The Incorrigible Optimists Club (54 page)

23

I
woke up at three o'clock in the morning with a tight pain in my chest. There wasn't a sound. Outside, it was raining. It was a rotten July. I wondered how Sacha was and whether the operation on his nose had gone well. I would go and visit him tomorrow. In my mind's eye I saw Igor hitting him in fury, and him not defending himself. Why did they all hate him? What was the secret binding them that they would not disclose under any circumstances? Why did he pretend his name was François Gauthier? What did he have to hide? I suddenly realized that I only knew his first name. I had no idea what his surname was. Was he the son of a famous and fearsome person? Or one of those war criminals, whom police forces hunt for all over the world but who eventually manages to assume a new identity and vanish? Or maybe there was no explanation and it was merely a whim on his part. Even though other members of the Club made no secret of their names, he took care to conceal his own. I decided to get to the bottom of it and call by at his place to get an answer. His name must be there, somewhere.

In the morning, I went to his room in rue Monge. Behind the glass in the concierge's lodge was a list by floor of the residents of the building. On the seventh, there were some ten names. No Sacha, no Gauthier, nor anything that sounded Russian or Slav. I walked up the service stairs and arrived at the top floor. There was no name on his door. It was half-open and the lock had been broken, probably with a crowbar, which had shattered the wood of the door frame. The room had been burgled. It had been turned over from top to bottom. The mattress and the pillow had been slit open, and there were feathers everywhere. The wardrobe had been emptied, clothes lay in heaps. The two shelves had been torn down. The books were strewn around. His crockery was on the floor. I didn't know whether I should go to the police or tell Sacha in hospital. I heard a noise. A young woman was leaving her room. I had bumped into her the previous week when
I was bringing him some food. I showed her the damage.

‘This happened last night, but I heard nothing.'

‘I've come to get some things for Sacha. He's in hospital,' I asserted confidently.

‘It's not serious, I hope?'

‘He'll be out in three or four days.'

‘He's not been lucky. It's the fourth or fifth time he's been burgled. Last year, they stole my iron. The concierge doesn't keep an eye on anything.'

‘Do you know how Sacha's surname is spelt?'

‘I've no idea. I've always called him by his first name.'

I picked up a plastic bag that was lying around and put some underwear in it.

‘I'm going to tidy the room and put on a new bolt,' she said.

When I went downstairs again, there was a light on in the lodge. I knocked on the window. The concierge appeared.

‘What is it?' she asked, opening her door.

‘Do you recognize me? I'm Sacha's friend. I came to get some clothes for him. He's in hospital for a few days. His room was burgled last night.'

‘Again! There's nothing to steal in those attic rooms. In my day, burglars didn't steal from the poor.'

‘Do you have the exact spelling of his name?'

‘He didn't tell me what his surname was.'

‘What name was on his post?'

‘I've worked in this building for seven years and he's never received a single letter.'

‘And the electricity?'

‘The meter is still in the owner's name.'

‘What about paying his rent?'

‘He brings me his rent in cash every three months. And he pays for the electricity as well.'

‘Don't you give him a receipt?'

‘We don't do that here. When he's a little behind, we don't harass him.'

‘How did he get this room?'

‘It was before I arrived. I think it was a friend of his who helped him.'

‘Sacha doesn't have any friends.'

‘The caretaker before me told me that he was someone well known. I don't remember who. Why are you asking me all these questions?'

‘Don't you find it strange that this man has no name and that his was the only room to be burgled?'

‘I'm not the police. As long as he pays his rent, and doesn't make any noise or mess, it's none of my business.'

I tried my luck with the chemist on place Monge, the eccentric guy with the brush haircut and the English scarf. I already knew what his answer would be.

‘Sacha? I don't know. That's what I've always called him. How is he? Is he aware of my little bill?'

I went back to the Cochin, resolved to obtain an answer from the man who did not exist. He was going to explain to me clearly and precisely the reasons why the members of the Club hated him. This time, he wasn't going to get out of it either with an evasive smile, or a sidestep. I was determined that no one was going to take me for a ride any more.

At the hospital reception desk, I addressed the official behind her glass panel.

‘Can you tell me which hospital building Monsieur François Gauthier is in?'

She stared at me, picked up her telephone and spoke briefly to someone.

‘You may sit down. Someone will be coming.'

‘I just want the number of his room so I can visit him.'

‘You'll have to wait. You can't go there on your own.'

I sat down in the waiting room. After ten minutes, the doctor who had sounded Sacha's chest the previous day appeared. He asked me to follow him. Instead of going inside the hospital, we went into a room close to the reception area. A portly woman was sitting behind a desk. She did not introduce herself.

‘In what capacity do you wish to see Monsieur François Gauthier?' the woman asked me.

‘He had an operation on his nose. I wanted to find out how he was getting on.'

‘Do you know him?'

There was a deliberate slowness about the way she expressed herself. She weighed each one of her words.

‘Has something happened to him?'

‘Be kind enough to answer my question. What is your relationship to him?'

‘Yesterday, he was lying semi-unconscious on the pavement. He had been beaten up and robbed. He was bleeding. I brought him here.'

‘You didn't know Monsieur Gauthier beforehand?'

‘No.'

‘Why are you interested in him?'

‘I feel sorry for the poor man. Is that forbidden? I live in the neighbourhood and I was calling by to find out how he is. Has something gone wrong? Is he dead?'

‘He's disappeared,' said the doctor.

‘I don't believe it! What's happened?'

‘The operation went perfectly. He woke up. Everything was fine. We put him in a room with another patient. I went to see him at the end of my shift. We chatted. He thanked me. He had supper. The nurse passed by three times during the night. He was asleep. By five o'clock in the morning, he had left the hospital. Vanished.'

‘It's not difficult to get out of here. There's no supervision.'

‘It's a hospital, not a prison.'

‘We were obliged to inform the police about his disappearance,' said the woman. ‘It's the law. The problem is that there's no Gauthier at the address he gave us. Can you give us your name and address? In case the police want to question you…'

‘I gave her my identity card. She jotted down my contact details in her file.

‘I'm not going to tell them anything else, you know.'

She gave me back my card. I got to my feet and left, accompanied by the doctor.

‘Without betraying the medical oath,' he continued, ‘I can assure you that this man needs looking after following his operation. There are
various medicines he must take. He has a temporary splint and some stitches. There's a risk of infection. If you see him, tell him to call in so that he can be treated. We won't ask him anything. We also have the results of his blood tests and there's a problem. He must seek advice. It's urgent.'

From the way he spoke to me, I sensed that he did not believe my story. I was probably unconvincing. In any case, there was nothing they could prove. François Gauthier did not exist.

I went to the Balto, but not a single member of the Club was present and the new people did not know him. I questioned Jacky and Madeleine half-heartedly.

‘Sacha?' said Jacky. ‘I couldn't care less what his name is. That one, he's Samy. The other boozer at the bar, he's Jean. And you, you're Michel. Do you want to know my name?'

‘Sacha?' said Madeleine. ‘He's Sacha. He's Russian. With a Russian surname, I imagine. We called the others by their first name, too. They've all got names that are tough to pronounce.'

I told them about his disappearance and how important it was that he should be looked after. They promised to speak to him if they saw him. To set my mind at rest, I ended my search at Fotorama. His boss had not seen him for a fortnight.

‘He's an exceptional laboratory assistant. In a career of thirty years, I've never seen someone more gifted. Since he's been here, the turnover has risen. I should very much have liked to put him on a salary and have his situation sorted out. He was the one who didn't want that. Why? I don't know. His surname?… Strangely enough, I never asked him.'

I didn't know how to explain his disappearance. He must have gone to some quiet place to recover and get some peace. He would come back when he wanted to. It was just like him to appear and disappear in an unpredictable manner, when it was least expected. He would not let me down. Sooner or later, I'd hear from him.

We had been talking for a while about spending a fortnight at Bar-le-Duc, but my father still didn't have a flat big enough to accommodate both of us. As a reward for my
bac
results, I was allowed to choose my own holiday.

‘What would make you happy, Michel?' my mother asked me. ‘England? Spain? Greece?'

‘I'd love to go to Israel.'

‘What an extraordinary idea! Why?'

‘I want to know about life on a kibbutz. It must be thrilling to meet people who make tomatoes grow in the desert. There aren't many pioneers around nowadays.'

‘Isn't it dangerous?'

I could sense that this was taking an awkward turn. I knew how to convince her.

‘I should also like to go to Nazareth and to Bethlehem. I'd love to visit the holy places.'

Maurice made enquiries and discovered that it was expensive. It wasn't the right time given that business wasn't going too well. Eventually, in August, we would go back to Perros-Guirec.

24

P
atrick Bonnet did not hang about. He was teeming with ideas. He spent his time redesigning the plans with the architect, looking for the perfect solution. In the latest version, he separated the bar and the restaurant and gave them their own entrances, enlarged the café and bar area by getting rid of the present kitchen, reclaimed the Club premises and converted them into a kitchen open on both sides. He also renewed the benches and decorated the restaurant like a brasserie, like his cousin's at the Bastille. He was pleased with himself and asked us our opinion. Madeleine did not show overwhelming enthusiasm. She was going to have to give up her territory before she had intended.

‘If you demolish everything, it's going to cost you a lot.'

‘We'll do one hundred sittings a night.'

‘Only the regulars dine here. People prefer to go to Montparnasse. We do well at lunchtime.'

‘The clientèle exist, we'll go and find them. You'll be able to take holidays.'

He stood drinks all round for Madeleine's farewell party. At the same time, we celebrated the start of the building works. The Balto would close in August for the first time and everything would be finished by the time everyone returned from holiday in September. The workmen arrived the following day. Samy and I gave them a hand dismantling the old benches and loading them into the lorry. The foreman wasn't able to open the Club door. The small key didn't fit the lock. I tried, but it was jammed. He went to look for Patrick, who banged on the key with a screwdriver handle without success.

‘They must have forced it. Too bad about the lock.'

He picked up a pair of pliers, applied them to the screw and, with a swivelling movement, freed it from the door. He went in, switched on the light and let out a yell. We followed him inside. Sacha was hanging
in the middle of the room. His body, suspended at the end of a short rope, had begun to revolve on its own. His feet were barely thirty centimetres from the ground. We thought he was still alive and rushed over to take him down, but he was as stiff as a piece of wood. I heard Patrick's voice shouting to call the police. Sacha's face was grey, almost black. His open eyes were staring at the ceiling. His neck looked huge. He had a splint on his nose and his jaw was twisted. An overturned chair lay by his feet. Within a few moments, the room had filled with workmen and customers, all of them panicking and shouting. Jacky put his hand on my shoulder. I took hold of Sacha's legs and lifted him. I stood back. His body slumped down a few inches. I couldn't stop staring at his hands and his clenched fingers. Samy made everyone leave the room. I stayed there with Patrick and Jacky.

‘Who is this guy?' Patrick asked.

‘The one who was beaten up the other day,' Jacky replied.

‘Why did he do this here? It lands us in the shit as far as the refurbishments are concerned.'

I had tears in my eyes. I didn't know whether from anger or sorrow. I kept on saying to myself: I don't believe it! Sacha, please. Not that. Stop fooling around! A police siren grew louder and louder until it became unbearable. Sacha, why? We would have sorted things out. There's always a solution. Why didn't you say anything to me? Didn't you trust me? Wasn't I your friend? Why? Bloody hell, Sacha, why did you do this? Then some policemen made us leave the room.

Sacha's death was like something out of a thriller. Nobody knew how he had entered the Club, when both keys to the room, the one for the door and the one for the padlock, were on the chain that never left Patrick Bonnet's belt. Who had opened the door? Who had closed it? Since the keys used were not in the room, where were they? The police were unable to cast any light on the puzzle. They interrogated us, but nobody had seen or heard anything. They discovered a shoelace behind the stacked stools, but we didn't know whether it belonged to Sacha or to someone else, or whether it had been there for years. According to one police officer, Sacha
had picked the lock with a piece of wire or a hairpin (although none was found) and had locked it again by tying the shoelace to the half-opened door. Apparently, it's one of the devices burglars use. We all tried it, but it was impossible. They also found a bent nail on the pavement on boulevard Raspail, close to the window. He could have used this nail to pick the main lock, and then locked the one inside, thrown the key out of the window and hanged himself. We tried this too, but no one managed to do it, not even Samy, who had mixed with bad company in his youth. No one thought this scenario, worthy of a third-rate thriller, credible. The logical explanation was that someone had helped Sacha to die or had killed him, and had then left, closing the lock and the padlock from the outside. But this hypothesis was discounted.

‘The mystery of the hanged man at Denfert-Rochereau'. That is how
France-Soir
announced the case the following day at the bottom of page five: a man known only by his first name, which they were unsure about, and who lived a secret life. The following day, there was no further mention of it. It was forgotten, like a receding wave that washes away all traces from the shore. His death remained unexplained. Many thought he had been murdered by the KGB or another secret service. The police were incapable of deciding whether the bruises on his face and body dated back to his brawl with Igor or were inflicted just before his death. Perhaps he had had a fight with someone else? He had a scar on the back of his skull. Had he fallen while escaping from Cochin Hospital? Or had he been beaten up before he hanged himself? It was established that his death had occurred two days ago and had coincided with his disappearance from the hospital. His medical file established that he had no other injuries. The police classified the case as unresolved. As though they did not wish to discover the truth. I was convinced, and I was not the only one, that he had been got rid of by people from whom he had always been fleeing. When they took his body down, they laid him on the tables. A policeman closed his eyes. The key that he carried with him and which he was never without had vanished. This seemed to me proof that his death had been faked to look like suicide in order to rob him and steal whatever he kept in his hiding place. But I couldn't talk about any of that.

Three days later, I received an envelope wrapped in brown paper and reinforced with sticking tape. I recognized Sacha's handwriting. Inside, rolled up in a sheet of white paper, was the key he kept on his cord. There was no note or signature. On the flap, a red fingerprint was visible. Probably blood. The postmark was illegible and it was impossible to determine, even with a magnifying glass, the date on which it had been posted. If it was Sacha who had posted it, as one assumed from the bloodstain, the package would have arrived the next day or two days afterwards at the latest. Why had it taken five days to travel one kilometre? I put the question to the postman, but he had no answer.

That evening, I waited until everyone was asleep and left the flat at about eleven o'clock. I went to rue Monge. The building was completely quiet. I made no noise. Like a cat, I walked across the courtyard and up the backstairs in the dark, using the banisters to guide me. On the top floor, I went into the toilets, closed the door behind me and switched on the light. I clambered up the wall, supporting myself on the window-ledge, as Sacha had shown me. I took the key and slid it into the lock of the manhole cover behind the standpipe. The heavy metal panel toppled over. I put my hand inside the cavity and started to empty it. I was surprised by the amount it contained. A bulky loose-leaf ledger full of old photographs, cardboard files held together with a strap, three large exercise books written in Cyrillic characters and two dozen notebooks of various sizes; a short book by Hemingway, a Leica reflex camera and a small suitcase containing lenses, and a thick white envelope addressed ‘For the attention of Michel Marini'. I made sure that there was nothing left inside before replacing the panel. I used a vegetable crate that was lying around in the courtyard to carry everything and I left the building. I went back home and, in my bedroom, I started to delve into Sacha's treasures. I opened the letter. There were twenty or so pages written on both sides in careful handwriting…