The Incorrigible Optimists Club (43 page)

At twelve o'clock on Saturday morning, I told my mother that I wanted to show her something. She had hardly come through the door when she froze and then exploded. She was furious with me for ‘wrecking' my bedroom, and ordered me to remove the photos immediately. I refused. Voices became raised. I yelled that I didn't want to stay in this house any longer, that she was stifling me, that I wanted to go and live with my father. She burst out laughing.

‘There's only one problem. Your father isn't even able to buy a train ticket to Paris. If you think he can afford to look after you, you're mistaken. As long as you're here, you'll do as I tell you. You're going to learn to obey! I'm in charge here, whether you like it or not. You'll take those ghastly things down at once!'

Since I didn't react, she began to rip them down one by one. Because she hadn't removed the drawing pins, she was tearing them. I didn't want her to touch the ones of Cécile.

‘I'll do it,' I shouted.

On our return from holiday in Brittany, I went through a miserable patch. Feeling disorientated, I went to call on Sacha to invite him to the Cinémathèque, but he was weighed down with work so I went on my own. They were showing an Indian film dubbed in English, the story of an elderly, impoverished aristocrat who spends his last penny hiring musicians to put on a private concert for himself. As I left, I had an accident. It was sudden and unexpected. It was unbelievable; my guardian angel must have been protecting me. I had taken a few steps along the pavement of rue d'Ulm. I was searching for the paragraph that I had previously been reading when someone suddenly crashed into me. I found myself on the
ground, confused and in pain. I had banged my head. Against what, I didn't know. I pulled myself together. Then I saw her. Right in front of me. She was rubbing her forehead, which was hidden behind her curly hair. She seemed surprised, almost distraught. We were like two lost travellers who find themselves on a desert island and discover one another. She was wearing jeans and gym shoes. She had been reading
Le Matin des magiciens
and I,
Bonjour tristesse
. I didn't stand a chance.

SEPTEMBER 1963–JUNE 1964

1

S
tories have to start somewhere. Ours began like a silent movie. We sat staring at one another for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened to us. Amid the hubbub of a world reduced to ground level, with the audience leaving the Cinémathèque stepping over us. We were still in shock, our hearts still racing. We were in pain and we wanted to laugh. We could have yelled out ‘You idiot!', or been annoyed, we could have grumbled, been unpleasant, or moaned ‘Can't you watch where you're going!' as people do in the métro a million times a day. A group of people stopped. We could see each other between their legs. We could hear snatches of conversation about the use of music as a constructive element in the dramatic art of the Indian cinema. They were in vehement discussion over whether it should be used in the background or implied. We burst out laughing at the same time. It served as our calling card.

‘What are you reading?'

I showed her the cover.

‘Any good?'

‘Not bad.'

‘My father said it's corny.'

‘Have you seen Carné's
Quai des brumes
?'

‘On telly.'

‘At one moment, Gabin is in some cheap restaurant in the middle of nowhere. He meets a crazy painter played by Le Vigan. He says to him: “I can't help painting the things that are behind things. For me, a swimmer is already a drowned man.” Do you remember?'

‘Not really.'

‘Sagan is like that. She describes trivial social things. If you go by appearances, it's a rather syrupy novel. Except that she's describing the real things that are hidden behind these things. They're genuine love stories. It was the librarian who recommended her to me. Normally, it's
not my kind of book. When I discover an author, I begin with the first novel and then I read all of them one after another.'

‘That's funny, so do I. And who have you read?'

‘I'm emerging from my Greek period. Kazantzakis, do you know him? He's extraordinary. That's why I needed something a bit lighter. What about you, what are you reading?'

‘Only American authors, or almost only.'

She smiled. I'd never seen anyone smile in the way she did. American literature was a corner of the library in which I had not set foot, a mine to be prospected once I had completed the Sagan shelf.

Overhead, the group was becoming lively. Someone was asserting that in a proper film there was no point in music because there was no music in real life. They moved away, arguing heatedly about the influence of the soundtrack.

‘It's odd what they're saying,' she observed.

‘At the Cinémathèque, they spend more time discussing films than watching them. It's when there's nothing to say about a film that there's a problem.'

I was the first to get to my feet. I held out my hand. She took it. I pulled her up. She wasn't heavy. She was massaging the bone above her eyelid and I was rubbing my nose. I picked up her book as well as mine.

‘And what's
Le Matin des magiciens
like?'

‘Brilliant! It's revolutionary. You have to read it.'

‘I've heard of it. They must have it at the library. Did I hurt you?'

‘It was my fault. I was reading while walking.'

‘So was I. That's why I didn't see you. It's a strange coincidence, isn't it?'

‘It's not a coincidence. It was predictable that we'd meet today.'

‘I reckon it's more of an accident. Neither of us was looking where we were going.'

‘There are encounters that are bound to happen and others that never will. What sign are you?'

‘I'm Libra.'

‘With what in the ascendant?'

‘I don't know. What do you mean?'

‘There's a close relationship between the position of the planets at the time you were born and your place of birth, what you'll do and what will happen to you.'

‘Is that the newspaper horoscope? It's a joke.'

‘I'm talking to you about matters that are serious and have been proved.'

‘Do you believe in that?'

‘Totally. The stars have a genuine influence on our behaviour.'

‘I can't believe it! There are thousands of influences and circumstances that alter your destiny. Ten minutes ago, I was sitting quietly in the Cinémathèque. I was about to watch a second film, a western with French subtitles. And at the last minute, I changed my mind and said to myself: You've been indoors long enough, go and take a walk. I left. And smack! It's not all written down.'

‘The most recent research proves the opposite. Studies carried out on thousands of cases have shown that the position of Mars has an effect on athletes, that Jupiter affects actors, and Saturn, scientists. It's an inexplicable statistical anomaly. At this quantitative stage, it's not possible that chance alone should have established this connection. We're only at the beginning, but if we were able to analyse in depth, we could read our lives beforehand and we would see that it was predicted that you would change your mind and that we would meet at this precise moment and at this particular place on rue d'Ulm.'

‘That's incredible! So someone like me, who's useless at maths, it could all be due to the stars?'

‘You should have your birth chart drawn up. It wouldn't surprise me.'

‘It's impossible to understand. I've slogged away like a maniac. With my brother, with my former best friend, with a girlfriend and even on my own. Result: a disaster. According to this girl, it was psychological. Due to a problem with my father and my mother. I wondered whether it wasn't just that I was stupid. Now, if there's an outside influence, it explains everything. It's even logical. I should have thought about it earlier.'

We talked for an hour on the pavement, but I can't remember what about. Everything is muddled up. She spoke with her hands, and I listened to her with conviction. I nodded. She looked at her watch.

‘Oh, it's late, I must go.'

‘Bye.'

She turned round and left. Like the idiot I am, I watched her walk away. I had an excuse. I was suffering from shock at the staggering revelation that my incompetence at maths was due to fate. She disappeared round the corner of the place du Panthéon. I realized I knew nothing about this girl. I hadn't even thought to ask what her name was. How could I have failed to do that? Not to have asked her where she lived, which school she went to, what she did, whether we could see each other again. Really pathetic.

I ran. She had gone. I looked in every direction. She had vanished into thin air. How could I find her again when I hadn't a clue who she was? Had chance brought us together? Or the planets? Fortune only knocks once. If you don't grasp it, tough. I had wasted a unique opportunity and I could only blame myself. I felt more annoyed with myself than ever before. But if everything was pre-ordained, it may have been decreed that we were bound to bump into one another, that I would let her leave without knowing her first name or her surname and that I would wander around searching for her until the end of time. Perhaps I would meet her again in seventy years' time. I would be bald, toothless and pot-bellied. She wrinkled and crippled. I would walk with a stick. She would be glad to see me. We would realize that we had spent years combing the neighbourhood looking for one another without success, missing each other by a few seconds. She would have thought about me frequently before marrying out of unrequited love and having six children. We would know each other's names at last. I would take her frail hand. We would smile tenderly at one another.

2

D
uring the summer holidays, I thought I had hit rock bottom. On 3 July, my father had eventually opened his electrical goods business and discovered to his consternation that in the part of the country in which he was living, paid holidays were all the rage. The few curious-minded people who ventured into his empty shop considered it attractive but expensive. Business was tough.

He wanted to introduce us to Bar-le-Duc. Up until the last moment, I had hoped to escape the cousins. Ever since they had been repatriated to France two years previously, we saw one another frequently. For reasons that were incomprehensible, they never stopped demonstrating their affection and their friendship. I couldn't bear them. Not just because of their crass ignorance and their loyalty to French Algeria, but also because of their relentless pied noir accent which never left them. I suspected that they made it a point of honour to retain it and cultivate it. To begin with, I made fun of them by adopting it myself. That had them in stitches.

My father had given up his plan to spend the holidays locally. I had therefore been allowed to spend the period from 15 July until the end of August with the delighted Delaunays at Perros-Guirec, with its freezing waters, its rubbery crêpes, the constant spray from the sea, its cliff path that had been turned into a skating-rink, its endless games of Monopoly and, worst chore of all, holiday homework. The cousins made between ten and twenty mistakes per page. To everyone's total lack of interest, I had just passed my mock examinations with a slightly above average mark. Every morning, for the sake of family solidarity, I had to put up with dictation for halfwits. When I pointed out that spelling mistakes could be overcome by daily reading, they looked at me as though I were speaking Chinese. On 30 July, I couldn't take it any longer. On the menu was ‘a marvellous passage' by Paul Bourget, or so said Grandfather Philippe, who regarded him as the greatest French writer of the twentieth century and
whose
Le Disciple
was the book he read and re-read. I sent them packing and went out slamming the door. It was the feast of Saint Juliette and she was furious with me for ruining her feast day. She was convinced that I had picked on that day just to annoy her. In spite of my mother ordering me to do so, I refused to admit I had been rude or to apologize and, to make matters worse, I no longer joined in the daily dictations or in purchasing hotels on rue de la Paix.

One day, my mother asked me why I never took photographs of the family or of Brittany. I didn't answer.

‘I'm sorry I tore your photos. Things had got on my nerves. I was tired.'

‘I've thrown away my camera!'

‘Why? It was given to you for your birthday.'

‘It took lousy photos.'

‘I'll buy you another one, if you'd like.'

‘You'd be better off buying postcards.'

She bought a Polaroid. It produced foul-smelling photographs with drab colours that made them hop about with excitement. They spent their time snapping away and roaring with laughter at the images of themselves.

‘Hey, Callaghan, why do you sneak off every time we take a family photograph?' asked Maurice.

‘Because I don't want to be in a photograph next to you.'

We spent a month mumbling nonsensical words at one another. I wandered about on the heath alone, unable to read because of the gale, and I understood why there were so many roadside crucifixes in Brittany. Every afternoon, there was tea in a crêperie. They consumed tons of pancakes.

‘Goodness gracious me, I can't believe how good this crêpe is!'

‘Have you tried this one, my boy?'

‘You're pied noir, you are' observed the woman who ran the crêperie, who wore her Bigouden headgear in the shape of a sugarloaf.

‘Yes, Madame, and we're proud of it!'

They gave her a snapshot of herself. She reckoned there was no stopping progress. At Paimpol, on one occasion, I don't know what came over them, but it may have been due to the dry cider, they started singing: ‘We are Africans and we've come from afar…'

*

The prospect of returning to school had made me feel unusually excited and enthusiastic. But on the first day of term, the sky had fallen in. Nicolas had vanished. My oldest friend. My chosen pal, with whom I shared everything or almost everything. Who was invited home for birthday parties. Whose father had told me, one Thursday evening, to cheer me up, that I was part of the family and that I should consider myself at home in his house. With whom I worked in harmony and mutual respect. Disappeared. Taken flight. Melted away. I had been promoted from the C stream to the A stream. He should have been in a different form to me, but no one had had any news of him. I went to their flat in the Maubert district. They had moved out at the end of July. The concierge didn't know where they had gone. They had left without warning. I didn't believe her. I rushed into the nearest bar. I bought a token for the payphone. I dialled his number. A female voice replied: ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please check in the directory or with the information service.'

It made me shake with anger. A week before I went away on holiday, we had recorded a Little Richard album and another by Jerry Lee Lewis. I had saved him a fortune and he thanked me by ditching me, without telling me he was leaving. Especially since I had lent him a Fats Domino record from Pierre's collection. An imported disc you couldn't find anywhere. He used to spend his holidays with his grandparents in a godforsaken hole in the Deux-Sèvres, renowned for being deadly boring and for days that never ended. He was hoping to benefit from the complete silence to achieve a perfect recording. He had made a subtle threat, full of innuendo:

‘Next year, if we're still together, I won't be able to let you go on cribbing during maths tests. With Shrivel-face, it was easy. With Peretti, it'll be another matter. He's a swine. He never stops walking up and down the aisles. He knows all the tricks.'

It was the sort of argument that makes you think. I gave in. I lent him
Blueberry Hill
. There was a strange little smile on his face when I gave it to him.

‘You can trust me.'

I lost my Fats Domino. He knew he would be leaving Paris. No goodbye. No regrets. Not the least sadness. As though I were a stranger. I would never have believed it possible. Not with Nicolas. I felt as though my years of friendship had been stolen from me. He had no right to do that. One day we would see each other again and he had another thing coming. I'd smash him in the face. Worst of all was that I now found myself sitting next to Bertrand Cléry, who was frightened of his own shadow, would raise his left hand to conceal his precious work from me and, when that wasn't enough, he would create a barrier with his shoulder. Each time I sat down, I would take the opportunity to nudge him with my elbow or else tread on his foot. I don't know whether it was Peretti's influence, whether the standard had dropped, or whether it was a stroke of luck, but I found myself slightly above the average and, for once, was no longer the butt of everyone's jokes.

At Henri-IV, I derived a certain satisfaction from steering clear of my colleagues. Each morning, I gave myself an objective. Not to say good morning to anyone. Not to open my mouth all day. Not to reply to a single question. Not to shake anyone's hand. To try to be an invisible man. The result surpassed my expectations. Nobody spoke to me at school apart from Sherlock, whom I was duty bound to acknowledge. I was alone at last. I could read without being disturbed. Cléry had the good sense to move to the front row. Nicolas's place was empty. My mood swung between anger and resentment. After a week, I reckoned the time had come to meet my real friends. I went back to the Balto.

Igor and Leonid were playing baby-foot, whirling the rods around like a couple of chumps. They roared with laughter whenever the ball went into the goal.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Hello, stranger, we thought you'd moved,' said Igor, keeping his eye on the game.

‘We're taking a bit of exercise,' Leonid continued.

‘Teach us to play,' Igor asked.

‘You're too old. You've got to start young.'

‘You little devil, I can run faster than you!' said Leonid.

‘We gave you lessons in chess and that wasn't much fun for us.'

That was how I came to give them their first lesson in baby-foot. They loved it. It became their favourite pastime. Every evening, before playing chess, they would have two or three games. You can play baby-foot at any age. Within a few weeks, they had formed a partnership known as the ‘Bolchos', and became famous for their dishonesty and their endless challenges. Igor, playing at the back, became a decent goalkeeper, and Leonid was the attacker, even though they found it hard to abide by certain rules such as being forbidden from talking in Russian in order to distract the opponent, or knocking the ball about endlessly before shooting. Occasionally, Leonid made loud protests. When he was told he was not allowed to do this, he started to sneeze violently and would then shoot while he was doing so. It was unsporting behaviour, but you couldn't stop them: they pretended they didn't understand French.

‘You're looking a bit out of sorts,' Igor remarked.

‘I've got an issue with my best friend. He's cleared off without saying anything.'

‘And is that why you've got such a gloomy expression?' said Leonid. ‘Come on, let's have a drink.'

I told them about Nicolas's betrayal. They knew him by sight.

‘What your Nicolas has done, that's nothing. I've done far worse,' Leonid explained, filling his glass. ‘I deserted my best friend, Dimitri Rovine. An outstanding doctor, who saved my life. He was arrested. His mother begged me to intervene, to use my connections to lessen his sentence. I could have tried to save him, but I told myself that it wasn't worth it, that I risked compromising myself. I left him to his fate.'

‘Who knows, it may have been pointless and you would have taken an unnecessary risk,' Igor said.

‘What would you have done, Igor Emilievitch?'

‘It was a time when people were disappearing without anyone knowing why. It was like a kind of epidemic, but one you felt ashamed to talk about. I did what the others did, Leonid, I looked the other way. You mustn't worry. At worst, he spent a few years in jail and was freed in 1953, after Stalin's death. Today, he's practising as a doctor in a hospital in
Leningrad or somewhere else and he's no longer thinking of you.'

Leonid poured himself some more Côtes-du-Rhône. His hand was shaking. The neck of the bottle was tapping on the rim of the glass. He grabbed me by the shoulders.

‘Do you know why he was arrested, Michel?'

‘How could I know?'

‘Stop it, Leonid Mikhaïlovitch!' Igor cried. ‘There's no point!'

‘He was accused of selling drugs on the black market.'

He took a small brown flask from his pocket and put it on the counter.

‘Do you know why I take ten drops of this stuff morning and night?'

I shook my head.

‘Because it stinks! It stinks everywhere. Dimitri felt sorry for me. He wanted to help me. That's whiy he was arrested. I'll tell you something and don't you forget it: the only friends who don't let you down are those who are dead.'

He drained his glass, put the flask back in his pocket, tossed a note on the counter and then walked towards the door.

‘Where are you going?' Igor asked.

‘I'm off to work.'

Igor smiled at me sadly.

‘He's a real bore once he gets started. There's nothing one can do. He can't stop himself harping on about it. Well what do you know: Leonid has left without finishing the bottle.'

He poured out the rest of the wine equally. We clinked glasses.

‘Here's to us.'

‘Igor, when you talk with your double-barrelled names, it's as if we were in a Dostoevsky novel.'

‘In Russia, you don't call someone
Monsieur
or
Madame
. In order to show your respect or friendship, you use the patronymic, never the surname. Gregorios would tell you that “patronymic” comes from “father”. You take your father's first name and you add
ovitch
for men and
ovna
for women. If I ever meet Khrushchev, which is unlikely, I would never say Monsieur Khrushchev, but Nikita Sergeievitch, because his father's name was Sergei. My father's name was Emile. My official Russian name is Igor
Emilievitch Markish. You were talking about Dostoevsky. His father's name was Mikhail. His full name in Russian is Fyodor Mikhaïlovitch Dostoevsky. What's your father's first name?'

‘Paul.'

‘In Russia, you'd be called: Mikhaïl Pavlovitch Marini.'

‘That's far classier.'