The Incorrigible Optimists Club (48 page)

12

W
e went to the Cinémathèque for a change. In memory of our falling flat on our faces, we observed a few moments' silence, heads bowed towards the pavement. The first one to laugh had lost and would pay for the tickets. I paid. It was raining. We took shelter in the cinema without checking the programme. There were few people there. The lights went out. The credits went up. It took me a few minutes to realize that I knew the star of the film. Tibor Balazs had gone completely out of my mind. He had lost his wrinkles, as well as a few kilos, and he looked ten years younger. The man known as the Hungarian Marlon Brando played the part of a heroic and resolute freedom fighter who blew up a train, cut the throat of a Gestapo officer, sacrificed himself to save the members of his network, refused to confess when he was tortured and ended up by being shot after he had let out the heartrending cry: ‘Long live free Hungary!' The censors had allowed it through.

I told Camille how I had come to know him, and about his escape and return to his own country. She thought he was handsome and had ‘an animal-like virility'. The cinema is the art of lying and illusion. I didn't tell her about Imré, about their impossible love affair, or about the chicken. Stars have a right to boundless esteem in women's hearts.

‘One day, if you like, we could go to the Club, and I'll introduce you to my friends.'

‘I find chess boring.'

As we left the Cinémathèque, we came across William Delèze. His woolly sheep's hair was dripping wet. He shook himself. I didn't manage to avoid the expression of his delight at seeing me again, which took the form of a great slap on the back.

‘You vanished. Where have you been? I can't keep your place for you any more.'

‘Camille, this is William. He's a friend from the movies.'

‘Do you make films?'

He couldn't resist. The urge to talk about them was stronger than the desire to see one. We went and had a coffee in the café next door.

‘Michel told me about how you met. It started off well and after that I thought it dragged a bit. It needed new developments. People were going to get bored in my film. I had a better idea. It starts the same, but then he bumps into another girl whom he confuses with the first one. She's Dutch. They set off together and they're going to discover the world on bicycles. I wrote the script in a month. It's called
Summer Promises
. Everyone who reads it adores it. I'm waiting for a reply from the people who provide producers with loans against future takings. I'm quite hopeful. My future producer is pals with one of the members of the committee. We're waiting for an answer from Jean-Claude Brialy. He's not able to shoot a movie and read at the same time. I'm going to try and be an assistant on his next film. I'll be able to talk to him about it. Hang on, here's the script, you must tell me what you think of it. It's the seventh version.'

He put down a 150-page manuscript on the table in front of Camille. On several occasions, I had asked him to give me a script to read, to see how it was done. I leafed through it. Sometimes, in between two passages of dialogue, they got off their bicycles but continued to chat as they walked on side by side. His idea, which was revolutionary, consisted in shooting just one long, single, shot without cutting or continuity, and in real time. It was a genuine technical innovation.

Once William started, there was no stopping him. He knew everything about French cinema, the actors, the producers, the directors. He gave us masses of fascinating detail which you couldn't read in the press. You would never have thought it was so complicated to create a film. It was the story of our cinema as it was happening. He took Camille's hand and gazed into her eyes.

‘You're much prettier in real life.'

‘How do you know?' she asked.

‘Michel drew an identikit picture. He gave you a funny-looking head.'

I aimed a kick at him under the table. I missed.

‘Did you do a drawing of me?'

‘It was just an idea. So as to find you,' I mumbled.

‘I'd love to see it.'

‘It wasn't really you. I tore it up.'

‘You haven't missed anything,' William went on. ‘It was rather cubist.'

This time, I did not miss.

‘It's a pity,' Camille said. ‘I should have loved to see it.'

To relieve the tension, William started giving an imitation of a fly dive-bombing. It buzzed around in circles, which he followed with his head, and he managed to trap it in mid-air. But as soon as he opened his fist, it escaped and the whole thing began all over again. Camille burst out laughing.

‘Can you ride a bike?' he asked her.

‘Yes.'

‘Would you like to be in my film? You'd be wonderful.'

‘I haven't the time. I'm studying for my
bac
.'

‘Afterwards. This summer. It's a marvellous part.'

‘It won't be possible.'

‘I'll leave you my phone number. Read the script. Ring me whenever you like and we'll talk about it.'

He got to his feet and picked up his newspapers.

‘By the way, Michel, I went to see your photos at Saint-Sulpice. They're not at all bad.'

‘Did you like them?'

‘For a beginner, you manage pretty well. Your friend, the photographer, he couldn't develop a few films for me, could he?'

‘You only have to ask him.'

‘I find him expensive.'

‘I haven't had to pay him. He reimburses himself through the sales.'

He was in a hurry to leave and forgot to pay for his drinks.

‘Do you take photos?'

‘I try.'

‘You didn't tell me. Can we see them?'

‘If you really want to.'

‘Was your friend William trying to chat me up?'

‘You mustn't take any notice. He can't stop himself.'

*

Through the window of Fotorama, I could see the manager of the shop laying out rolls of film on the shelves. On display in the right-hand window were black and white photographs of a stormy sea-front, with particles of foam spraying up against the jetty and passers-by bent against the force of the wind.

‘Are they your photos?' Camille asked.

‘Mine are inside. They were displayed in the window for a month. They sold several of them.'

I pushed open the door and we went in. When he saw me, the owner gave a big smile as though he were pleased to see me. He came over to us.

‘How are you…?'

He searched for my name and couldn't recall it.

‘May I show my photos to my friend?'

‘That's what they're there for. Did you want to see Sacha?'

‘He doesn't work on Thursdays.'

‘At the moment, he works every day. We had a nice order from the Ministry for Cultural Affairs. The first prints of Chagall's ceiling. Sacha, your favourite photographer is here,' he shouted through the door.

We went into the display room. Camille stood in the middle of the room and spun round. Her gaze swept over the photographs hanging on the wall. She paused at the right-hand corner.

‘They're yours.'

It wasn't a question. She walked towards the five photographs of the Médicis fountain. She studied them carefully.

‘They're wonderful, Michel.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Really. Only you could have taken these photos. If I had the money, I'd buy them.'

‘There's no point, Mademoiselle.'

Sacha appeared, wearing his grey overall. He had the drawn features and bloodshot eyes of a man who hasn't slept.

‘I've got a spare set. I'm giving them to you.'

‘I feel embarrassed.'

‘Don't you like these photos?'

‘They're magnificent.'

‘We'll take advantage of the photographer's presence. He's going to sign them. Do you agree, Michel?'

He didn't wait for my answer. He went behind the desk and pulled a white envelope out of a drawer. He brought out the five prints and spread them on the counter. I wrote ‘For Camille' and signed each of them in the white border.

‘Take great care of them. In twenty or thirty years' time, they'll be worth a fortune.'

‘That wouldn't surprise me,' she replied. ‘You know, Michel is a real artist. He's also written some wonderful poems.'

‘You didn't tell me about them,' he exclaimed with a half-smile. ‘I'd really like to read them one day.'

‘That's not possible,' she went on. ‘Michel refuses to write them down. He recites them to me.'

‘He's right. It's much better when one listens.'

He put the signed photographs in the envelope and handed it to Camille.

‘With the firm's compliments.'

‘Thank you very much. I'm very touched by the present. Michel told me that you were interested in
Le Matin des magiciens
.'

‘He told you that?'

I didn't know where to put myself. I gestured to him and shook my head.

‘I've never read anything like it!' he said.

‘Nor have I. But Michel still hasn't read it.'

‘I told you, Camille, I read things that are useful for the
bac
. During the holidays, I'll have time.'

‘Tell him it's fascinating.'

‘What's interesting about this book,' Sacha explained, ‘even when you don't agree with them, is their non-conformism, the way they put the cat among the pigeons.'

‘Ah, you see!'

‘We're not going to take up any more of your time,' I interrupted. ‘You have work to do.'

‘Michel, Camille would make a lovely subject to photograph. What are you waiting for?'

‘She doesn't like having her photo taken.'

‘Camille, may I call you Camille?'

‘Of course.'

‘Suggest a swap to him. A photograph of you in return for a poem by him. You wouldn't be losing out, would you?'

‘I don't know whether he'd want to.'

‘Michel, do you agree to this deal?'

If she had not been there, I think I would have kissed him.

That was how I came to take my first photos of Camille. To begin with, she wanted me to write down the poems. I transcribed them all without changing a line. But I didn't have an unlimited number and the moment soon came when I had no more to offer in exchange. Sacha supplied me with them sparingly and he developed the photos of Camille. He printed them in large format, with a strong, grainy contrast. He refused to let me pay for them. One day, when I was telling him that it embarrassed me to accept his poems and to be incapable of writing any, he replied that the poems belonged to those who liked them and that he was happy because he knew why he was giving them to me and this was what they should be used for.

Camille thought that I took too many photos and did not write enough poems. I explained to her that it took time and that a poem was worth several photos.

‘Michel, it's marvellous.'

‘I know.'

‘Your poems are sad.'

‘For this poem, I want a photograph. Just one.'

13

In the current circumstances, with the bailiff's affidavit drawn up following Mr Marini's departure from the marital home, the latest attestations emanating from your employees and your relatives seem to me to be sufficient to obtain a favourable decision from the court. At the present moment, the opposing solicitor has not communicated a single exhibit to the proceedings. The absence of testimony in favour of your husband will be a determining factor in obtaining a divorce on the grounds that the blame lies exclusively with him. It is of the utmost importance that we should arrive at the hearing with our evidence…

T
he letter had been sent by Maître Fournier, the family lawyer. I came across it while sorting through the post on the concierges' doormat. I was expecting a detention from Henri-IV for having smoked inside school, and had spotted his logo. It was not the first time he had written to our home. I don't know why I took the letter that particular morning, and opened it. Because of the silence perhaps. For months, we had been living in a muted atmosphere, as if there were no problem. My mother answered me quite naturally and in a voice that was as collected and persuasive as her smile: ‘Nothing's going on, my darling. Everything's fine. Don't worry.'

My father telephoned on Sunday evenings. Juliette and I spoke to him in turn, while my mother sat in the armchair with her nose buried in
Paris-Match
.

‘How are things at school?'

‘Fine.'

‘I'm glad.'

‘How about you?'

‘Business is tough. You have to have your wits about you.'

To begin with, we used to ask what the weather was like in Bar-le-Duc, and he replied either: ‘It's damned cold', or else ‘It's filthy weather.' The conversations were short and ended with ‘Take care, darling. See you next week.'

He came on flying visits to Paris to see suppliers. He came on the first train and went back on the last to avoid paying for a hotel. He used to arrange to meet me in a café and would arrive an hour late. On one occasion, we missed one another, each of us sitting in a different café on place de la République. Afterwards I would accompany him on the métro to Gare de l'Est. For a long time he had hopes that it was not all over and that there was a slim chance of keeping the family together. When a couple is not getting on, the best solution, apparently, is to separate in order to take stock of things.

‘It's like the weather, do you see? You let the storm pass, and afterwards the sky is blue.'

Given the result, this can't have been the right method.

One day, a strange and unpleasant feeling came over me. He had arrived, out of breath, moaning about the dreadful traffic, the stink of exhaust fumes and the filthy streets.

‘It's sheer madness. I wonder how I put up with this city for so many years. I can't breathe any more.'

I looked at him as though he were a stranger.

When I read the letter, my heart skipped a beat. I almost went back upstairs to tell my mother what I thought of her attitude. I would have to warn my father about the plot that was being hatched against him, so that he could do something and defend himself. I managed to get through to him at his shop: ‘There's a problem, Papa. We have to see each other urgently.'

‘Tell me what it's about.'

‘I can't speak on the phone. It's very serious.'

‘Have you done something foolish?'

‘It's not me. It's to do with Mama.'

He said he would find a way of coming to Paris. He would take the opportunity to see a new supplier in Boulogne. We met in a packed
brasserie opposite Gare de l'Est. He arrived with a pile of catalogues from Italian lighting dealers. He gave me one so that I could see the quality for myself. He had arranged to represent them in Lorraine.

‘What do you think of them?'

‘I don't know much about lights.'

‘They're twenty years ahead of us. I'm going to make a killing with these. Not a word to your mother, whatever you do. Do you smoke these days?'

‘I've done so for a while, Papa.'

‘I'll have one.'

I gave him my pack of Gauloises and the book of matches.

‘So, what's going on?'

I handed him the letter from the lawyer. He read it without batting an eyelid.

‘When I think of all the money I gave this bastard.'

‘They haven't won yet. Are you going to defend yourself?'

He shrugged his shoulders and reflected for a moment.

‘I'd need to make up false witness statements. I'm not like that. I can't imagine asking people I haven't seen for years to say nasty things about your mother.'

‘That's what she's doing.'

‘It's my fault, Michel. I left the marital home. After that, it was a mess. We had a lovely family and then it all collapsed. I thought that we were going through a difficult patch, the kind that happens in every family. When I realized, it was too late.'

‘Was it because of Franck?'

‘The truth is that we weren't from the same background. It's something you can't put right. Some manage to. We didn't know how.'

‘You could share the blame.'

‘How? She has ten people to testify against me and the bailiff's affidavit. We'd be tearing each other apart for no reason. Are you able to keep a secret?'

‘You're not going to start all that again.'

‘I could have made things awkward for your mother socially. But we came to an understanding.'

‘What understanding?'

‘We decided to leave you both out of all this business. I want your word of honour.'

There was no way out. I promised.

‘We agreed that I should take the entire blame and won't provide any further information to the proceedings. I'll retain parental authority along with her. She'll have custody and I'll have every other weekend when I can, and half of the holidays. She'll get a small maintenance allowance for both of you and will pay me financial compensation for the business.'

‘How is that possible? You've deserted us just for money!'

‘Michel, don't talk such crap! We'd have been at each other's throats otherwise and I don't have the means!'

‘You had no right! You should have fought for yourself!'

‘That's the way life is, my boy, and that's the way it's always been.'

‘In the end, you came out of it quite well.'

I got to my feet. I picked up my fags. I walked away. I came back.

‘Tell me where Franck is.'

‘You don't need to know.'

I left the letter from the lawyer on the table in the front hall. My mother was surprised. I told her that I had opened it by mistake. On Sunday evening, when my father phoned, Juliette answered and spoke to him for five minutes. She wanted to pass him over to me and held out the phone.

‘Just tell him that I'm not here.'

He couldn't not have heard. My mother looked up from
Paris-Match
. She said nothing, smiled and went on reading. On the other Sundays, I refused to speak to him. This went on for a long time. It's still how things are between us to this day.

I never spoke to Camille about my family, nor did I tell her about Franck and Cécile, their disappearance, the family breakdown and my father's exile in a distant province, though I thought of them every day. They say that time heals wounds. If you are going to wipe out of your memory those who have gone away you ought not to love them too
much. My predominant emotion was anger, and that urge to cry out that suffocates you because you are holding it back and because you are powerless. A sort of hatred had taken root in me. For whatever reason, Camille refused to talk about her family. We were all square. We shared the peace of orphans.