The Incorrigible Optimists Club (45 page)

‘Michel, it's Sacha. I hope I'm not disturbing you?'

‘Not in the least.'

‘I read some information in the newspaper that may be of interest to you. Bergier and Pauwels, the authors of
Le Matin
, are giving a talk for their magazine
Planète
. So I thought…'

‘You're right. Where's it happening?'

‘At the Odéon theatre.'

‘When?'

‘Right now.'

I believe I heard someone say: ‘Michel, where are you going?' as I slammed the door.

6

I
ran just to be on the safe side. It was a race against the gods. Or with them. I would soon find out. There were hundreds of people emerging from the Odéon theatre and gathering in the square outside. Cars were being turned back by the police. If she were there, I would never find her in this crush. A murmur rose from among the crowd. There was something mysterious in the air. People were beaming with pleasure. I walked up the steps of the theatre. I searched for her among this amorphous mass. Suddenly, I noticed the mime artist Deburau in front of the doorway. If this wasn't an omen, then fate was having fun throwing pebbles in our path to help us find our way. Tall and willowy, with an angular face and delicate movements, he was shaking countless numbers of hands. I joined the group surrounding him. He was talking animatedly. He stopped, turned round for a moment, stared at me with his dark eyes and smiled warmly. As though he knew me.

‘I saw you yesterday. At the Cinémathèque.'

‘In what film?'

‘At a certain moment, Garance says to you: “You're talking like a child. It's in books that people love each other like that, and in dreams. But in life!” and you reply—'

‘“Dreams, life, they're the same thing, or else it's not worth living. And anyway, what do you expect life to do for me? It's not life I love, it's you!”'

‘I loved that film.'

‘Me too.'

‘You haven't changed.'

‘Twenty years have passed. Thank you.'

I suddenly felt a slight pressure on my left shoulder. Deburau turned away. I turned round. She was there. In front of me. Her hand raised. She was looking at me with an amused expression.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Er…'

‘It's incredible that we should meet here.'

‘It must have been meant to happen.'

‘You'd have to think so.'

‘There's a huge crowd here.'

‘It's always like that at the
Planète
lectures. I didn't know you were interested.'

‘I'm interested in everything.'

‘Wasn't it fantastic?'

‘What?'

‘Bergier's lecture.'

‘Yes, it was extraordinary.'

‘Look, they inscribed it for me.'

She handed me a copy of
Le Matin
. I opened it. Written in violet ink on the flyleaf it read: ‘For Camille, who has brought the Morning of the Magicians to pass'

‘It's a lovely inscription.'

‘They explain so many mysteries. They're geniuses. Have you read it?'

‘I've had a lot of work. I'll get it from the library tomorrow. We can talk about it.'

‘Do you know Barrault?'

‘Not really.'

‘I've often thought about you.'

‘Have you really? So have I.'

‘I went to the Cinémathèque several times.'

‘I saw masses of films, I can tell you. Why didn't you come in?'

‘I looked in the foyer. I didn't see you. I knew we'd see each other again. My name's Camille.'

‘It's a very pretty name. Mine's Michel.'

We shook hands like two old friends.

‘Did you come on your own?'

‘I was going to come with a Russian friend. He had something that cropped up at the last moment. What about you?'

‘I was with my brother. I spotted you and he vanished. I'm in my final year at Fénelon.'

‘And I'm at Henri-IV.'

‘I've a brother who's at Henri-IV. First year. And three others at Charlemagne.'

‘You're a large family.'

‘I also have a younger sister.'

The theatre had emptied. The crowd had congregated on the square outside. The discussions continued. Nobody wanted to leave.

‘I don't know where he could have gone.'

‘I'll walk back with you, if you like.'

‘He's my elder brother. I'll be in trouble if I go home without him.'

‘It doesn't matter. He'll find his way.'

‘It's my father. If we don't come home together, he'll kick up a fuss.'

I didn't dare pry.

‘If he discovers that we came to this lecture, he'll kick up a hell of a fuss. He loathes Bergier, Pauwels and
Le Matin
.'

‘He's a scientist through and through.'

‘That's another matter. We're rather an odd family.'

‘We're going to have a lot to talk about.'

She stood on tip-toes searching for her brother. She waved. A ruddy-faced young man appeared.

‘What the hell are you up to? Where were you?'

‘Gérard, this is a friend from the Cinémathèque. Michel, this is my brother, Gérard Toledano. He's also doing his
bac
.'

I held out my hand and put on my best choirboy smile.

‘Michel Marini. Glad to meet you.'

He frowned as he looked at me. He crushed my hand.

‘Camille: we've got to get a move on! You've wasted my time with all your nonsense. How can you believe in this rubbish? We'd have been better off going to the cinema! What are we going to tell Papa?'

‘The truth.'

‘
Tchié faul lou koi?
' he said, asking her whether she was completely nuts in a pied noir drawl that was intensely familiar to me, and would have
delighted the Delaunays from Algeria. He disappeared into the crowd. Camille followed him. She turned round.

‘Tomorrow, I get out at five.'

Stories need to continue. I don't know whether it's because of or thanks to anyone that it happened. Whether the stars have anything to do with it, whether it's chance, or our free will, or our desire, or whether someone, somewhere, is enjoying himself pulling strings and getting tangled up in them. In actual fact, I didn't mind whether there was an explanation or not. I was happy. I strolled around among the crowd. Six months later, I wondered whether I had been right to persist in my search for her. I should have listened to the wise counsel of the members of the Club and not tried to force the hand of destiny. I would have preserved the memory of our encounter on the pavement of rue d'Ulm, and she would have remained one of those beautiful girls who pass by and elude your grasp.

7

I
had only one chance and and I didn't have the instruction manual, or anybody at hand to answer the basic questions: what should I do? What should I say? What will she think of me? At five o'clock the following afternoon, I waited by the crossing on rue Suger, in a doorway. Hundred of girls of all ages were coming out of the Lycée Fénelon. I had never seen so many of them together. At Henri-IV, they said every year that the school was going to become mixed, but nothing happened. I turned into rue de l'Eperon. I could feel thousands of girls' eyes lingering on me and staring at me. I pretended to be lost and rescued myself by making a half-turn towards boulevard Saint-Germain. The stream of schoolgirls dispersed. I spotted her standing in front of the door of the lycée looking from right to left. When she turned her head in my direction, I disappeared behind the corner of the building. She was going to think I was stupid: I had nothing to talk to her about. I didn't dare move. When she drew level with me, then I would appear. She took her time coming. I took a quick look. She was walking away in the opposite direction. I shot off. I ran round the block of houses to my right at full speed three times, going through the cours du Commerce passageway and up rue Saint-André-des-Arts. I looked for her and couldn't see her. I heard her voice behind me: ‘Michel!'

She had stopped in front of a shop window. I was out of breath.

‘I was late coming out.'

‘I'm glad to see you.'

I didn't really know what to say to her. She spoke before I did: ‘Aren't you hungry? My afternoon snack is sacred.'

She bought a pain aux raisins in the bakery on rue de Buci. She wanted me to have one. They were the best in the neighbourhood, apparently. She finished it in three mouthfuls. Then we went to the Bistrot du Marché, on the corner of rue de Seine. We sat down in the café and ordered two
coffees. She leant over and pointed out something to me. I leant forward across the table.

‘Did you see who's at the bar?'

‘I wasn't paying attention.'

I turned round. I glanced across at the dozen or so people there.

‘With the velvet jacket and the roll-neck jumper, that's Antoine Blondin,' she whispered.

‘I don't know him.'

‘I thought you were a specialist in French literature.'

‘I didn't say that. I'm interested in Russian literature.'

‘And Greek.'

‘I know Kazantzakis. That's all. I've not read anything by Blondin. Is he any good?'

‘Didn't you see
Un singe en hiver
, last year?'

‘I don't go to the movies much, apart from the Cinémathèque. And I've a friend who's a projectionist in rue Champollion. I wait for the films to be shown at his cinema.'

‘What did you like best yesterday?'

It was an unfortunate question. I should have thought about it beforehand and had a vague reply ready. I put on my solemn expression.

‘I've not read
Le Matin
yet. I came with the Russian friend I told you about. He's the one who's an expert. What interests him is… the… magicians, I believe.'

‘Alchemy, you mean.'

‘Yes. It's his job. He prints photos. But you seem to be fascinated by it?'

‘You have to read
Le Matin
and
Planète
magazines, otherwise, we won't be able to talk about it.'

‘I read very quickly. By next week, I will have done.'

‘You have to spend time taking it all in.'

‘Don't worry, I read a four hundred page novel in two days. Afterwards, it's etched in my memory. And what about the
bac
, how's it all going?'

‘It's a taboo subject.'

‘Oh right. And why's that?'

‘Life's not just about the
bac
, is it? From morning till night, it's the one and only topic of conversation. I hate people of my own age. They're not very bright and they're narrow-minded. They think of nothing but their parents or their dreary little studies. You get the feeling that if the door opened, they would be blown away by the breeze.'

‘We're the same age.'

‘With you, it's different.'

‘It's true, the
bac
is not one of my obsessions.'

‘For me, it's vital to have it.'

She saw that I didn't dare question her.

‘It's absolutely essential to avoid family problems. It's complicated. What about you?'

‘Ever since I moved up to the A-stream, everything's fine. We won't talk about it, I promise you. What are you reading at the moment?'

From her coat pocket, she pulled out a book with a crumpled cover and dog-eared corners. She handed it to me.

‘
On the Road
. Jack Kerouac. I don't know it.'

‘I don't believe it!'

‘I haven't even heard of it.'

‘You should read it straight away. He's the Rimbaud of today.'

She opened the book at random and read a passage that had been underlined as naturally as though she were reading it in French: ‘But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”'

She closed the book. She was silent, a far-away look in her eyes.

‘It's very beautiful. I like it a lot. Are you… are you American?'

‘My mother's Irish. She teaches English. She came to Paris to study and she met my father.'

‘You're lucky. You'll get top marks in the
bac
… I won't mention it again.'

It was her bedside book. She spoke about it with great enthusiasm. You only had to hear her talk about it. It was a manifesto for a new world, another way of living, beyond conventions, prejudices, materialism and the pursuit of money. We created useless and artificial needs for ourselves from which we were unable to free ourselves without great difficulty. We had to take action before becoming trapped.

‘You've convinced me. Shall I start with
Le Matin
or
On the Road
?'

‘Kerouac can wait. He's not easy to read. It's more a state of mind.
Le Matin
is a priority.'

‘I'll have a go. Which American author would you advise me to begin with?'

‘Why not Hemingway? He's his spiritual father.'

‘It's sad that he committed suicide.'

‘You must be joking! He was murdered!'

‘Who by?'

‘The FBI.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘We don't know who the murderer was exactly. It may have been the CIA.'

‘No one's ever told me that!'

‘That's normal. It's a conspiracy of silence. He had to be done away with.'

‘Why would they have done that?'

‘He got in their way. After his death, the press weren't allowed access to his medical files.'

‘That's scandalous, if it's true!'

‘People talked about it for a while and then moved to something else. Most people aren't interested. They won. Who killed Kennedy? And Oswald? And the others? Hemingway wrote a book about Cuba that was unfavourable to his government. He used to live there. That manuscript has disappeared!'

She seemed so convinced that I didn't push the matter further.

‘Michel, there's something important I need to say to you.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘I don't know what your intentions are, but there's not going to be any funny business between us.'

‘I don't follow you.'

‘You and me – we'll just be friends. I just wanted to tell you now, in case you had other ideas, so that there would be no misunderstanding. Things must be transparent. I can't stand lies.'

‘I just enjoy being with you.'

‘So do I.'

‘Did you read that in your horoscope?'

‘No. By the way, you must let me have the time and day you were born. I have a girlfriend who will work out our birth charts.'

‘I don't know what time I was born.'

‘Ask your mother.'

‘I don't want to know what my future holds. It's you I want to know.'

She looked put out by my persistence. She dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee.

‘I want us to be friends. Just friends. Nothing else. Do you agree?'

‘I don't imagine I can say no, can I?… May I ask you a slightly delicate question?'

‘You can always try.'

‘Are you pied noirs?'

‘We were repatriated in 1962.'

‘I realized when I heard your brother. How come you don't have the accent?'

‘Because I don't want to. May I ask you something important?'

‘Go on.'

‘I want you to promise me not to read while you walk any more.'

‘I will if you promise me the same thing.'

It was the first promise we made to one another. The last too. It may have saved our lives.