ask Igor again. He didn't reply.'

‘They haven't understood that here we're free men in a free country. Everyone has the right to do as he pleases and go where he wants. Give me your film. I'll get it developed for you – for free. I'll bring the photos back to you. I know where to find you. You're often at the Médicis fountain, I believe?'

I handed him the film. He screwed up his face as he took it.

‘What do you use?'

‘A Kodak Brownie.'

‘It's not ideal.'

‘It's for family photos.'

‘I won't promise anything.'

He pointed with his chin. I followed his gaze. On the other side of the avenue, Lognon was gesticulating, followed by Tomasz Zagielovski, who seemed rather frantic.

‘He must be furious to have lost so much money,' I said to Sacha. ‘Tomasz must feel annoyed to have been the cause.'

‘That's too bad for them. When you don't know how to play chess, you learn it.'

‘It wasn't obvious. No one would have thought Leonid was going to turn it around. He's a champion.'

‘Tartacover against Bernstein, Paris competition, 1937. Leonid knows his classic matches.'

‘So do you.'

‘He has the selective memory that survivors have. What we find inconvenient or doesn't interest us, we forget. We retain what's useful to us, otherwise we have no hope of surviving.'

They crossed the road, Lognon grumbling and Tomasz apologizing. They disappeared down boulevard Saint-Michel.

‘It's strange that that guy's got big ears,' Sacha observed. ‘It's a tell-tale sign, isn't it?'

He lit a Gauloise and amused himself by blowing smoke rings.

4

W
hen I came back from school, Grandfather Enzo was sitting in the drawing room in an armchair, with a suitcase on either side of him and a bag wrapped in string. Maria had made him a café au lait and given him some home-made shortbread. He was smoking his pipe while he waited for us. He hadn't warned us of his arrival and we were surprised to see him. He had come to Paris for three or four days to settle a few things. My father insisted that he sleep at our house. My mother didn't want this. We could hear them discussing the matter in the kitchen without understanding what they were saying. Eventually, she agreed. They offered him Franck's bedroom.

Over dinner, he revealed the reason why he had come to Paris. We were stunned. He had decided to leave France and return to Italy. Because of grandmother's illness, he had delayed this project that had been on his mind for a long time. His father came originally from Fontanellato, a village near Parma. He hadn't had any difficulty tracing the members of the family who had stayed behind when his father and two younger brothers had emigrated to France in search of work. His cousin, the son of the eldest of the Marinis, had taken over the family farm. He had been in touch with him and Ricardo Marini had invited him to come back home, where his bedroom and his family awaited him.

‘Are you mad? You're out of your mind!' my father exclaimed.

‘Paul, there's nothing extraordinary about it.'

‘You've always told us that France was our country.'

‘I miss Italy.'

‘If you'd ever gone there at least, even if it was just once, during the holidays, I would understand. You've never set foot there. All of a sudden, you feel the lure of the homeland, is that it?'

‘Your mother and I talked about it. She wanted us to go to Venice or Rome but we weren't able to. I started to learn Italian. I can cope quite well, I just need practice.'

‘How will I manage when you're down there? Will you tell me that?'

‘Manage what?'

‘Looking after you!'

‘Your mother and I didn't see you very often in Lens.'

‘You're getting to an age when you may need help.'

‘I'm not relying on you. Nor on your brother. You have your own lives. If you want to see me, it's not as if I'm going to Australia.'

‘What does the cousin do?'

‘He's retired. His children look after the farm. They grow tomatoes. And they keep pigs.'

‘Do they make Parma ham?' Juliette asked.

Grandfather Enzo moved into Franck's bedroom. He didn't ask any questions.

The following day, when he woke up, I was having my breakfast. My father was about to leave. Grandfather joined us in the kitchen.

‘You leave early for work.'

‘You have to get on with life.'

‘I'm going to see your brother today.'

‘Good.'

‘You're wrong to be like that with him. He's had bad luck. You have to understand him.'

‘I have problems too, Papa.'

‘Can I help you, Paul?'

‘If there was a solution, I'd know what it was.'

‘We need to see each other before I go. On our own.'

‘If you leave, we won't see one another again.'

‘In the seven years since I've retired, I've been coming to Paris once a month. I came with your mother and she used to go and see your brother. The only member of the family I saw was Michel. We would go to the Louvre together. You never had the time.'

‘I work, Papa. I've got a business to run. And museums bore me.'

‘I don't blame you for anything. I want to make the most of the time left to me. I want to visit Italy.'

‘Why?'

‘What do you expect me to do? Go to the park, watch telly, play pétanque? Life's dull here. I need light. Now I want to see in reality what I've admired in books. In my retirement, I have the opportunity to live as I please. To take my time. I'm fortunate to be in good health. Cousin Ricardo is a decent man. The farm at Fontanellato is large. You can come to see me whenever you want. During the holidays, anyway.'

‘Who knows, I may come earlier.'

My father left.

‘He's got a huge amount of work,' I said in order to excuse him. ‘I'm going to get your breakfast ready.'

‘Are you sure you have time?'

‘I don't have any lessons this afternoon and, if you like, we can go to the Louvre.'

‘Before I leave, there's something I'd like to see again.'

On the front of the building at 4 rue Marie-Rose, not far from the Porte d'Orléans, there was a marble plaque: ‘Here, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, known as Lenin, lived from July 1909 to June 1912.' We made our way into a middle-class property that smelled strongly of polish. He went ahead of me. We climbed up two floors. He rang a bell. We heard a bolt and a chain being removed. An elderly man with a huge paunch appeared.

‘Good morning, comrade,' he said as he shook grandfather's hand. ‘Don't make a noise. The neighbours don't care for visitors.'

He closed the door carefully, went and sat down on a chair by the window, and began to read his book again as though we were not there. The apartment was gloomy and old-fashioned. I was expecting my grandfather to show me round, but he was standing silent and motionless in front of a gilt mirror on which some old photographs and yellowing papers had been stuck, and he seemed to be trying to decipher them. In the corridor, there was a dusty red flag and two glass cases filled with objects, lit by a bulb whose glow was so feeble that we could scarcely see a thing. At the end of the corridor, Lenin's bedroom was decorated with peeling, crinkled floral-patterned wallpaper. A game of chess lay on the
bed. Above it hung a framed photograph of Karl Marx. On the wooden desk was a pencil box, some sheets of paper, some envelopes addressed to him and an oil lamp. The bookcase was stacked with ancient volumes. I drew closer to see what he read. The books were dummies and contained only blank paper. The bedroom in which Lenin's wife, Krupskaya, slept, with its single bed, was austere and smelt of mildew. The walls were covered in photographs and facsimiles of letters. In a dark corner were two children's beds. In the kitchen overlooking the courtyard was a stove with a cast-iron pot on top of it. My grandfather came over to me.

‘Michel, we're going.'

We were on the point of leaving when the old man asked us: ‘Would you like to sign the visitor's book? We had Monsieur Chou En-lai here last month.'

My grandfather shook his head.

‘Don't make a noise on the stairs,' the caretaker said as he closed the door.

Once outside, after being in this stale-smelling building, trapped in time, we felt we were breathing pure air. Grandfather walked along avenue du Général-Leclerc at quite a pace. I had a hard time keeping up with him. His eyes were red.

‘All right? What's the matter?'

He stopped.

‘I shouldn't have gone back there.'

At the junction with rue d'Alésia, he hurried into a smoky café where they were betting on the races. He ordered a coffee and a
calva
, and I had a half of beer. The barman placed our orders on the counter. Grandfather put three lumps of sugar in his coffee and stirred it slowly.

‘What happened with Franck?'

I couldn't not talk to him about it. In the hubbub, I outlined the basic details. He listened without looking at me and knocked back his glass of
calva
.

‘Is he well at least?'

‘I don't know. I tell myself that if there'd been a problem, we would have known about it.'

‘Where is he?'

‘Papa didn't want to tell me anything.'

‘How did it go down at home?'

‘Mama hasn't forgiven him for the Treasury bonds business. Papa is trapped. He knows that Mama will never forgive Franck for what he did, or forgive Papa for having helped him. And it's not much fun with Maurice.'

‘Keep me informed with news of the family, write to me, my boy. The address is Enzo Marini, care of Ricardo Marini at Fontanellato, Emilia-Romagna. Will you remember?'

‘We're not far from the chess club. Do you remember? I told you about it. Would you like to go there?'

‘I don't feel like it.'

‘Another day.'

‘I'm going away, Michel. The day after tomorrow.'

‘You could stay. You don't have to go. We could play chess together.'

‘Look at this foul weather. Down there, it's sunny. You come and see me in Italy and we'll play chess all day long. You'd better keep on improving. I'll take you to Florence and to Siena. You'll see, it's the most beautiful country in the world.'

My father, Juliette and I accompanied him to the Gare de Lyon. We arrived there one hour early. He wasn't a railwayman for nothing! He examined the locomotive with a critical eye. He knew the journey, the timetable and the changes of train. He had planned to stop off for a week in Milan to see the city.

‘It costs an arm and a leg!' he remarked to the clerk behind the counter.

‘You get a reduction on the French rail network. In Italy, you pay the full whack.'

‘I'm a former railwayman.'

‘The Italians couldn't care less.'

‘You see, children,' he said in a fit of pique, ‘there's no international solidarity. It's every man for himself. How are we expected to manage?'

My father put his suitcases on the rack and settled him into his compartment. We waited on the platform for him to appear at the window,
blow us kisses and wave us goodbye, but the train moved off and disappeared without our seeing him. My father was furious.

‘What the hell is he going to do down there? Eh? Can you tell me that? For years, he's bored us to death telling us over and over again that we were French. One hundred per cent pure butter, as he put it. He had a fight with a neighbour who called him Macaroni. And the very first thing he does when he's able to do so is go back to the land of his birth. What sort of nonsense is that? It's where you live that you put down roots. They're in the earth beneath your feet. Not in Italy. He's a foreigner down there. I'll give him six months before he's back again. Now that he's sold his home, where will he go? I can't look after him. He'll just have to go to Baptiste's. He can read
Railway Magazine
. They can tell each other jokes about the Trades Union and swap the latest party gossip.'

‘Talking about the party, we went to the Lenin museum.'

‘Oh really!'

‘He seemed upset. Why?'

‘You'll have to ask him.'

‘He's gone to Italy.'

‘That's the way it is and that's the way it's always been.'

Two days after Grandfather Enzo's departure, my father arrived late for dinner. He was carrying a parcel wrapped in white paper. He laid it on the table, as though it were a present for my mother.

‘It's for you.'

‘What is it?'

‘Open it and see.'

My mother untied the string, pulled open the wrapping, and discovered a shoebox. Inside it were around ten bundles of one hundred franc notes. Bonapartes.

‘There's five million there. I'm giving you back the Treasury bonds money, with the children as witnesses. You won't be able to say that I took anything from you. You can count it.'

‘Where has it come from?'

‘Let's just say that I borrowed it and now I'm returning it to you.'

‘Do you think I'm just some sort of weathercock? You take the money without telling me! You refuse to tell me what you've used it for! You bring it back as though nothing had happened. Am I some little goose you can play around with as though I were sixteen years old? Do you think I'm going to put up with this?'

She took the box and disappeared into her bedroom, slamming the door. Juliette went and joined her.

‘It's unbelievable!' my father exclaimed. ‘She's never happy. I take the money, she grumbles. I bring it back, she grumbles. I don't know what else I can do.'

‘You could have told her the truth.'

‘She mustn't know for your brother's sake. You promised, Michel.'

‘I've said nothing. And where did you get this money? It wasn't Franck who gave it back to you.'

He hesitated.

‘It's your grandfather.'

‘Grandfather Enzo?'

‘He sold his house in Lens and the furniture. He divided the sum into three parts, one for Baptiste, one for me and one for himself.'

‘There's no reason to hide it from Mama.'

‘You don't understand. Taking the Treasury bonds put me in an appalling position. This way, I've patched things up without appearing to do so.'

‘You should have talked to her about it.'

‘I'm not going to take lessons from a kid!'

‘I'm trying to help you.'

‘You're not helping me. You're pissing me off!'

The repayment of the money did not help his situation. Quite the reverse, matters only got worse. He would have done better to keep it. When I spoke about it to Igor, he told me that my father had been wrong. When you do something stupid, you never patch it up. You have to follow things through to the end and hope you get a chance to extricate yourself. Otherwise, you pay twice over. Both for the stupid deed and for having tried to extricate yourself.

*

Grandfather Enzo did not come back. He toured Italy by bus in a methodical manner and he found a clever way of doing so. He slept in monasteries, of which there are countless numbers there. They were clean, you could eat your fill, and it cost almost nothing. It made him laugh, he who loathed priests, to be taking advantage of this. He sent us postcards of the
duomo
in each little town to make us feel envious. It was more beautiful than he had imagined. He also wrote to us on our birthdays. He was happy and had been made very welcome. He gave a helping hand to Ricardo's children picking the tomatoes or the corn. They got on well and it was as if they had always known one another. He sent us a photograph of Fontanellato in which we could see them all in an arcaded square. In the background were a brick castle and a park. It's true that they did look like a family. The notion of returning was not mentioned. On the contrary, he asked us to come and see him and to discover our country. Apparently he spoke Italian with a Romagna accent, and no one noticed that he was French.