The Incorrigible Optimists Club

by Jean-Michel Guenassia

  At the dinner table that evening I could not resist announcing: ‘Guess who I saw playing chess?’

  Franck gave me a dirty look. I pretended I had not seen him. My father was amazed and felt obliged to explain to my mother that Sartre was a famous communist philosopher.

  ‘He’s not a communist. He’s an existentialist.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  She looked to Franck for support, who confirmed: ‘He’s close to the communists. He’s not a card carrier. He’s primarily an intellectual.’

  My father sensed that he should not step into this minefield. Persuaded to be a good chess player in spite of the thrashings Enzo gave him, he took it upon himself to explain the subtleties of the game to her and was shot down with: ‘I’d remind you that in our last game I had you checkmate.’

  ‘That was after the war. Perhaps I’ll go and take a look at this club one of these days.’

  He could see from the look on my mother’s face that she did not want him wasting his time in a chess club. I could feel the storm brewing.

  ‘And you, what were you doing in this bar? I’ve told you a hundred times that I don’t want you hanging around out of doors! Have you seen your maths marks? I forbid you to go there! Is that understood?’

  She turned and walked away. Franck wore a smile from ear to ear. My father tried to comfort me: ‘That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be.’

  That is how, on the same day, I discovered Kessel, Sartre and Camus.

  10

  Of course, I went back. Very gradually, I got to know the members of the Club. They were virtually all from Eastern Europe. Hungarians, Poles, Romanians, East Germans, Yugoslavs, Czechs, Russians, sorry, Soviets, to take just a few. There were also a Chinese and a Greek. The large majority shared a passion for chess. Two or three of them hated it and yet came every day. They had nowhere else to go. The Hungarians played a card game for which they alone knew the rules, which were incomprehensible to anyone who was not Hungarian even after they had explained them to you. In one corner there was a small table with a draughts board. No one played the game apart from Werner and old father Marcusot. Whenever one of the members wanted to wind up his partner, he would point to the table and say: ‘Chess is too complicated for you. You ought to play draughts instead.’

  They had several things in common. They had fled their countries in dramatic or quite incredible circumstances, often crossing over to the West during a business trip or a diplomatic visit. Some of them had never been communists and had kept their opinions to themselves for years. Others had been communists from the start, convinced deep down that they were acting for the good of the world before becoming aware of the horrors of the system and discovering that they had been hoist on their own petard. Some of them still were, even though they had been disowned and thrown out by their party and by the French Communist Party, which regarded them as traitors. Worse still, Franck told me: as renegades! They embarked upon endless discussions or tried to justify themselves and asked themselves questions that were impossible to resolve: why did it fail? Where did we go wrong? Had Trotsky been right? Was it purely Stalin’s fault or are we all complicit? Which meant: are we monsters? Are we to blame? And worst of all: might not social democracy be the solution? It led to animated, drawn-out, hate-filled and impassioned discussions. Frequently, they would peter out for lack of vocabulary. Igor, one of the two founders of the Club, ruled that French should be the common language. He was a stickler about this and was constantly reprimanding them: ‘We’re in France, so we speak French. If you want to speak Polish, go back to Poland. Me, I’m Russian. I want to understand what you’re saying.’

  In opting for freedom, they had abandoned wives, children, family and friends. It was for this reason that there were no women in this club. They had left them behind in their own countries. They were shadows, pariahs, without any means of support, and with degrees that were not recognized. Their wives, their children and their homelands belonged in a corner of their hearts and their minds and they remained loyal to them. But they spoke little of the past, more preoccupied with earning their living and finding a justification for their lives. By going over to the West, they had given up comfortable homes and good jobs. They had not imagined that the future was going to be so tough. Some of them had fallen, within a few hours, from the status of top-ranking civil servant in a protected job or manager of a public company with everything one could wish for, to that of someone of no fixed abode. This downfall was as unbearable as the loneliness or nostalgia that gnawed at them. Often after endless journeying, they had found themselves in France, where they had been given political asylum. It was better to be here than in the countries that had rejected them. This was the land of the rights of man, as long as you kept your mouth shut and were not too demanding. They had nothing, they were nothing, but they were alive. Among them, this refrain was like a leitmotif: ‘We’re alive and we’re free’. As Sacha said to me the other day: ‘the difference between us and other people is that they are alive and we survive. When you’ve survived, you’re not allowed to complain about your lot, for you would be insulting those who stayed behind.’

  At the Club, they had no need to explain themselves or to justify themselves. They were among exiles and they were not obliged to talk in order to be understood. They were in the same boat. Pavel declared that they could be proud of finally realizing the communist ideal: they were equals.

  ‘What’ll you have, son?’

  The first person to speak to me was Virgil, a Romanian with a rolling, sing-song accent that made me smile. This was something they had in common: odd accents that caused them to swallow half their words, conjugate verbs in the infinitive, place them at the beginning of sentences, gobble up their pronouns, mix up homonyms, and ignore the masculine and the feminine or else use them in risky combinations. Occasionally, one of them would make a correction and take it upon himself to give a lesson in French grammar that was riddled with mistakes. Endless and pointless discussions would ensue and, even after years, pronunciation and grammar did not improve. Nevertheless, they understood one another and they managed to have rows in French whenever they discussed politics or commented on the news, which was their principal activity.

  ‘May I stay?’

  ‘If shut up, no possible kibitz.’

  He could see that I had no idea what that meant.

  ‘Follow game without speak. No interrupt.’

  Silence was inherent to the Club. In actual fact, it was not so much the silence as tranquillity. You could hear the pieces being moved on the chessboard, the breathing and the deep sighs, the stifled whispers, the cracking of fingers, the sneering laughter of the victors, the rustling of newspapers and, from time to time, the regular snoring of a player who had fallen asleep. They sat so close that they could touch one another. Only the movements of their lips and their cocked ears made one realize they were conversing. Some of them still had the habit of putting their hands to their mouths as if to conceal what they were saying. You had to get used to this hissing noise that made it sound as though they were plotting. Igor used to say it was a habit acquired over there, on the other side of the world, where the slightest word could send you to prison or the cemetery, where you had to be wary of your best friend, your brother, your own shadow. Whenever one of them began to raise his voice, there was surprise and it took the rest a second to remind themselves that they were in Paris; then, as in a lively allegro, they began to have tremendous fun. Voices suddenly grew louder and then died down equally quickly. Without thinking, I developed the habit of slipping in between the tables, sitting in my corner without anyone noticing me, talking in such a low voice as to be inaudible, and expressing myself with a glance, or a movement of my eyebrows.

  There were afternoons when the periods of silence were brief and the laughter devastating. Igor, Pavel, Vladimir, Imré and Leonid were joyful companions who took nothing seriously
and made fun of everything, especially themselves. They were the first to scoff at a grumpy player who requested quiet. They knew an endless number of communist jokes that made them choke with laughter. It took me some time to realize that their absurd jibes were not far from the reality. But in spite of their humdrum lives, they were neither sad nor melancholy. On the contrary, they displayed constant good humour and appeared carefree and unburdened by any memories. Woe to him who was depressed and manifested his anxiety; he would be called to order and told: ‘You’re boring us stiff with your problems. You’re alive, make the most of it and live.’

  With them, it was either heaven or hell. There was no in-between. All of a sudden, there would be a flare-up between those who hated the system and those who believed in the future of the human race. Two or three of them would begin raising their voices. Then they forgot their French and started to speak in their native tongues, disobeying the rule laid down by Igor. They took sides, even those who had no idea what had caused the altercation. For ten minutes, there was a shambles of Babel-like proportions. They insulted one another, gave the impression they were about to smash each other’s faces in, called each other by every name imaginable and spat out the most appalling insults. When I asked Igor to translate for me, he replied with a smile: ‘Best not to. They’re not nice. There’s nothing to be done: we’re either severed or unsevered.’

  One day, Igor explained to me this fine distinction that divided members of the Club into two eternally irreconcilable categories: those who were nostalgic and had cut ties with socialism, and those who still believed in it and remained bogged down in insoluble dilemmas. The wounds were raw and painful. These rows were as violent as a hurricane that destroys a town as it passes through, except that they were over as quickly as they had begun and caused no damage. Age-old quarrels and ancient resentment rose to the surface. The Poles hated the Russians, who in turn loathed them; the Bulgarians detested the Hungarians, who ignored them; the Germans abhorred the Czechs, who despised the Romanians, who could not care a damn. Here, they were all stateless and equals in adversity. Once they had unburdened themselves, those who had been scrapping calmed down miraculously and got on with their game of chess. Five minutes later, they were joking with one another without any thought of revenge. They drank without moderation. Both good and bad news was justification enough to clink glasses and down a few bottles. Since the price of vodka was prohibitive in those days, they had discovered local beverages and enjoyed calvados, armagnac and brandy. They bought each other 102s, double pastis 51s at the drop of a hat and happily returned the favour. They had retained an expression used by Leonid Krivoshein who, when he arrived in Paris, did not speak French. He did not know how to say: ‘I’d like to buy you a drink’ and would say instead: ‘Shall we knock back a bottle?’ Ever since, they knocked back bottles. By common consent, Leonid had no rival as a drinker. No one had ever seen him the worse for wear. Even when he sank back one or two 204s.

  Having been used to reading only one newspaper, they rightly enjoyed being able to choose the paper that corresponded to their own views. They read whatever came to hand, and were astonished that a journalist could criticize a minister without being arrested or shot, or that a newspaper could challenge government decrees without being banned. Wednesday was the day for the Canard. Vladimir, Imré or Pavel read aloud the article by Morvan Lebesque, whom they praised to the skies for his forthright views, his inexhaustible capacity for rebelliousness and ‘his brawling poetry’. They were all in agreement with the polemicist’s column and his combative writing.

  ‘This guy ought to be given a public health award,’ Werner maintained.

  I should also add that they survived thanks to the money given them by Kessel and Sartre, who were rich, famous, generous and discreet. They recommended their pals to Gaston Gallimard and to other publishers for translation work, although there wasn’t much available. I lived among them for years without being aware of any of them getting a great deal of work. I learnt the truth, by chance, fifteen years after the Club had closed down, when I came across Pavel at Sartre’s funeral.

  I abandoned my baby-foot mates and became the youngest member of the Club. I struck up a friendship with Igor Markish, a Russian doctor who taught me to play chess. He had a son of my age in Leningrad. He introduced me to his pal Kessel with whom he spoke Russian. That was how I came to know Sartre. My testimony contradicts all the biographies. Sartre joked, he was humorous, he cheated at chess by stealing pawns, and he burst out laughing when Kessel surprised him by asking what had happened to his knight on f5. He did not come often. He could sense the animosity of several members of the Club, who criticized him for his communist sympathies, but accepted his money. He would spend the afternoon writing on his notepad, never looking up, absorbed in his work, dragging on his cigarette down to the filter, and nobody dared disturb him. We gazed at him from a distance, slightly intimidated, feeling we were privileged witnesses of creativity in action, and even those who disliked him watched in silence: ‘Let’s not make any noise. Sartre’s working.’

  11

  The end of the year was gloomy and Paris imprisoned beneath grey skies and freezing weather. For the first time, we did not celebrate Christmas with the family. Something that held us together had become loosened. Franck, who was training to join the school of reserve officers, had been called up for a month. He was traipsing around in the snow in deepest Germany. Wild and contradictory rumours were circulating about Algeria. Grandfather Philippe had decided to go there himself to make up his mind. People said that the newspapers were all corrupt and that you could not trust any of them, apart from L’Aurore, and even that was unreliable. Despite being busy at the shop, my mother went with him, glad to be with her beloved brother again and to make the most of a bit of blue sky. Juliette joined them. I did not want to go. I made the excuse that I was behind with school work.

  ‘As you wish,’ my mother said, without dwelling on the matter.

  My father and I stayed at home like two bachelors. I looked after him, did the shopping and went to pick him up every evening from avenue des Gobelins where he kept an eye on the enormous building site that was going to affect the family business drastically. I would go with him to a little café in rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques that he used to patronize. He would meet his mates for a game of tarot in the back room. To begin with, I found it hard to understand the rules. Suddenly, it all became clear. I was sitting behind him, and when he hesitated about what he ought to do, he looked at me questioningly to find out whether he should attempt a ‘take’ or a ‘guard’ and whether he should push the ‘small’ to the end. The unpleasant comments of his partners didn’t bother him: ‘At the Marinis, we play as a family.’

  Together, we won frequently. Afterwards, we would go out. He loved Chinese food. Every evening, we used to go to a little restaurant in rue Monsieur-le-Prince.

  For the first time, we skipped Christmas Mass at Saint-Etienne-du-Mont because it was so cold that the square outside the Panthéon had turned into a skating-rink. We spent the evening in front of the television, stuffing ourselves with Grand Marnier-flavoured Yule log, chocolates from Murat’s and marrons glacés, and bursting out laughing whenever we imagined the people we knew in the neighbourhood who were going to get frozen stiff as they emerged from Midnight Mass. It’s not very Christian to speak badly about good Christians, but it’s fun.

  ‘We’ll have to tell your mother that we did go. We stayed at the back of the church, the congregation was so big.’

  ‘Why not the truth?’

  ‘It’ll avoid arguments.’

  ‘We can say that I was ill and that you were looking after me. There’s a flu epidemic.’

  Before Christmas, my father had given himself the very finest of presents: a Citroën DS19 Prestige. He had been talking about it for a year. My mother did not want one and preferred a sturdy 403, but he disregarded the maternal veto. One evening, he announced quite casually that he had bought it
.

  ‘That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be.’

  He had pulled out all the stops in order to have the delivery speeded up and he had managed to get it three months early. We went to collect the car from the dealers on boulevard Arago. At the ceremony of the handing-over of the keys, one might wonder whether the word ‘car’ was appropriate. Priests celebrating the holy sacraments could not have behaved more ostentatiously. The car was a gleaming black, as shiny as a mirror, feline and alive. We walked around it, trying to absorb the fact that it was ours, not daring to touch it. The manager of the showroom explained to my father how everything worked. Papa made him go through everything several times and he repeated all the instructions so as to get them into his head. There were buttons everywhere, a stereo radio and cushions that were as comfortable as armchairs. To start with it was rather heavy going. My father had difficulties with the gear lever on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. The car moved forward in jerks like a horse that rears up and won’t allow itself to be mounted. My father kept stalling it and grew irritable. And then, he got the hang of it and the DS was off. The car drove itself, accelerated, braked, overtook. All you had to do was let it go. We set off along the outer boulevards. People turned round to watch it go by. We took the motorway at porte d’Italie and the DS flew along, free as a bird in the sky. No other car put up any resistance. She gobbled them up like mosquitoes. My father was the happiest man in the world. He began making fun of Grandfather Phillipe, adopting the cheeky, mocking accent of Jean Gabin, whom he imitated wonderfully. I burst out laughing, and the more I laughed, the more he carried on. I was given the full repertory of Pierre Fresnay, Michel Simon and Tino Rossi. I had tears in my eyes. He switched on the radio. We were treated to a Brassens song. We took up the chorus: