The Incorrigible Optimists Club (52 page)

19

I
woke up in the middle of the night. It was obvious: I had to board the ship. Slip anchor. Turn my gaze from the disappearing coastline. Confront the unknown seas and sail past the headland. My decision was made. I would go away with her. I would accompany her. Nobody could prevent me doing so. A few technical details remained to be resolved. I wondered whether I should do this before or after the
bac
. I hesitated. The boil had to be lanced, we couldn't prevaricate any longer. I knew from Camille that her father came back from work early. It wasn't going to be easy to get my way; to impose myself come what may; to apply pressure and stand firm until I had what I wanted. I skipped the last lesson and went to ring his doorbell, determined to use the experience I had gained at chess to enforce my will. A man of about fifty, with a pleasant expression and an athletic build, answered the door. I recognized him from his gloomy voice.

‘Hello, Monsieur Toledano, I'm Michel Marini.'

‘Hello, Michel, how are you?'

I was surprised by this warm welcome, the outstretched hand and open smile.

‘Camille's not here.'

I didn't know he knew.

‘It's you I've come to see.'

‘Very well, come in.'

I went inside the flat. Cardboard boxes were piled up in the hallway, labelled so that they could be distinguished one from the other. He was in the process of packing one in the dining room.

‘Leaving shortly?'

‘These boxes are going ahead of us. Some coffee?'

‘No thank you, Monsieur. I don't feel like any.'

He looked at me and waited. He poured himself a large cup.

‘You should. It warms you up in this rotten weather. What is it, my lad?'

He had noticed I was finding it difficult to speak.

‘Come and sit down. We'll be quiet here. Would you like some biscuits? My wife made them.'

We sat round the table. He opened a tin filled with biscuits.

‘Help yourself. You'll never have eaten any like these.'

I took two, out of politeness.

‘They're delicious.'

‘You'll have noticed there are some with orange peel. It's my mother's recipe – authentically Constantine.'

There comes a moment when you have to take the plunge. Even if the water is freezing or you don't know how to swim. Before the ship sinks.

‘Monsieur Toledano, I'm leaving with you.'

He stopped munching his biscuit and put down his cup. He looked neither surprised nor angry.

‘With us, to Israel?'

‘Yes.'

‘Would you like to come on holiday?'

‘No. For ever.'

‘Because of Camille?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what does she think of this?'

‘She said goodbye to me, and told me it was over.'

‘She's right. It's not possible between the two of you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you're not Jewish.'

‘For me, it's not a problem. I couldn't care less about religion. I'm not a believer.'

‘You're a nice boy, Michel. I like poets.'

‘How do you know?'

‘My daughter tells me everything. I, too, loved poetry when I was young. Apollinaire especially. Do you know Apollinaire?'

‘Not very well.'

He searched his memory.

‘I no longer remember. It was a long time ago.'

He closed his eyes…

‘It was somewhere there inside,' he said mischievously, pointing to his temple. ‘When you think about it, it's amazing what we have in our heads. I've nothing against you. But I'd prefer my daughter to marry a Jew. It's better.'

‘Why?'

‘For the children! Have you thought about children?'

‘Not yet.'

‘That's the problem. Would you like it if your children went to the synagogue?'

‘Perhaps my children won't go anywhere.'

‘You can do what you want with your children. My daughter's children won't go to church. Peace means being among your own kind. Jews with Jews, Catholics with Catholics.'

‘Why go away? You could be Jewish in France.'

‘If I were Chinese, I'd live in China. That would be normal, wouldn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm a Jew, I'm going to Israel. It's not complicated. You're French. You live in France. You're Catholic, you've got nothing to do with Israel. This doesn't prevent you and Camille being friends. But you don't belong together. I'm glad that my daughter won't be seeing you any more. It would not have had a happy ending.'

‘I don't think Camille is glad to be leaving.'

‘I'm not forcing anybody. My children are free. If she had said that she wanted to stay, I would have left her with my brother in Montreuil. She wants to go to Israel because that is her country and because her family is making
aliyah
. We're as close as the fingers on one hand. And tell me,
your parents, do they agree? Have they given their consent for you to leave the country?'

‘No.'

‘In any case, I don't want you around. You're young, Michel, make the most of life. There's no lack of girls, but you leave mine alone, all right? I'm not kicking you out, but I've got to finish packing two boxes. Here, have some biscuits. And keep going with the poems, you've got talent, I can tell you.'

I found myself on the pavement with a parcel of biscuits in my hand. Old man Toledano was very good at getting you where he wanted. I had said ‘Thank you, Monsieur' as I left. I was not equipped to do battle with a man who recited poetry with a Bab el-Oued accent and offered you coffee and biscuits. In order to argue with the slightest chance of success, one needed great skill in dialectics. Twenty or thirty years of the Communist party. The real one. On the other side of the Wall.

Two hours later I pushed open the door of the Balto. Vladimir was distributing unsold food: four roast chickens that he was cutting into pieces, some chicken vol-au-vents, meat pies, tarts, cheese pastries, eggs in aspic, brawn, hocks of ham and mortadella. Everyone was striking bargains and going away with enough for two or three meals.

‘Is there anything you want, Michel?'

‘No thank you, Vladimir.'

‘I've got some rice pudding.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Shall we have a game?' Igor asked me.

‘I don't feel like it.'

‘What's the matter?'

‘A small problem. I'd like your advice.'

It was a very obvious mistake. In my defence, it has to be said that I was a novice in these matters. I should have thought before I spoke about it. Seeking Igor's opinion in public also meant getting those of Leonid, Vladimir, Pavel, Imré, Tomasz, Gregorios… There was no question of dealing with sensitive matters in private. They were there to help, were they not? We were sitting on both sides of the restaurant bench. Leonid ordered two
bottles of sparkling wine, and I told them my story. Not in its entirety: just the most recent episodes. They listened to me as they sipped the wine and sampled the biscuits. At the end, they looked thoughtful.

‘These biscuits are very good,' Gregorios said. ‘In our country, we don't make them like this.'

‘Jacky, bring us another,' Igor called out.

‘What's the difficulty?' asked Pavel.

‘I've explained to you. Her father doesn't like me because I'm Catholic.'

‘He's right,' he replied.

‘That's discrimination!'

‘He has the right to want his daughter to marry a Jew.'

‘I know what she's like. She's being tricked by her family.'

‘He's not forcing her to follow him. It's true that they belong over there.'

‘Pavel, are you Jewish?'

‘Of course. I haven't believed in God for donkey's years, but I'm Jewish to my fingertips.'

‘Why don't you go there, to Israel?'

‘The United States is where I want to go. You know, Slansky was sentenced to death because he was Jewish. Like most of those who were hanged with him.'

‘I'm talking to you about a father who's preventing me from seeing his daughter because I'm not Jewish!'

‘It's normal that he should not want you. It's the reverse that would be abnormal,' Vladimir maintained.

‘If he agrees to that, he's no longer Jewish,' Igor intervened.

‘Are you going to join in too?'

‘Where have you been? Have you just landed from Mars? Who do you think we all are? Communists on the run? Enemies of the people? In this club, we're all Jews!'

‘I'm not!' Gregorios shouted. ‘I'm an atheist. I was originally baptised Orthodox. I go to church to keep my wife happy.'

‘I'm not much of a believer,' Leonid said.

‘You see, we conform to the original percentage,' Igor continued. ‘Two out of every ten.'

‘I didn't know we were in a club of sanctimonious bigots here!'

‘Don't forget, Michel, that although very few Jews were revolutionaries, the majority of revolutionaries were Jewish. This has been forgotten, but in 1921, there were seventeen of them, out of Lenin's twenty-two People's Commissars. Stalin drew attention to the fact, even though we no longer knew what being Jewish meant. We no longer practised. We never set foot in a synagogue. It was an aspect of our lives that was unimportant. We became Jews again in spite of ourselves.'

‘I don't see the connection with me and Camille. You have a boy of my age and a younger daughter, if I remember correctly?'

‘She was two years old when I left. She's fourteen now.'

‘If your daughter or your son told you they wanted to marry a Catholic, would it bother you?'

‘I'll never see my children again. I don't even know whether they're alive. For a long time, I didn't feel involved. They were a legacy of a world that no longer existed and deserved to be destroyed. I was anti-religious. Our memories have been jolted on either side. I knew doctors who were murdered, not because they were believers, but because they were born Jewish. I can understand your girlfriend's father. You don't know what he's lived through.'

‘You haven't answered my question. Would it be a problem for you with your daughter, nowadays?'

‘A bit. More so in the case of my son. Because of the children.'

‘Have you forgotten your grand principles? It's the opposite of what you've always maintained!'

‘Perhaps I've changed or grown older.'

‘We'd be better off going to live in Israel,' Vladimir said. ‘We could work there in peace.'

‘I think so too,' Igor carried on. ‘At least I'd be allowed to practise my profession there.'

‘I thought that religion was the opium of the people.'

‘Being Zionist doesn't mean being religious,' Tomasz announced.

‘You're nothing but a bunch of… of…'

Words bounced around on the tip of my tongue. None came out.

They stared at me, surprised at my aggression.

‘You mustn't get annoyed, Michel,' said Leonid. ‘We were just chatting.'

I felt like screaming. Something had just snapped between us. I no longer felt part of their group. They had excluded me. I had come needing to be cheered up a little and I had gone away feeling downcast. How could I have been so blind and stupid as not to notice anything? I loathed them. I made up my mind to leave this club and never set foot there again. Whoever said that revolutionaries end up as oppressors or heretics was not mistaken. He had forgotten that some of them become religious bigots.

On the day before the
bac
, I went to the movies. Apparently, it's the best way of relaxing. For weeks, Werner had been inviting me to come and see the film of the century according to Igor and Leonid, who spoke about it with tremors in their voices. Werner found me a seat in the cinema. There weren't many people.
The Cranes are Flying
was a shock. Not just because of the perfect harmony between the lyricism and the emotions that whirl us away, but mainly because of the story, which was so simple and so human. I recognized my own parents' story, separated as they were by war, though in their case they found each other again.

The
bac
was a formality. We had been trained like cattle at an agricultural show. It was as though our teachers knew the questions beforehand. There then began that lethargic, unsettled period of waiting for the results without knowing whether to be anxious or relieved. I didn't know whether I should phone her or try to see her. I decided it was best not to show my impatience. I ran my circuits of the Luxembourg at a mad pace. It's not easy to rid oneself of an
idée fixe
. I still had a slim hope that Camille might fail her
bac
. If she didn't want us to be apart, she knew what she had to do. The choice lay in her hands: her parents or me. My fate would be settled in twelve days' time. The prisoner sentenced to death, facing the firing squad, can retain one hope and tell himself, just as I did: for the time being, everything's all right.

20

I
had banned myself from the Club, but not from the Balto. I returned to my old habits and caught up with my old pals. They, at least, did not split hairs, nor did they give a damn about History. They behaved as though nothing had existed before they did; they lived in the present, they did not expect to change the world, but to enjoy it, and they did not hang around privately cursing people. Their discussions were about girls on Saturday evenings, football on Sundays, and rock'n'roll every day of the week. It was a great breath of fresh air. I played with Samy, who was still just as lethal. I took genuine pleasure ignoring the greetings of Club members. I pretended not to hear them saying hello and ‘How are you, Michel?' They had already forgotten the previous week's argument. They could yell and curse one another, yet ten minutes later they were joking and offering to buy drinks. But I could not rid myself of these bitter feelings. I did not have the strength just to shrug my shoulders and smile as though they had not discarded me like a stranger. Friendship is worth nothing if it is not stronger than our convictions. If it were me, I would have stood up for them against the entire world. I was less annoyed with Camille's father than with Igor and his hopeless principles. He walked over to the baby-foot table. I kept my eyes stubbornly on the players.

‘Have you time for a game?'

‘Igor, can't you see I'm playing?' I replied without looking up.

‘We can talk about it, if you like.'

‘I don't need your help. You'd be better off looking after your own children!'

‘What you say is disgusting.'

He walked away towards the door of the Club. My cheeks were burning. I took it out on my opponents. Samy and I won about ten games. We were unbeaten. We were exhausted and dripping with sweat. We ended up at the bar, and old father Marcusot poured us two shandies. Samy and
Jacky were ranting and raving about Stade de Reims' baffling game plan. I listened to them absent-mindedly.

‘How do you explain that, Michel?'

‘It's one hell of a problem.'

‘Or else, they're being bribed.'

‘Who by?'

‘Who knows?'

Our companion, a builder, was convinced that it was Real Madrid's fault. He launched into a heated discussion with old father Marcusot, who was in the process of preparing his celebrated croque-monsieurs. He disagreed: ‘The Stade de Reims lot are actually useless! They were given another thrashing by Racing.'

This technical level was beyond me. I picked up the copy of
France-Soir
that was lying around and read the comic strips. I made the mistake of glancing at my horoscope. I was not entering a period of good fortune. Had I been born the previous day, all would have been happiness and bliss. I was doomed just by a single day. Old father Marcusot offered us some Aubrac sausage made by one of his cousins. We tasted it. It was excellent. He cut up some slices and poured himself a glass of claret. They started telling jokes. A sort of competition with laughter as the only reward.

‘And do you know this one?' said Samy's pal. ‘A priest is ambling along in the African bush when he comes face to face with a ferocious lion. “Dear God, vouchsafe that this lion may have a Christian thought,” implores the priest. “Dear God, give your blessing to this meal!” says the lion.'

We burst out laughing at the same time. The laughter grew hysterical. We had tears in our eyes. I no longer remember precisely what happened. I was bent double. Someone was leaning over me. I heard cries. When I recovered, old father Marcusot was clutching the lower part of his neck with his left hand and holding his chest with his right. His jaws were clenched and he was gasping for breath. Within a few seconds, his face had turned red. His head was shaking. He collapsed. Behind the bar, Jacky tried to lift him, but he was slim, and old Marcusot must have weighed at least a hundred kilos. He was unable to hold him up. Emerging from the kitchen, Madeleine began to panic. Old Marcusot was spluttering.
We rushed over to help him, crowding into the narrow space behind the bar. Samy held him under the arms and dragged him into the main room, knocking into those who were clustered all around. It was turmoil. Old father Marcusot was groaning. His chest was heaving.

‘Go and fetch the doctor from the block of flats!' Madeleine shouted to Jacky. Old Marcusot was suffocating. Samy tried to open his shirt collar, but he couldn't manage it because of Marcusot's bow tie. He took a kitchen knife and sliced through it. I raced to the Club where the usual calm prevailed.

‘Igor, quick!' I yelled. ‘Old father Marcusot has had a heart attack!'

Igor rushed over with Leonid. He knelt down beside Marcusot, who was moaning in fits and starts. He took his pulse by pressing two fingers to the middle of his neck.

‘Call the emergency services!' said Leonid. ‘Hurry! And shut up!'

Leonid pushed the group of onlookers aside unceremoniously. Madeleine, who was squatting beside her husband, held his hand.

‘Don't worry,' she said.

Igor began to massage his heart. He pumped his chest vigorously, both hands over the plexus. He paused for a moment and started again. Strong, regular thrusts that sank deep into his chest. Old Marcusot shuddered twice. Igor tilted his head backwards, pressed his nostrils together and, holding his chin, gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Huddled against one another, we formed an oval around his body. Leonid, his arms spread wide, provided a counterbalance. They looked frightened and distressed. I felt sure that Igor was going to save him. He blew air into his lungs. Old father Marcusot's chest barely heaved. For about ten minutes, Igor took turns applying thoracic compression and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We could hear him blowing. He was pumping him vigorously. He checked his pulse at the carotid once more, bent over him, and pressed his ear and then his cheek against his mouth. Old Marcusot did not react. Igor drew himself upright and shook his head helplessly.

‘I think it's all over.'

Madeleine was stroking old Marcusot's face. She bent over him and clasped him to her.

‘Albert, it'll be all right. The emergency service is on its way. They'll look after you.'

‘There's nothing more that can be done for him, Madeleine.'

‘I don't believe it, Igor! Where's the doctor?'

‘He didn't suffer, you know. He wasn't aware of anything.'

She stared at her husband's face, reached out her hand and, shaking as she did so, closed his eyes. Igor and Leonid helped her to her feet. She fell into Igor's and Leonid's arms and began to weep.

Certain customers took advantage of the confusion and left without paying. That's the way it is in Paris cafés: as soon as the owner takes his eyes off his cash, it disappears as quickly as his friends do.

The Balto was closed on Wednesday, the day of Albert Marcusot's funeral in his hometown of Saint-Flour. He was the shrewdest man I've ever met. He ate and drank too much, smoked his daily pack of yellow Gitanes, and no one could ever remember him doing any exercise apart from a game of pinball. He worked like a Trojan all his life because he loved his job. When he was happy, he tapped his large belly and exclaimed: ‘That's where the dosh is. And no one's going to take it from me!' He was right. He took it with him.