The Incorrigible Optimists Club (41 page)

10

M
any bad things are said about the excessive number of postal workers and clerks in the City of Paris. These comments are unfair. In my neighbourhood, there was one area in which they were beyond reproach: punctuality. For many years, the postman deposited the mail for the building on the concierges' doormat between 7.38 and 7.40 in the morning. Old Bardon left at 7.45 for his job as usher at the Paris city hall where he started work at 8.15. He would open the door of his porters' lodge, scoop up the pile of letters and newspapers, put them inside and, having taken leave of old mother Bardon with a ‘See you this evening, my sweet', he would set off. This endearment must have had its origins in some distant past when she was not shaped like a beer barrel and did not have arms like those of a removal man. She would reply: ‘Have a lovely day, little goat', though no one who had encountered this embittered and vindictive nutcase would venture to compare him to a kid goat. I had a five-minute window. I left the flat at 7.30 in order to arrive at school by 7.59. I sat on the staircase, with the lights out, huddled up on the first-floor landing and pressed against the inner courtyard window so that I could read in peace, waiting for the postman to throw the mail on the doormat and leave. I hurried down on tiptoes. In a flash, I spotted the letter marked Lycée Henri-IV on the envelope, snapped it up and slipped it into my pocket. The end-of-term reports with their ‘Could do better if he wished but he doesn't want to', ‘Constant in his inconstancy', and other cynical and unpleasant comments, as well as the endless regulations, warnings and boring letters, never reached my parents. From the start of the school year, I had been forging my father's signature. I had no trouble imitating his scrawl. I allowed letters to go through when there wasn't any risk. It was the only way I had found of achieving total peace. My parents never suspected a thing. That's where my fondness for postmen comes from.

Lessons were deadly boring. The weather was fine. Stuck in the back of the class, by the window, I could see the grey dome of the Panthéon. Why is there never an earthquake in Paris? I wanted to be outside. I looked at my watch. Every minute of this afternoon seemed to go on for ever. Sitting beside me, Nicolas was swotting. He was faithfully writing everything down, and underlining it with his ruler and four-colour ballpoint pen. He was a sight to behold, totally enthralled, rather like some unknown species of insect discovered by a scientist. He was keen to learn and eagerly absorbed these tiresome litanies. I couldn't care less about my notes, about being promoted to the higher class or about the future that beckoned. I continued reading, with my book on my lap and my satchel open beneath it so that I could let the book drop into it in the rare event of the teacher coming to stretch his legs in the aisle. I was having difficulties with Kazantzakis. It was impossible to concentrate on
Freedom or Death
. My mind wandered. I thought of Cécile. Where was she? What was she doing? Was she still angry with me? When would I see her again? I wondered how you could find someone who has disappeared when you're not a family member. Perhaps Sacha would have some idea? There were two knocks on the door. The English master paused. The school porter came in.

‘Marini,' he announced. ‘You are summoned to M. Masson's office.'

I got to my feet. Kazantzakis fell into the satchel. Nicolas stood up to let me pass. He gave me a pat on the back to spur me on. I followed the porter.

‘What does he want me for?' I asked.

‘When he summons someone in the middle of a lesson, it's not a good sign,' he replied.

Walking along the endless corridor, I realized what had happened. It was the postman, the post office or my mother. Or the neighbour from the fifth floor, whom I hadn't heard coming and who had caught me unaware, sitting on the stairs, last week and had not understood my muddled explanation. They had discovered my secret. I was going to have a difficult time. It was going to be hard to deny it or pretend that the post had got lost. This was known as: misappropriation of correspondence by a halfwit hoist on his own petard. It was bound to mean the disciplinary
committee and expulsion. Shame and degradation, the path to the guillotine. I searched for attenuating circumstances. Perhaps if I cried, and pleaded utter idiocy and family trauma, the sentence would be restricted to a three-day expulsion. I had an irresistible longing to have a pee. And to escape. If I ran, no one would catch me. Where would I go? The drawback about running away is that it doesn't take you far from where you started. It's like a boomerang. You have to face up to things. Going down the main staircase, I thought of Isabel Archer and of Alexis Zorba. Could the difference between men and women possibly be that women tackle their problems courageously, whereas men always find a bad reason for putting up with them? We had reached the supervisor's office. The porter knocked twice. ‘Come in,' we heard. He opened the door. I closed my eyes. Like the man about to be shot who hears the word: ‘Fire!'

‘What's the matter, Michel?'

Sherlock was standing in front of me in the doorway, smiling. Was he a sadist? Did he want to seem all matey and lay a trap for me so that I would confess?

‘I think you know why you're here?' he said in a solemn tone.

I searched through an endless list. If I opened my mouth, I risked confessing to something that had not been discovered. It was like chess. When you don't know your opponent, you play a tentative move to allow him to reveal himself. Adopting a contrite expression, I nodded.

‘I think so, Monsieur.'

‘I don't imagine it's easy for you. If you would like to talk about it, I'm always available, and you won't ever be disturbing me.'

He clutched my shoulders in both his arms and then went out. There was my father sitting on the other side of his desk.

‘I'll leave you,' Sherlock had said.

He had closed the door behind him.

‘What on earth are you doing there?'

He came towards me.

‘I didn't know what time you came out. Nor whether you had classes. So I made enquiries.'

‘You gave me the fright of my life!'

‘Michel, I'm sorry, I ought to have warned you.'

It took me a few seconds to realize that we were talking at cross purposes. Where is anger hidden? In what recess of our brain does it lie festering? Why do we enjoy wounding those we love? Was it the strain accumulated over weeks or the terrible fright I had just had? Or was there another reason, deeper and more personal, that I did not wish to own up to?

‘I'm talking about the fact that you've forgotten us! You couldn't give a damn about us! I would never have imagined that you'd be capable of doing something like that to us. You've deserted us!'

‘Don't say that. Please. I found myself in an impossible situation.'

‘It's your fault. Mama's right.'

‘I didn't want it to happen like this.'

‘How could you let six weeks go by without letting us know whether you were alive? Do you think that's normal?'

‘It's more complicated than I thought.'

‘A phone call, that's all we wanted. Just to say you were well and that you'd see us next week.'

‘You're right, I should have called. Did your mother not say anything to you?'

‘We say hello in the morning, good evening when she gets back from the shop, and good night.'

‘It's not easy for her either. I need to talk to you. The thing is… I'm living in Bar-le-Duc.'

‘Where's that?'

‘In the East. It's the principal town of the Meuse.'

‘What are you doing in Bar-le-Duc?'

‘I'm in the process of starting a business. I've found a partner. I wanted to move to Versailles. That's where he's from. He reckons that if it takes off in Bar-le-Duc, it'll succeed everywhere.'

‘Haven't they got a telephone in that dump?'

‘I've got a crazy amount of work. You can't imagine.'

‘I couldn't care less! That's no reason. The family's finished!'

I slammed the door as I left the room. Sherlock was in the corridor and was talking to the school porter. My father caught up with me, and they
watched us with troubled expressions as we passed them. They had had no need to listen carefully in order to follow our conversation. We found ourselves outside. We started walking.

‘Michel, I came so that we could talk.'

‘There's nothing more to be said. The harm's done.'

‘You're grown-up. You can understand.'

‘You've forsaken us. That's all there is to it!'

‘I took the day off. We're up to our eyes with problems and jobs to be done. I'm catching the 17.54 train. Can I buy you a half of lemonade shandy?'

‘I don't feel like one!'

‘What
do
you feel like?'

‘I want a Circuit 24.'

‘You want me to buy you a Circuit 24? What does it cost?'

It was too expensive. Not at this moment. In a few months' time, perhaps, if things went as he hoped. For the time being, he was living on a tight budget and could not allow himself any unnecessary expenditure.

‘It's now that I need it. Not in ten years' time!'

‘You could ask your mother.'

‘She told me that she didn't have any money, that business was going badly and that I should ask my father!'

‘Things are going badly! I suspected as much. Maurice is useless.'

‘She also says that you're not paying the maintenance that had been agreed.'

‘What with? She knows my position. In fifteen years I haven't asked for a penny for my work. I paid back what I borrowed with my share of the legacy. I left with just my clothing. I need time to re-establish myself. I'll make up for what I owe, both the capital and the interest. Don't worry on her account, nor on yours. You'll want for nothing. I don't want her involving you in our troubles.'

He was on edge. He took out his pack of Gitanes and put a cigarette to his lips. I held out my hand. He let me take one. He lit them both.

‘Do you smoke?'

‘I have for a while.'

‘Really. Listen, I'll phone you once a week.'

‘Don't feel you're obliged to.'

‘That way we'll be able to talk. On Sunday evenings, would that suit you?'

‘I don't know whether I'll be there. When are you coming back to Paris?'

‘As soon as possible. Trust me.'

‘I must go. I've got work to do.'

‘We've still got an hour to spare.'

He looked at me with his big round eyes and his bathroom salesman's smile. In five seconds, he was going to adopt Gabin's or Jouvet's voice. I turned round and went out. Without shaking his hand. Without kissing him. I didn't look back. It was my turn.

11

S
o as to be quite sure that no member of the Club knew, Leonid chose the game played in the final of the little-known Sverdlovsk tournament won in 1943 by Botvinnik, the one and only representative of God on earth, who had handed out a thrashing to the formidable Alexander Konstantinopolsky, an advocate of trench warfare and cast-iron defence. The opponent used all his might to attack an unassailable citadel. Once he had lost several pawns and major pieces, Botvinnik brought his own men into play using the steamroller tactic. No risk. An apparatchik's game. Deadly boring. I spent two weeks learning this game by heart. I played it over dozens of times. There was no way I could make a mistake. I learned the fifty-two moves made by Botvinnik with white and memorized the fifty-one made by Konstantinopolsky, to be played by Leonid. I was practising the moves on my pocket chessboard by the Médicis fountain when Sacha appeared. He guessed I would be there and he suggested I go with him to the Cinémathèque. I slipped the piece of paper with the game on it into my pocket.

‘Not today. I'm in training. I'm playing Leonid on Sunday.'

‘You won't win.'

‘I'm telling you I will! There are some people who want to take bets on it.'

‘It's not possible. If I had any money, I'd bet against you and I'd win.'

‘Please, don't bet on Leonid. I'm the one you should bet on. I've analysed his game. He has weaknesses. I'm using the Caro-Kann defence.'

‘No one's played that for twenty years.'

‘All the more reason to. He won't suspect it.'

‘I didn't know you played so well. I'll come and watch that.'

Leonid and Victor had chosen their day carefully. It fell on 31 March, the eve of 1 April. They were already laughing about it. Leonid refused to allow me to discuss the matter with Igor.

‘They're your friends, Leonid. Aren't you embarrassed to play a trick like that on them?'

‘They're not rich. They won't lose a lot of money.'

‘In Igor's case, it bothers me. Especially him.'

‘Don't worry. He never bets.'

We arranged to meet the day before, opposite the Bon Marché. I got into his taxi for a dress rehearsal. He wanted to be sure about my memory. We played the game in his car in record time, as though it were blitz chess. On the fortieth move, he stopped, looking pensive. He frowned and seemed frustrated. His naturally lean features accentuated his concern.

‘Leonid, is there a problem?'

He shook his head and went on with the game. On the fifty-second move, I placed my knight on e6. Check mate! Botvinnik had turned around a game that was lost and had won in style.

‘We should play it less quickly,' he said in a distracted voice.

‘Is there anything wrong?'

‘No.'

‘We can swap, if you'd rather. I'll have black. It doesn't matter if I lose. It would be logical.'

‘We won't change a thing!'

‘No one will believe that I can beat you.'

‘They still think that the communist party defends the workers. They're soft in the head. They're prepared to swallow anything.'

‘Even if you were dead drunk, I'd never manage it. The deception is too great. They'll realize.'

‘Victor's cunning. He's thought of everything. See you tomorrow.'

The great day had arrived. During the week, Leonid had prepared the ground by announcing that Volodine was out of his mind: he had decided to bet on little Michel and to accept bets at ten to one. Igor didn't like this.

‘We don't play for money in this club.'

‘If this idiot Victor wants to throw away his money, why not make the most of it?' pleaded Vladimir.

‘It's the principle. And principles are made to be respected.'

‘It's a rule that's valid among ourselves,' Pavel retorted. ‘Victor Volodine doesn't belong to the Club.'

‘It strikes me as unlikely that he'd bet on Michel. He hasn't a hope. Not one in a million.'

‘At the races, Victor plays for high stakes,' Leonid explained. ‘He likes to go for big money.'

‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘Michel has improved,' Leonid pointed out.

‘I hadn't noticed,' said Igor.

‘You say that Leonid's a man who's got no standards. We're going to teach him a good lesson,' said Virgil.

‘It's the exception that will prove the rule,' Gregorios concluded. ‘All against Victor Volodine!'

Apart from Werner who was working at his cinema in rue Champollion, all the members of the Club were there. Even Lognon, who had not been seen for two months. Victor arrived at about three in the afternoon, squeezed into a rather tight made-to-measure suit. You could smell his eau de Cologne two metres away.

‘How are you, Victor?' asked Pavel. ‘We don't often see you.'

‘On Sundays, I don't hang around in a place that stinks of tobacco and beer. I get fresh air into my lungs. I go to Longchamp or Auteuil. Horses, there's nothing like them. I've just bought one with a friend, a baron from the old nobility. A crack horse of the future. We're going to run him at the country racecourses.'

‘Have you robbed a perfume shop?' asked Pavel.

‘I take my precautions when I come here.'

‘Apparently you're betting on Michel against Leonid?' asked Virgil.

‘Do you take me for a mug? He hasn't got a chance in a million. It would be like putting a young girl in the ring against a heavyweight.'

They looked at one another in confusion. Their hope of winning any money was disappearing.

‘I'll bet on little Michel on two conditions.'

‘What are they?'

‘That he plays white.'

This is called baiting the hook. Putting forward as an obstacle what everyone else accepts unreservedly. Nobody raised any objection.

‘And Leonid will play with these.'

From the inside pocket of his suit, he pulled out a pair of spectacles of the type that welders wear to protect their eyes from being spattered and which let no light in between the skin and the outside of the frames. The lenses were covered in black paint.

‘He won't see anything. He'll play blind. From memory. It'll be a slight handicap. It'll restore the balance. Under these conditions, gentlemen, I will take bets. For Michel and against Leonid.'

‘That changes everything.'

‘It's not the same thing.'

They started arguing. Could Leonid memorize the positions in a game, or not? He had never done so before. You could be a great player and still not remember the position of your own pieces and those of your opponent, even if he was a beginner. There was much humming and hawing, prevarication and quibbling, and it would have gone on until the bar closed had not Leonid taken control of proceedings:

‘Victor Anatolievitch, it's Sunday today, you're not my boss and I'm going to speak my mind. You're nothing but a bloody lily-livered fascist. If you think that your pathetic trick is going to make me lose, you've got your finger up your arsehole. I've played and won hundreds of games blindfold. And against champions.'

He took out of his coat a bundle of fifty and one hundred franc notes.

‘There's eight hundred and fifty francs. You can count it! How much are we playing for?'

‘Two to one.'

‘You're just someone who sucks the blood of the poor. It doesn't surprise me in a White Russian!'

He was about to put his money back in his pocket when Victor stopped him: ‘Four to one. I'll go no further.'

‘If I'm blindfold, I'm playing seven to one.'

‘Are you crazy?'

‘Are you scared? Go back to your horses.'

‘If you're quite sure of yourself, it's five to one. Final offer.'

‘You're on!'

This released the others. Wallets were taken out. Banknotes appeared. Everyone placed his bet. Victor and Vladimir jotted down the amounts in a notebook. Lognon laid three wads of banknotes on the table and kept his hand on them.

‘Tell me, Monsieur Volodine, do you think I've got large ears?'

We looked at one another. Nobody had ever mentioned this in front of him. How could he know? We looked for an escape route.

‘I've seen bigger,' Victor replied opportunely. ‘Cossacks have huge ones.'

‘If God gave me large ears, it's so that I can hear from a distance. Did you say five to one?'

‘I did indeed.'

‘I'll stake three thousand. I've also got one hell of a nose. You who are a specialist in dagger thrusts, you've got it coming to you.'

‘Are you quite sure of yourself?' Imré asked Leonid.

‘I've got hundreds of games in my head.'

‘I don't want to lose.'

‘It's now or never if you want to make a pile of money. At five to one!'

‘The little fellow hasn't got a chance!' yelled Tomasz. ‘I thrashed him twice this week. I'll thrash him again afterwards, if you like.'

Imré produced two hundred and forty francs. The Club had filled up with customers from the Balto who were laying bets on Leonid. Old father Marcusot, drawn by the crowd, made an appearance and used the opportunity to take orders.

‘Albert, are you going to have a bet?' Vladimir called out to him. ‘Michel can't win.'

‘I never gamble.'

‘You've got the money, father Marcusot, you could allow yourself a bet,' said Victor.

‘The dosh is all here,' he said, tapping his paunch with both hands. No one's going to take it away from me. Gentlemen, we eat and drink here, and I'm ready for your orders.'

Igor was overwhelmed and was scratching his chin.

‘Aren't you betting?' he asked me.

‘Er… I haven't any money… He's going to win.'

‘May I help Michel?' Igor asked.

‘Come off it!' Leonid groaned.

Sacha came over. He had a hundred franc note in his hand and was about to put it on the table when Leonid grabbed his arm.

‘You're not placing a bet!' he said.

‘Get out!' Igor continued. ‘How many times do you have to be told? We don't want you in this club!'

‘We live in a republic here. We're free, so fuck off!'

He went and sat down, picked up a newspaper that was lying around and began to read it. Gregorios tapped me on the shoulder with a fatherly smile.

‘Don't worry, Michel. It's not serious.'

They were gazing at me with kindly faces. They were wondering how long I was going to hold out against the ogre, even if he was blindfold. They knew that I didn't have a chance against Leonid. They weren't worried about their outlay. The notion that I might win was totally inconceivable. As improbable as a martyr devouring the lion, or a man flying away waving his arms, or a Liechtenstein victory over the Red Army. I shuddered and had an almost irresistible desire to pee. If I were going to escape, it was now or never. You can't play when you're not feeling well and your bladder's about to explode. Then in a sort of flash I saw them there, with their gleaming eyes and their mocking smiles revealing teeth that were ready to bite. They couldn't give a damn about me. They were wondering how they would spend their stake multiplied by five thanks to this ass Victor. The fat slob must be stupid. They were no better than him. Life is a casino. On the one side, there are those who think that luck exists and who are going to lose, and on the other those who don't believe in it and who win every time. Today, the croupier was Victor, who wore a compassionate, funereal air, knowing that he was going to fleece them but ought not to show his overwhelming delight.

‘Relax,' Vladimir advised me.

I sat down at the chessboard. Leonid drained Tomasz's 102 and ordered a bottle of Côtes from Jacky.

‘I hope I'm going to be proud of you,' Igor said to me.

‘Leonid, don't forget we've bet on you,' announced Imré. ‘We need some cash.'

‘Michel, play as normal,' Tomasz said.

‘It would be best if we played in silence. I've got to concentrate.'

Gregorios picked up the spectacles and tried them on.

‘You can't see a thing.'

‘They're specially chosen,' Victor explained in a warm voice.

One should be wary of small fat men and chubby-faced jovial people with their angelic air of first communicants. They are the most dangerous. Leonid joined me. He laid his glass down on the table. He put on the jet-black spectacles. He looked up as though he was searching for the light, reached out his hand aimlessly, groped around and almost knocked over his queen.

‘I'll move your pieces for you, if you like,' said Pavel. ‘You tell me where to put them.'

‘Pavel's going to win a game for once,' Tomasz joked.

‘I need silence too,' said Leonid. ‘Whenever you're ready, Michel.'

They all fell silent and waited for the opening move. I gave it some thought. Like a player who begins and then wonders what his second move will be. Except that I was Botvinnik, the best player in the world. I moved my pawn on e2 to e4. That bloody fool Konstantinopolsky replied with his pawn on c7 to c6. The contest was starting in an original manner. I responded with d2 to d4 and he blocked me with d7 to d5. Don't play too quickly, whatever you do. ‘It must look natural,' Leonid had said to me the previous day. Leonid gave his instructions for each move and Pavel placed the piece for him. On the ninth move, I castled on the king's side. I could hear a murmur among the spectators.

‘The little fellow's playing well.'

‘He's not doing badly.'

If ever I find myself without a job, I could join the Comédie-Française. I didn't play a part, but I acted out a role in which I knew every line
beforehand, with an opponent who had the words at his fingertips. We gave our cues like two old hams. We took great care. We weren't pretending any more. We really were our characters, in all their sincerity, their spontaneity, their level of intensity, their slight hesitations, pauses, frowns, outbursts of glee and sighs of regret, moments of astonishment and deep reflection. All the others saw was the passion. Leonid was a convincing blind man placed in difficulty on the twenty-eighth move by my knight's e2 to e4. By yielding control of the king's file, his rook allowed my white king to reach the centre of the board. Leonid slowed down his game. You could sense there was a problem. He reached out his hand into space.