The Incorrigible Optimists Club (38 page)

5

N
icolas put pressure on me to lend him Pierre's records. He insisted. I stood firm. But you can't go on saying no to your best friend, otherwise, as he kept repeating to me, it means you're not friends.

‘You're a rotten swine, Michel, I lend you mine!'

‘These ones aren't mine. I'm the trustee.'

‘You're making fun of me! They're yours. Pierre's dead and his sister has cleared off!'

It wasn't an easy situation to cope with. Especially when the friend was gifted at maths and sat beside you. I went round to his place and took along two or three of the records. We listened to them eagerly, with our eyes closed, and I took them back with me when I left. He had a passion for Fats Domino and knew the words by heart.

He eventually came up with an ingenious solution. For his birthday, his parents had given him a Philips tape-recorder with a reversible magnetic tape. I couldn't refuse to allow him to record them. But in spite of repeated efforts, the results varied from mediocre to bad. Try as we might to avoid making noises, there were still crackling, hissing, squeaking sounds and a grainy background sound. We asked his brothers for total silence. The windows were shut tightly and we held our breath. We took refuge in the bathroom that overlooked the courtyard. I held the pick-up arm. He pressed the ‘record' button. We remained stock-still until the end of the song. But we couldn't get rid of the interference. We had to make do.

‘It's better than nothing. Between now and the end of the year, we'll have recorded the lot.'

Above a certain volume, you could no longer hear the static. That's the advantage of rock'n'roll. Nothing can drown it out. We tried to play the record and the recording at the same time, but we never managed to synchronize the two. We also got an echoing effect.

As I left Nicolas's house, I spotted Sacha, sitting on a bench in place Maubert. He was smoking and blowing rings. He watched me with his ambiguous smile as I approached.

‘Paris is a small world,' I said to him.

‘We live in the same neighbourhood. I'm five minutes away.'

‘I didn't know that.'

‘I've got your photos. If you wait for me, I'll go and get them.'

‘There's no hurry.'

‘They're wonderful.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘I know a bit about it. I was surprised. Three or four of them are really good. Come on, let's go and get them.'

I followed him. Sacha lived in an attractive building on rue Monge, but his room was on the seventh floor and there was no lift. The back staircase was filthy and had not been cleaned for years. The wooden steps were bare and the damp had caused plaster to peel off the walls. The paintwork was blistering. Electric wires were dangling. There were no lamp-bulbs on the first and second floors. It was a long, slow climb. Sacha was panting. When we arrived at the top, he was red in the face. He fanned himself with his hand and caught his breath.

‘No more cigarettes.'

A dark, narrow corridor led to a dozen attic rooms. Sacha opened the third door. We entered an austerely furnished room of about twelve square metres, lit by a skylight high above. There were a neatly made single bed, a shelf full of books, a rectangular table with odd bits of crockery, a fruit bowl with two apples, an overflowing ashtray, a chair, a wardrobe lacking a door with a few clothes inside, no decoration, and all arranged with fastidious neatness. The only apparent luxury was an ancient crystal set placed on a stool, and an old gramophone with a pile of 78 records.

‘It's not big and it's not expensive.'

‘Have you lived here for a long time?'

‘A year after I arrived in France, Kessel found me this place.'

‘Do you know him?'

‘A bit. He gives us all a helping hand from time to time.'

He took off his overcoat and threw it on the bed.

‘Are you thirsty? I can't offer a choice. All I've got is water.'

He picked up a bottle and left the room to fill it from the tap at the end of the corridor. I cast an eye over his bookshelf. Authors I'd never heard of. He returned, poured out two glasses and handed me one of them.

‘What nationality are you?'

‘What would you say?'

‘There's nothing to go by. There are only books in French.'

‘When I left Russia, I hadn't time to take anything with me. To find Russian books in Paris, you've got to have money. If I want interesting novels, I go to the public library.'

‘I've never seen you there.'

‘For you, it's somewhere you pass through. You return your books, you take away others. You chat to Christiane for five minutes and you rush off. Me, I'm not in a hurry. I sit down. I do my reading there, in the warmth. I stay there and make the most of it until closing time. There's no central heating here.'

‘It must get cold. Especially at night.'

‘When you've lived in Leningrad, you're accustomed to polar temperatures. Our hides are tough. Do you want to see the photos?'

‘I'd love to.'

He went out of the room and looked up and down the deserted corridor. There wasn't a sound. He waited for the light to go out. He put his hand to his mouth.

‘Follow me,' he whispered.

He moved forward on tiptoes. We went down a few steps in the darkness. On the half landing, he opened a door with care. He walked into a room full of hole-in-the-ground lavatories. He motioned me to follow him. I hesitated for a moment. He noticed my reluctance.

‘Don't be frightened of anything,' he muttered.

I followed him inside. He bolted the door. He put his hand inside his shirt and drew out a thin cord from around his neck. On it was a pointed key with sharp edges. He stood on the concrete ledge and raised himself
up with great agility. Balancing, he unlocked a panel in the wall with the key and pushed aside the metal cover. He put his hand inside, felt around and brought out a cardboard folder. He handed it to me. I took it. He replaced the metal cover, locked the panel and climbed down again. He wiped the palms of his hands and put the cord back inside his shirt. We left the toilets. He was still on the alert. Reassured by the silence, he moved forward, without switching on the light. We walked down the stairs and emerged onto the street. He dived into the adjoining entrance. We came out in the Arènes de Lutèce. We sat down on a bench in the sunshine. He pointed out the building to me. He lit a cigarette.

‘That's where I live. If you put the chair on the table, climb up on it and hoist yourself onto the roof, you get a marvellous view over Paris.'

‘May I ask you why you put that in the toilets?'

‘Did you see the door of my room? It's paper-thin. One shove of the shoulder and you're in there. People who live on this floor go out to work. During the daytime, the place is deserted. The rooms are often burgled. The woman next door to me, who works at the baker's shop on place Monge, they even stole her lipstick and her iron. Do you know what they took from me? My electric radiator! And what's more they're vandals. So that's where I hide my treasures and I do what Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker in
Crime and Punishment
did, I keep the key of my casket round my neck. No one would think of searching in the bog, would they?'

‘Why are you telling me this?'

‘I trust you.'

‘Really?'

‘Don't talk to anyone about it.'

‘OK.'

‘You mustn't tell your friends at the Club that we know each other.'

‘As you wish.'

‘It will be a secret between us.'

He took the cardboard folder and opened it. He took out my prints. The photographs of the Médicis fountain had been laid on stiff card and on top he had pasted on a mount that brought out the black and white details. I was gobsmacked.

‘They're 18 x 24. It's a good format. Several of them have come out really well.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘You've got talent, Michel. I know about these things. Believe me. Any fool can press a button and take photos. But there aren't many photographers. You know how to frame a shot, pick out the main focus, find the most effective angle, look for the right sort of light and decide on the best moment to take it.'

‘You don't know how pleased I am. It's the first time anyone's told me that.'

‘And I'm not someone who pays compliments.'

‘The card helps bring out the best in them.'

‘Don't get me wrong. It's not like a frame for a painting. I don't use it to make it look pretty. It's to help focus the view and make the photo stand out. Nothing should interfere with it. If the photo's no good, it won't make it any better.'

‘You don't think I'm too close?'

‘On the contrary, that's what's interesting: you don't make the beginner's mistake of trying to control the perspective. You avoid the high and low-angle shots that distort or dwarf the subject matter. The camera should interact with the eye and remain at the same level. It shouldn't be performing gymnastics.'

‘When they look like this, they're wonderful. The problem is that I can't pay you for them.'

‘I'm not asking you for money. I don't let my friends pay.'

‘Why do you say we're friends?'

‘Aren't we friends?'

‘Yes… but…'

‘What's the matter, Michel? Don't you feel at ease with me?'

‘What bothers me is that we address each other as “
vous
”. I use “
tu
” with my friends. I'd feel more comfortable if we said “
tu
” when we speak to one another.'

‘I hate using “
tu
”. I'd prefer to go on as we are. We can be friends without being over-familiar.'

‘As you wish.'

‘In time, maybe. If you don't mind, I'll take a couple of them.'

‘You want my photos?'

‘I like grouping photographs together on a particular theme. I'm going to organize a small exhibition of photos of open-air sculptures. I'll put them in the window, with your agreement.'

‘I'd be delighted.'

‘I can't decide between these two.'

He was looking at two close-up, right-side profile prints of Polyphemus. A patch of sunlight dappled the bronze face, expressing its never-ending sorrow.

‘One has the feeling he's alive. I'm choosing this one. I'll give it back to you after the exhibition.'

Sacha was different. He didn't have the Slav temperament. He didn't get irritated, he spoke in a soft, calm, slightly weary voice, and he looked at you with a mocking smile. I wondered whether he tried to cultivate this enigmatic aspect. I don't think so. He hung around the neighbourhood. I used to see him sitting on a bench in the Luxembourg, reading, surrounded by sparrows that came to peck from his hand the crumbs from his baguette. We would bump into one another all over the place. We'd spend hours chatting on the pavement. He worked at Fotorama when he felt like it. Had he wanted to, he could have had his papers put in order, but he took no steps to get a regular job. On several occasions, I tried once more to discover why the members of the Club disliked him. He shrugged his shoulders in a resigned sort of way.

‘I've done them no harm. I'm like the others: if I hadn't escaped, I'd be in the wastes of Siberia down some icy hole. I make the most of each day as though it were a gift. For years, I worked like a lunatic, without counting the hours spent, without taking a rest. For nothing. That time was given to me and I lost it. Nowadays, I read, I sleep, I listen to concerts on the radio, I roam around Paris, I chat to people, I go to the cinema, I take siestas, I feed the cats in the neighbourhood and when I've not got a penny left, I either get by or get myself a job. I have the bare necessities and I've
never been so happy in my life. What's shocking is not the exploitation, it's our bloody stupidity. These constraints we impose on ourselves to have things that are superfluous and useless. The worst thing is the silly fools who work for peanuts. It's not the bosses who are the problem, it's money that makes us all slaves. On the great day of judgement, the one who will come out on top is not the silly bugger who's come down from the trees to become
sapiens
, it's the ape who's continued to pick fruit while he scratches his belly. Man has understood nothing about Evolution. A person who works is a complete moron.'

6

W
e never saw it coming. Juliette and I had believed what we'd been told. One evening, my father did not come back for dinner. That happened, occasionally. We spent the evening without him, watching television. He came back late from the shop and had a bite to eat in the kitchen. We caught a glimpse of him the following morning, hurrying to get ready. That was normal. On the second evening, we thought he was overdoing it. On the third, my mother said he was away on a business trip. She spoke in that odd, slightly dry tone of voice that meant: ‘Don't push me, I'm not in the mood.'

On Friday, they came home together. We were glad to see them. They both had gloomy expressions. We sat down in the drawing room. Just as we did when guests were there.

‘Go on,' my mother said.

‘Children, we have to talk to you. You must have noticed that, for some time, there have been problems at home.'

‘Oh really?' said Juliette.

My father glared at my mother, shaking his head in a helpless sort of way.

‘My darling,' my mother continued, ‘your father and I have decided that it would be better if we separated.'

‘What?' Juliette exclaimed, getting up from the chair. ‘What does that mean?'

‘We thought it best.'

‘You're going to divorce?'

‘Nothing is decided. For the time being, we're thinking. We're taking stock. You're grown-up. There's nothing unusual, these days, about parents that separate. You're not involved. We'll always be there for you. You'll continue to see your father, but we won't live together any more.'

‘You can't do that!' cried Juliette.

She ran out of the room. We heard her bedroom door slam. My father rushed along to her. She had locked the door.

‘Juliette, open up. I'm going to explain to you.'

‘There's nothing to explain!' yelled Juliette through the door.

‘Be reasonable, darling. You're really upsetting me.'

‘And what about me? Do you suppose I'm not upset?'

‘Please, my Juliette.'

‘I'm not your Juliette!'

For an hour, they tried to persuade her to open the door. She didn't reply. They took turns, using the same arguments alternately, from begging her to threatening her and being angry.

‘I don't know what to do any more,' said my father in a drained voice. ‘I told you that we should have gone about it gently.'

‘There's no perfect solution!' my mother exclaimed. ‘When you have an abscess, you have to burst it! It hurts and afterwards, it's over. We've prevaricated, and this is the result. She'll get over it.'

They considered whether my father ought to barge open the door with his shoulder. Eventually, they concluded that this was not advisable. They needed to give her time for it to sink in. They spoke in my presence as though I were not concerned. My father packed two suitcases. He came to see me in my bedroom.

‘I'm off now, Michel.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘I'm at the Hôtel des Mimosas, by the Gare de Lyon.'

‘Are you leaving Paris?'

‘The owner is a friend. He's helping me out until I find myself a flat. We'll see each other, don't worry, but I'm going to be fairly busy.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘I've not got any work, my boy. It's over.'

‘What about the shop?'

‘It's your mother's. I've got nothing.'

‘That's not possible.'

‘That's the way it is, and that's the way it's going to be.'

‘It's not right. You're the one who's done everything.'

‘The shop doesn't matter. I'll always manage. What bothers me is you and your sister.'

‘Are you… are you going to get divorced?'

‘We're deliberating, because of you. We're going to see if we can come up with a solution. I believe she's right. There comes a time when you have to know when to say stop.'

‘What'll you do?'

‘I'll get back on my feet. I've got a few ideas. As for the other guy who's incapable of signing up a customer, I wouldn't give them six months before they file for bankruptcy.'

He put his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it.

‘We'll get ourselves organized. Listen, Michel, you mustn't judge your mother. Do you understand? What's happened to us, it's just life. I'm counting on you.'

He took me in his arms and we gave each other a hug. He left the room and switched off the light. I strained to listen. There wasn't a sound. In the middle of the night, I felt a hand shaking me. I turned on the bedside light. It was Juliette, her eyes red and her hair awry, her pillow under her arm.

‘May I sleep with you?'

I lifted up my blanket. She lay down and snuggled up to me. I put my arms around her.

‘Are we going away too?'

‘No, we're staying in our home. It's Papa who's going. You mustn't worry.'

‘Mama told me it wasn't serious.'

‘You know, Juliette, you mustn't always believe what your parents say. Brothers and sisters are for life. I won't ever let you down.'

‘I won't either.'

Two days later, my mother and grandfather Philippe arrived, accompanied by a man in a dark suit whom they addressed with the greatest deference. They showed him around the flat. He was a bailiff. He noted that my father had departed the marital home, that he had taken his clothes and his personal effects. Maria certified that Monsieur had left
with two large suitcases. The concierges confirmed this. My father ought to have been more wary of my mother, who told him that they would both be able to think more clearly if they were on their own. When you become a couple, you shouldn't think clearly.