The Incorrigible Optimists Club (40 page)

Sacha was right. The cinema makes you forget. It's the best cure for depression. Preferably a film that ends happily, that makes you feel better, that gives hope, featuring a hero who's on his knees, abandoned by his friends, who's human and humorous and who has a beguiling smile, whose best mate dies in his arms, who withstands the blows with unbelievable resilience, triumphs over the bad guys and their schemes, ensures justice for the widow and the oppressed, finds his beloved, a splendid blue-eyed blonde, once more, and who rescues the town or the country to the sound of rousing music. On the way out, members of the audience lingered on the pavement or in the smoke-filled cafés on place de la Contrescarpe
trying to work out whether it was a great film or a very great film, with byzantine subtleties in its hidden meanings, its setting and what was left unspoken, and the minute details that they alone had noticed. There were passionate discussions that broke up old friendships, gave rise to life-long bonds with a perfect stranger, or that created immense dislikes and stubborn grudges. They fought with one another trying to decide who was the best, the most innovative or the most creative director of his kind. The same American, Japanese or Italian names came up again like leitmotivs. Sacha taught me to rank films in two categories: those you could talk about for hours after you'd seen them and those about which there was nothing to be said.

9

I
n return for the match won against Tomasz and paid for by Lognon, Leonid owed me a game of chess. It was stupid of me to want to take him on. Nothing would be resolved and there would be no surprises. The only question that arose was: how long would it last? I had pestered him about it again: ‘I've no desire to waste my time with a pisser like you!'

‘You promised, Leonid!'

‘Improve a bit, then, in a few years' time, come and find me and we'll have a game.'

I should have seized the opportunity the day he suggested it, but I resigned myself to his turning me down. To show my displeasure, I no longer spoke to him and ignored his greetings. At the beginning of March, he sought me out: ‘Michel, we'll play our game, the one I promised you. And you're going to beat me.'

‘I don't believe you!'

His eyes were twinkling. Despite his resistance to alcohol, I wondered whether his immoderate consumption of Côtes-du-Rhône had not got the better of him.

‘I've got an idea. We'll have some fun.'

‘You'll thrash me.'

‘Do you remember the story of David and Goliath? Who was it who won?'

‘Why do you ask me that?'

‘Apart from him, do you know many Davids who win? It's a biblical fraud. They want to make us believe that David was clever, but they weren't fighting on equal terms. The puny fellow had a lethal weapon. Put them in a ring with gloves on. Who's the winner? In real life, it's Goliath who wins. But for once, in a real match, on equal terms, David is going to beat Goliath.'

He described, in the smallest detail, something unimaginable. Something
that would remain in the Club's annals for ever. A game that was rigged. No one would know. They would ask themselves how an arsehole of a schoolboy had been able to beat the thirty-third ranked Russian player. It would be like a whippersnapper fighting with his bare hands against a first-rate soldier with a Kalashnikov.

‘Sorry, Leonid, but I don't see the point. I wanted to play a game with you. A proper one. With the aim of holding out for as long as I could. For fun. They know me at the Club. They know I'm not capable of beating Imré or Tomasz. Not to mention you. They wouldn't believe it.'

‘Michel, are you able to keep a secret?'

‘Do I look as if I'm two-faced or something?'

‘Would you like to earn a bit of money?'

I hesitated.

‘You could buy yourself whatever you want.'

‘We'll have to see.'

Much has been written about the lure of money. I'd like to add my own contribution. It begins early on. In my defence, I'd like to make it clear that I was taken in by a professional. I was not up to confronting Victor Volodine. I was actually the willing victim of the well-known ‘coincidence' that fills prisons and ensures a constant number of customers for the guillotines and the electric chairs. I'm not greedy. I longed to have my own Circuit 24. I went to the Bazar de l'Hôtel de Ville where the game was being demonstrated on a model display of the Le Mans Grand Prix and there, for two brief minutes, having waited patiently amid the pushing and shoving in an endless queue, I was allowed access to the controls of a Ferrari TR60 and the chance to pit myself against three competitors. For several months, I had been asking my parents for this very special game. The family upheavals had reduced birthday and Christmas presents to a minimum. My mother reckoned it cost a ridiculous amount and that, considering my results, I didn't deserve anything.

I had only seen Victor Volodine once, two years previously. It was a rainy Sunday. Igor and Vladimir were involved in a closely fought return match. Several of us were gathered round the board, following the game.
Sacha was standing in the background. At that time, I hadn't yet met him. Suddenly, the door opened, and Victor Volodine appeared, soaking wet and in an excited state. He spoke in Russian.

‘Victor Anatolievitch, we speak in French here. For politeness' sake,' said Igor.

‘I've got to talk to you. It's urgent. Let's get into my car.'

‘Have you seen the weather?'

Victor was red in the face and continued speaking in Russian. Vladimir addressed Igor in French: ‘Tell your boss that he's just spilled water over the chessboard and that if he continues to drench me, I'll take great pleasure in removing the old fart with a kick in the arse.'

‘Did you hear what my friend Vladimir Tikhonovitch Gorenko said? We'll see each other tomorrow.'

‘Fuck you, fuck him, and all the communists on earth! I'm warning you, Igor Emilievitch, if you don't come, I'll sack you!'

‘I couldn't give a damn. You can find yourself another driver to exploit. I'm leaving France. In Portugal, my medical degree is recognized!'

We looked at one another in surprise.

‘You're not leaving?' Vladimir asked.

‘I've started the process of obtaining an equivalent rating. It's not ready yet. Where paperwork's concerned, there's no one to beat them.'

‘You don't speak Portuguese,' Leonid remarked.

‘I'll learn. It can't be very complicated. I'm a doctor, not a taxi driver. I'll be able to practise my profession there. It's important to me.'

‘Tell me, Monsieur Volodine,' asked Imré, ‘you appear to have shrunk. You're ten centimetres shorter.'

‘It's the taxi drivers' disease. Because we spend our time in cars, we put on weight and we shrink. I've got a major problem, Igor. You've got to help me. Come outside so that I can explain. I've always been good to you. You can't refuse to help me.'

‘I'm involved in a fierce contest, Victor. If you've something to tell me, you can speak openly, they're friends.'

Victor pulled up a chair. He mopped his brow and no one knew whether it was rain or sweat. Leonid picked up his bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône,
filled his glass to the brim and handed it to Victor who knocked it back in one gulp.

‘Thanks, Leonid Mikhailovitch. I'm finished,' he said in a hollow and desperate voice.

‘Are you unwell, Victor Anatolievitch?'

‘I would prefer to… I was summoned to report to the police station. I went along. I thought it was a problem to do with taxis. It's a disaster.'

‘What happened?' asked Igor.

‘You know me. I've done nothing but good in my life. Except during the civil war. But that was for God and the Tsar.'

‘If you've nothing on your conscience, you've got nothing to worry about,' Leonid concluded.

‘It's because of Rasputin's dagger.'

‘You're still selling them!' Igor exclaimed.

‘Very few. And they're not expensive.'

‘I thought that was over.'

‘I'd never sold one to a Canadian. I said to myself … if that makes him happy.'

‘Where's the problem?'

‘Given the price that he paid, he must have thought it was real.'

‘How much did you sell it to him for?'

‘… Two thousand, five hundred dollars.'

‘You're crazy!'

‘They were Canadian dollars. They had Queen Elizabeth on them. He was a lawyer from Toronto. A decent fellow. To begin with, I played the part of the guy who refused to sell and who regarded his moving and historical trophy as the apple of his eye. For an hour and twenty minutes, with the meter running, he persisted. I gave in. He'll put it in his display cabinet, I thought. He'll show it to his friends. The usual thing. This damn fool wanted to show off. He donated it to the Toronto Museum. They realized that the Metropolitan in New York had the same one. The Canadian was not amused. He filed a complaint. So did both museums.'

‘Did the police question you?'

‘I denied it. I told them that it couldn't be me, given that the original was in the Russian Museum in St Petersburg.'

‘The name of the city is Leningrad!' objected Igor.

‘Never! It shall always be called St Petersburg! It was the Tsars who built it, not the commies!'

‘We're not going to argue about that again!' Leonid interrupted.

‘Your pal the police inspector, he's been promoted. Couldn't he look into the matter and sort it out?'

‘Daniel Mahaut?' said Igor. ‘Don't depend on it.'

‘Be careful, if I get into trouble and they take away my licence, it will affect you.'

‘Igor, I can't afford to lose my job!' said Leonid.

‘Victor Anatolievitch, if I intervene, it's not because of you. I warn you, this is the last time. You're lying through your teeth. You're abusing your customers' trust. I don't want to be your accomplice.'

‘My dear Igor, you've understood nothing about life. Coming from a materialist, that doesn't surprise me. It's like St Anthony's relics, Corot's paintings or Napoleon's hats. What the hell does the truth matter? The important thing is to dream. There's more to life than money!'

I don't know what Igor did, but the matter went no further and we never heard about it again. The museums withdrew their complaints. According to Pavel, they realized it would have a negative effect on donations. In the United States and Canada apparently ridicule is fatal. Victor stopped selling people the daggers that assassinated Rasputin. Apart from to a Congolese minister, a fellow from Zurich, a Brazilian Miss Universe and a Greek arms dealer.

Two months later, Igor received a positive response. His degree was recognized and valid. He stood a round of drinks to celebrate the news. Our smiles and encouragement were strained. He set off for Portugal to go through the formalities. We were sad to think we wouldn't see him again, but we didn't show it. The thought that he would be practising his profession in Lisbon made him happy. He invited us to come and see him whenever we wanted. Three day later, he was back again. He had the gloomy look of a man of whom it is best not to ask questions. In actual
fact, the Portuguese authorities were taking him on as a military doctor to look after the colonial troops in the war in Angola. He had refused. Werner told us that he had lost his temper and insulted an army colonel who was a doctor. He took up his job as a taxi driver once more and continued his search to find a country that would accept his degree.

During the past two years, Victor Volodine had put on weight and developed a double chin. He ate a great deal, did no exercise, and made it a matter of principle to spend his money on lavish meals with plenty to drink, made-to-measure houndstooth suits with waistcoats, American braces and crocodile skin boots. Since the episode of the Rasputin daggers, we had not seen him at the Club. His company owned several taxi licences. He could have stopped work and taken life as it comes, but he refused to retire and continued to clock up eleven hours a day. Igor and Leonid worked for him and did not complain. Victor had a poor opinion of Igor, who followed none of his recommendations. Leonid had taken advantage of his advice and had realized that being a taxi driver was not synonymous with public service. Their preferred target was foreign tourists, ideally those who spoke no French, whom they picked up near the big hotels around the Opéra and the Champs-Elysées and drove around Paris, on the most congested routes. Victor explained the scheme he had worked out with Leonid to me. He was going to arrange for bets on our game of chess. Nobody would risk a centime on me, but he would place a bet on me at ten to one. They were going to earn a lot of money and I would have my share.

‘It's a rip-off!'

‘You mustn't exaggerate. We're going to extract a bit of cash from people who don't need it and who must not suspect that they're going to be hoodwinked. As I always say: if God, in his infinite mercy has created mugs, it's in order that they should be taken for a ride. Had he, for whom all is possible, not wished for this, he would have made them less stupid. What would you like, my boy?'

He had put me on the spot.

‘An hour with some brazen little hussy? How would you like that? At
your age, they couldn't stop me. I know two or three who aren't shy. You could choose: a blonde, a black girl? How do you like them? How about both, young fellow?'

Overcome by panic and confusion, I blushed and stammered. This podgy fellow revolted me with his impudence and self-importance. I searched for something I might say that would be like a slap in the face; that would express my anger, my contempt, my revulsion, my indignation, my loathing. Something that would be cutting and scornful, that would make him feel ashamed throughout his life; that would remind him of his despicable behaviour, his mediocrity and his vile remarks. I wanted to yell at him that I was different; that I would not betray my friends; that I had nothing in common with a grasping reactionary like him; that his whole being disgusted me; that only pity and his one hundred and twenty kilos prevented me from spitting in his face.

‘I want a Circuit 24.'