The Incorrigible Optimists Club (42 page)

‘What move are you making?' Pavel asked.

‘I want my glass damn it!'

Pavel handed him his glass of Côtes, which he knocked back. The tension was mounting. There was much sighing, clearing of throats and handkerchiefs wiping glistening foreheads.

‘It's amazing that he can remember all the pieces. What a memory!' Tomasz said.

‘Shut up!' muttered Vladimir.

‘I'm thirsty,' said Leonid. ‘Pour me some more!'

Pavel filled his glass. Leonid drank half the wine and kept the glass in his hand.

‘What was the kid's last move?' he asked in a strange voice.

‘He moved his knight from c3 and took the pawn on b5.'

From this moment on, nothing went as planned. On the forty-first move, I was supposed to take his black rook and force an exchange of rooks in order to capture his remaining bishop. He waited. Drips of sweat were running down his temples. He was clutching his face in both hands. He remained hunched over for minutes on end, wrought up, fingers kneading his hair.

‘It's not possible!' he exclaimed.

‘Yes it is, I assure you,' said Pavel.

I had nothing to do with what happened next. I had done what had been agreed. It was Leonid who changed his mind. Instead of moving his
rook on g1 to f1 as Konstantinopolsky had done, he moved his queen to c6. I didn't know how to respond. This was not expected! No one around us had noticed the change. I gave him a kick under the table. He smiled. I suddenly realized. He had found a better move than Botvinnik's. He couldn't help it. He wasn't able to prevent himself. He knew it was going to cost him a small fortune. He played against himself. None of the thousands of players who had studied and dissected this game had seen that Konstantinopolsky could win. Leonid was more talented than his master. I knew for sure that I wasn't going to be able to extricate myself. Botvinnik was going to lose. Among the onlookers, some had begun to sense that things were beginning to go badly for me. Igor gazed at me with a regretful expression. I did what I could so as not to lose face. This game would be consistent with morality. Goliath would win and David would take a hammering.

Victor Volodine racked his brain for memories of this wretched game. His last match had taken place during the civil war, at the siege of Perekop in October 1920 before he was evacuated with Wrangel's army. He had been twenty and now had not played for forty-three years. He realized from the joyful bubble of excitement running through the spectators and their rude comments that things were going wrong.

‘Are you losing your touch, Victor?'

‘You're usually much craftier.'

‘What a crazy idea, betting on the kid'

‘I was worried for a while. The boy played well. He put him in difficulties. Leonid turned things round.'

‘Get the cash ready, Victor.'

‘We're going to drink your health!'

‘What's going on?' asked Victor. ‘The boy's going to win.'

‘He's checkmate in three moves. He can't get out of it,' Vladimir confirmed.

‘I don't believe it!'

On the fiftieth move, just as I was about to be beaten by Leonid, Victor, in a rage, swept the board over with his hand and sent the pieces scattering around the room. Before we could recover from our astonishment,
Leonid took off his spectacles, observed the damage done, grabbed Victor and punched him several times in the face. He was hitting him furiously. We realized he was going to kill him. It took several people to separate them. He was kicking him in the stomach. With unexpected spirit for a man of his size, Victor got to his feet. He had a black eye. He was bleeding profusely from above the eye. He left without further ado. They let Leonid go. His shirt was red with his boss's blood.

‘I was about to beat him!' Leonid yelled.

‘That's obvious. You don't get any credit for beating Michel,' said Pavel.

‘Idiot! It was Botvinnik I was about to beat!'

Nobody understood. Apart from me. Since the game had not been completed, after long discussion they reckoned there was no reason to pay out or claim the bets. Everyone remained where they were, not unhappy to have escaped lightly.

‘You don't play too badly, after all,' commented Vladimir.

‘You've improved,' said Igor. ‘I'm glad.'

‘He's become like us,' Leonid concluded.

And he was consumed by a continuous bout of nervous laughter that was contagious. A full-throated roar that he was unable to stop. He had tears in his eyes and was hiccupping. We no longer knew whether he was laughing or contorted in pain.

‘My cousin, she had epileptic fits. They're rather similar,' Virgil remarked.

‘It's not epilepsy,' Igor stated. ‘It's a strange kind of mad laughter.'

They reckoned that he had lost the plot as certain great players do. They achieve such a high degree of intellectual purity and cerebral concentration that they tip over the edge. The most intelligent among us use only 5 or 6 per cent of their grey matter's potential. These others, who attained this extra percentage, moved into a world where the average mortal could not follow. This enabled them to play against Jesus Christ, Napoleon, Einstein or themselves. The story was told of a Spanish grandmaster who, having thrashed Freud and Marx a few times, had spent the last seventeen years playing a game that was full of new developments against the Devil himself. The latter was soon in a tight spot. Leonid
joined us again fairly quickly. He was pale, exhausted and trembling. His lower lip was quivering. He was crying like a small boy.

‘I beat Botvinnik!'

I took the opportunity to slip away. It was drizzling outside. I felt I needed a cigarette. I was wondering whether to buy myself a pack. Sacha was waiting at the zebra crossing. I stayed at the doorway. I didn't want to speak to him. The lights turned to red. He didn't cross the road. He turned round, spotted me and smiled. He walked over towards me.

‘You're much improved, my dear Michel, I congratulate you. Or else that poor Leonid is getting soft in the head.'

For a second, I was frightened that he might have recognized the game.

‘I don't know whether it was Leonid who had drunk too much or you who were inspired. I found it hard to believe. Luck plays no part in chess. How did you manage to stand up to him? I thought you were going to beat him. It was inevitable. You've got to be talented to put him in difficulties. For forty moves you played like a grandmaster, and then, everything collapsed. He pirouetted out of it and you played like a numbskull. As if you no longer knew what to do? And that swine Volodine who was betting on you and against Leonid, even though he was playing blind, it was surreal. You're lucky the others are so hopelessly gullible.'

With a smile on his lips and his eyes narrowed, he was waiting for an answer from me. He offered me a Gauloise and lit it for me. To confess that it was a rigged game would be to admit that I was rubbish. If I told the truth, he would feel appalled to have a cheat as a friend. I inhaled deeply and held his gaze. I was about to tell him the truth when I was rescued by the arrival of Igor.

‘What the hell are you doing with this guy?'

‘We're not doing any harm. We're discussing.'

‘That's not possible, Michel. You're either with him or with us.'

I looked from one to the other. Sacha remained imperturbable. Igor was red in the face. I was frightened he might attack him.

‘If you told me why, I'd be able to understand.'

‘They're old stories that don't concern you. I'll only say one thing: beware of him.'

Sacha made up my mind for me: ‘Don't go to the trouble, Michel.'

‘I warn you,' Igor threatened. ‘We don't want to see you here again. The next time you show up, I'll smash your face in. This is the last warning!'

Sacha smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I'm terrified. I'm not going to be able to sleep at night,' he replied calmly.

He turned around and set off at a steady pace down avenue Denfert-Rochereau.

‘You're free to go with him,' Igor told me. ‘But you wouldn't be able to come back to this club.'

‘I'm with you, Igor.'

He put his hand on my shoulder and clasped me to him.

‘I'm pleased to hear it, Michel. You've improved one hell of a lot. Have I ever told you about my son?'

‘Not much.'

‘He's your age. You would get on well together. Do you smoke now? Is that recent?'

‘The occasional one.'

Igor told us about how the boss and his employee had got back on friendly terms. Victor had his arm in a sling, one eye that was closed, a split lip, a face that had swollen to a fine shade of violet, two missing teeth and a crooked mouth that caused him to lisp. He was about to inform Leonid that he had been dismissed for the very serious offence of inflicting bodily harm that might have led to the death of his immediate superior. Leonid did not allow him to finish.

‘If you sack me, I'll bleed you like the pig you are. I'll use the Rasputin dagger you gave me. I dare not say what I'll do to you with it. You know me, Victor Anatolievitch, I'm not joking. Do you remember what we did to the Whites when we caught one? You'll suffer before you die.'

After thinking about it, Victor decided not to sack him. He behaved as though nothing had happened and told people that he had slipped on the stairs of his house at L'Haÿ-les-Roses.

12

I
n June, a memorable event occurred. I'm trying to find other adjectives to describe this episode: staggering, outrageous, amazing. Except that I was the only one to notice it. When I first heard about it, I thought I would get an admiring response. I expected people to come and seek me out, shake me by the hand and pat me on the shoulder. I waited for a week. Nothing happened. It was impossible for it to go unnoticed. It was incredible, illogical and unjust. I had to harden myself. After all, Van Gogh didn't sell a single picture during his lifetime, Kafka died unknown and Rimbaud vanished into general indifference.

‘Would you like to see something extraordinary?' I asked Juliette once she had finished her chattering.

‘What is it?'

When she has something on her mind, Juliette is capable of repeating the same request twenty times and then asking it again in different ways. She instinctively and successfully employs the technique of near annihilation by means of exhaustion. For the sake of peace, you eventually give in. I resisted.

The sky was limpid. The air was sweet. We crossed the Luxembourg and walked down rue Bonaparte as far as Saint-Sulpice. We reached Fotorama. I stopped in front of the window. She looked in it without understanding why.

‘What is it?'

‘Take a look at the photographs.'

She stared carefully at the prints on display. She stood rooted to the spot.

‘I don't believe it!'

‘Yes, it's true!'

Set upon small stands were two black and white photographs of Acis and Galatea. There was a white label on the card and on it, written in large letters: ‘Michel Marini'.

‘Did you take those photos?' Juliette exclaimed.

‘And there are others inside.'

‘It's wonderful!'

‘What do you think of them?'

‘They're marvellous. Where did you take them?'

‘It's the Médicis fountain. At the Luxembourg.'

The door of the shop opened. Sacha appeared, dressed in a white overall.

‘How are you, Michel?'

I introduced them. Sacha impressed Juliette with his serious voice, his calm manner and the sensitive way he moved his hands.

‘You have a very talented brother. I couldn't take such beautiful photographs at his age.'

The gleam of admiration that I saw in Juliette's eyes made me love Sacha for the rest of my days. With my cheeks on fire and a tingling up my spine, I was in a state close to weightlessness.

‘I'm not the only one to admire them,' Sacha continued. ‘We've sold your work.'

I stood open-mouthed. So did Juliette.

‘A connoisseur bought the series of the five photos of the fountain. It was the boss who sold them. He was delighted. I've put these two prints in the window, but I don't think they show up the contrasts very well. It's the beginning of fame. Come in, I'll pay you.'

My face was burning. We followed him into the shop. He took out a white envelope from the drawer.

‘The boss asked for the display price. For five pictures, he would have offered a reduction, but the customer didn't bargain and paid cash. Connoisseurs don't quibble. He sold them for thirty francs each, less the cost of printing and the exhibition fee. You get eighteen francs per picture, which comes to ninety francs in total.'

He laid five notes down on the counter. One Henri-IV and four Richelieus. I didn't dare pick them up. I stared at Sacha.

‘And what about you? I'd like to pay you.'

‘You're joking, Michel. I'm paid for my work. Keep your money. You'll need it to buy yourself a good camera.'

‘Which would you advise?'

‘Best of all is the Rolleicord. But you need experience and they're expensive. The single-lens reflex or compact cameras are a bit less expensive and easier to use. Second-hand ones can be found at attractive prices.'

‘How many photographs would I have to sell in order to buy myself one?'

He thought for a moment.

‘Between forty and fifty.'

‘I've got other expenses to think about. I wouldn't be able to afford it.'

‘You're in no hurry. Make the most of your money.'

We shook hands over the counter. I gathered up my banknotes. I arranged them in my wallet. He accompanied us to the door and stood aside to let us pass.

‘Take some lovely photos for us, Michel, and we'll sell them for you.'

‘He's nice, that man,' said Juliette in the street outside.

I tried to work it out in my head. How many photographs in order to buy a Circuit 24, a proper camera and the two dozen LPs that were indispensable for basic survival? A terrifying number. Two hundred? More? Given that my catalogue consisted of no more than five photographs and that a passing American might buy two or three of them on a good day, how many would I have to take in order to achieve this vast objective? Perhaps I ought to take an interest in the Sacré-Coeur and the Arc de Triomphe so as to increase sales? But I didn't want to get involved with postcards. Perhaps if I searched through my stock, I might find some photos that I had passed over which Sacha might agree to exhibit. Or some of Cécile perhaps? Did I have the right to use them? What had become of her? I turned round as though I was about to glimpse her behind me.

‘Michel, you're getting on my nerves, do you never listen to what I'm saying?'

Juliette brought me back to reality.

‘I have ears only for you.'

She had found herself a role. She was going to make my fortune and hers. She was going to talk about the photos to the fathers of her best
friends. She knew about twenty or more of them who didn't know what to do with their money. She went through them one by one.

‘Nathalie's father, with his hairdressing saloon, he's rolling in it. Sylvie's has bought a property in the Midi. Her mother's rushing round the shops in order to decorate it. I'm going to explain to her that you're a photographic genius and that she should hurry up and buy them before they become prohibitively expensive. I'll take care of your publicity. But we'll have to look for another gallery. That one's not great. Your friend's nice, but you can't let feelings get in the way of business. We must be able to find a cheaper commission fee, don't you think?'

I didn't have time to reply to her.

‘May I show you something?'

She led me to the window of a clothes shop in rue du Four.

‘There it is.'

I searched for what I was supposed to look at. She pointed out a pink and white hairband.

‘Please, Michel. I want it so much. Isabelle's got the same one.'

Her face was tearful and anxious. I reckoned that if it made her happy, I could buy her a hairband. I'd never given her a present. An artist who earns money can give his sister a hairband.

The shop assistant carefully removed it from the window, without upsetting anything.

‘It's the last one we have left.'

Juliette tried it on and looked at herself in the mirror. She turned from side to side. She was beaming with joy.

‘What do you think?'

‘It looks lovely on you. I'll buy it for you.'

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. When I went to the till to pay and the shop assistant told me the price, I couldn't believe my ears.

‘You must have made a mistake. I don't believe it. A headband can't cost thirty francs.'

‘It's a designer label!' Juliette exclaimed. ‘It's not expensive for a top designer.'

‘It's exorbitant.'

‘You don't know anything about it. And what's more, you're stingy!'

I dithered for a few seconds. I was caught in a trap. I felt as if she was robbing me. For a sum like that, I could buy myself ten rolls of film or a couple of rock albums. Juliette was glaring at me. She was white in the face. Did I really need to get angry with her and make her loathe me for saying no to her? I took out my wallet. I smiled as I paid, but each note weighed a ton.

‘Thank you,' Juliette said. ‘Did you see the scarf that goes with it?'

‘Are you making fun of me?'

‘It's not expensive.'

‘If I may be permitted,' ventured the shop assistant, ‘for a scarf of this quality…'

I left the shop with my head down and Juliette right behind me.

‘Keep your money! I warn you: I won't speak to anybody about your lousy exhibition. I won't do any publicity for you. No one will know who you are! Tough on you!'

This tiresome incident was proof that sisters have no gratitude. No feminine equivalent exists in the French language for the word ‘fraternal'. Nobody needed one. The truth is that it's because of squalid stories involving belts, earrings and trinkets that several geniuses have remained unacknowledged. Especially in photography.

I made the most of my unexpected wealth to invest in
With the Beatles
, their second album, which had just come out. I could lose myself for hours in this divine music. I listened non-stop to
All my Loving
. I was on my way to heaven when Juliette tried to intrude: ‘'What is this record?'

‘Get out!'

I dreamed up grandiose plans. Taking into account my various expenses, I still had thirty-five francs, which represented a little less than a tenth of a Circuit 24. My hopes rested on Sacha. Reckoning on a modest and reasonable rate, I would need a good year to put together the necessary funds. I would have to increase my production. I picked out the photographs that seemed worth showing. I withheld seven of them. I called by at Fotorama to get his opinion, but his boss said he would not be
seeing him until the weekend. I popped in at his place. He wasn't there. I slid the photographs under the door with a brief note: ‘Thanks for telling me what you think of them. Michel.'

At the Balto, there was a party to celebrate Kessel's award. Igor offered me a glass of champagne. I toasted his election to the Académie française, planned for the following year. He filled it again. Everyone had something to say in tribute and, to great applause and much encouragement, each of them commented on what a great writer and what a kind-hearted man he was and how lucky we were to have him as a friend. We awaited his arrival. We raised our glasses and drank his health. They were looking at me. They were waiting for me to speak next. I found myself standing there like an idiot, with all of them staring at me. I was caught off my guard. I had the choice of repeating what had just been said or trotting out a set of platitudes. I reacted in the worst possible way. I threw caution to the wind. Had I come out with the same commonplaces as Vladimir or Tomasz, no one would have minded. I showed off: ‘In order to speak about Kessel, I would need time, and I prefer to celebrate him in a fitting manner: I'll pay for my round of drinks in his honour!'

I had scarcely finished before applause rang out.

‘Michel's paying for a round!'

‘We've seen it all.'

Igor leant over and whispered in my ear.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Don't worry, I've got some money.'

‘Champagne or sparkling wine?' Jacky asked.

‘I prefer the sparkling, it's better.'

It was a fine party. Vladimir, Leonid and Igor sang
Le Chant des partisans
in Russian. They sang it in rather a slow way, full of anger and bitterness. On the second verse, the others took it up in French. The two versions coincided exactly. I had goose pimples.

When my bottle arrived, they touched it to ascertain whether it was a mirage or a miracle. They all wanted to drink some to see what it tasted like. Apparently, it was the best sparkling wine they had ever drunk.
In thirty seconds, it had disappeared. Leonid ordered three more bottles immediately and recounted his stories. He was unstoppable.

‘When Khrushchev went to New York for the United Nations Assembly, he challenged Kennedy to a bicycle race. In spite of his bad back, Kennedy came in a good first. The front page headline in
Pravda
ran: “Soviet triumph in New York: Khrushchev second, Kennedy next to last”.'

We almost died laughing. Pavel choked and Gregorios was thumping him on the back.

‘And do you know what a Soviet string quartet is?'

We all searched for the answer. It was a pointless contest.

‘A symphony orchestra back from a tour in the West!'

Pavel fell to his knees with tears in his eyes. He was groaning and unable to get his breath back.

‘Stop, Leonid, you're going to kill him.'

Werner threw a jug of water in Pavel's face. Jacky handed me the bill. I paid twenty-two francs for my first round. If I compare it to those I have paid for since, this was the jolliest. Igor passed a hat round for contributions to the Académie sword. Everyone put his hand inside so that nobody could see what was being given. Out of my previous fortune, ten francs remained. I hesitated for a moment. I kept half of it. A Victor Hugo note struck me as an appropriate amount.

I was convinced that I had lost my father, that he had gone away for ever to some inaccessible land. We no longer spoke except on the telephone. Marooned as he was in the back of beyond, he hadn't seen my photos exhibited. He didn't know about them. Neither did my mother. She didn't have time. One evening, I covered the walls of my bedroom with my photographs. The good ones, the bad ones and the others. I didn't count them. There was a packet full of them. I used up two boxes of two hundred gold-coloured drawing pins. It was an exhibition of the Médicis fountain from every angle, like some imperfect, haphazard mosaic. There was also a board with forty-two pictures of Cécile. At her home, in the kitchen, on the balcony, doing the housework, running, reading beside the fountain. I preferred her in these stolen portraits. There was
one in particular that I loved. In it her tousled hair and her eyes scarcely protruded above her knees, which she held clenched close to her face. She looked like a film star posing. As though she didn't want to be seen. I hadn't given Sacha any photographs of her. He would have liked this one. I didn't want to show it, or exhibit it or, above all, sell it to anyone. No one would ever see it. I was glad to have found it. We could spend hours side by side once more. I could read sitting beside her. She was with me.