The Incorrigible Optimists Club

by Jean-Michel Guenassia

  ‘From Leningrad.’

  ‘I was born in Argentina. When I was young, I lived in Orenburg, do you know it?’

  ‘Is it in the Urals?’

  ‘My father was a doctor there. We came to France before the revolution.’

  ‘I was a doctor in Leningrad. My name’s Igor.’

  ‘Mine’s Jef.’

  In the car, Igor and Joseph Kessel talked about their homeland for two hours. Kessel invited him to have a drink at his place and they continued their discussion until dawn. In Russian. About the war, about Paris, about music, Dostoevsky, chess and a thousand other things. It was as if they had always known each other. Igor became more than his regular driver. They would often have dinner together. He introduced him as one of his old friends. Jef invited him in, but he paid the exact fare. You don’t give a tip to a pal. On more than one occasion, Igor whispered in his ear that it was time for him to go home and he accompanied him to his door. He didn’t treat him like a customer. Kessel was the only person allowed to sit in the front seat. He inscribed his books to him in Russian and often turned up at the Balto. Madeleine was very proud, and she cooked dishes just for him. He struck up friendships with most of the members of the Club and some of them came to recognize themselves as characters in his books. The first time Victor Volodine noticed him, Igor and Kessel were playing chess. It was hard to believe that Igor should be on first-name terms with such a famous person. He clicked his heels together as he introduced himself to Kessel.

  ‘Count Victor Anatolievich Volodine of the Tsar’s guards cadets.’

  Victor had probably made a mess of his career and should have been an actor. Kessel was totally taken in by him and, had Igor not been there, he would have bought Rasputin’s dagger. When, a little later, Igor told him the truth of the matter, he had the greatest difficulty persuading him, so convincing was Victor in his role of the aristocrat fallen on hard times.

  5

  What could an unknown Hungarian actor, whom no director wanted to employ because of an accent that made people laugh as soon as he opened his mouth, do in Paris? Nothing. Ridding himself of his accent became Tibor’s obsession. It was an indelible mark that clung to his vocal cords like one of those bad viruses that consume you from inside. Imré declared that it was a hopeless cause, that Hungarians never lost their nasal twang, and that only years of relentless daily work could remove it. Tibor had neither the time nor the patience, but there is nothing worse than an actor condemned to silence. Igor and Werner set about the task. Together, then each in turn. They could not agree either on the method or the exercises. It was mission impossible. Pity versus charity. How can you make progress when the teacher has not understood the lesson? Werner, who carried his German phraseology around with him as though it were a punishment, was in the worst position to assist him. By speaking extremely slowly, Igor managed to conceal his origins. As soon as he relaxed, it was as though the Volga had overflowed its banks.

  ‘Igor, I’m sorry, you remind me of the swimming teacher I had at school in Cologne. He taught us by reading the instruction manual, he couldn’t swim himself.’

  ‘With you, he’s going to pick up your Teutonic accent.’

  ‘We’re like two eunuchs talking about love.’

  ‘A French person would be the ideal.’

  ‘And one who’s a teacher.’

  There was only one person among their acquaintances who fitted the bill. They both thought of him at the same time.

  ‘He wouldn’t want to.’

  Gregorios Petroulas was a special case at the Club. He had fled his country because the communists were being expelled and wiped out there. He had left Greece in 1949, at the end of the civil war. A price had been put on his head by extremists from a royalist movement that had murdered his two brothers. Gregorios was a communist both committed and frustrated, which made him unpredictable, even among his close friends. He was reputed to be temperamental, a man who went from elation to dejection and from garrulousness to submission in a flash without anyone knowing why. He was warm-hearted and he would give you a hug, then, a moment later, he would call you an idiot, scum, and a fascist, which, he swore, was a pleonasm, or redundant expression, from the Greek pleonasmos, which means excess. Gregorios could not utter a sentence without recalling the etymology of any Greek word, an obvious sign that our civilization was Greek and that we owed our identity to him, without our being in the least grateful or cognizant of the fact, from the Latin cognoscere, but this was an exception.

  ‘I’m ashamed of what I’ve done,’ he sometimes said, absorbed in his memories.

  ‘What did you do?’

  He looked up and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s over. Nobody gives a damn. So, are you playing?’

  Gregorios taught Latin and Ancient Greek on ten or more private tuition courses. This activity had him running from one end of Paris to the other to dispense his precious knowledge. The only schools that offered him work were run by priests or nuns, who made it a point of principle to keep alive the teaching of dead languages, but Gregorios loathed churches in general and priests in particular. When, as the former French teacher at the Patissia School in Athens, he arrived in Paris, Gregorios had expected to be welcomed with open arms. But the Ministry of Education informed him that he did not have the necessary degrees to teach in France. The only job he could find was at Sainte-Thérèse, an institution for well-to-do young ladies in the sixteenth arrondissement. His recruitment had been miraculously swift. The rector had bid him sit down in front of him, had looked him up and down and, without further ado, had begun to talk to him in Latin. Gregorios had responded in a trice and they had chatted together for an hour. The rector had engaged him immediately, trusting him with Greek, a language he himself did not speak. Every time they encountered one another, they conversed in the tongue of Virgil.

  ‘As long as we speak it together,’ he said to him in Latin, ‘it won’t be a dead language.’

  Gregorios must have had a very personal and lively way of teaching. In the baccalaureate, his pupils obtained marks that exceeded, and by a long way, their normal pitiful results. This was the starting-point for his new career. The rector, who had grown fond of him, obtained residence and work permits in no time. He was so happy with what Gregorios had done that he recommended him to his colleagues in Catholic education. Among religious institutions in the archbishopric of Paris, Gregorios became the essential point of contact for the humanities. The more in demand he was, the more it put him in a fury bordering on apoplexy. He concealed his repulsion for men of the cloth and their sermonizing, and for those bien pensant families for whom the catechism was basic knowledge, by telling himself, in order to sustain his daily ordeal, that these members of religious orders were not Greeks and had nothing to do with the terrible deeds that had been committed and sanctioned in his own country by the Orthodox Church. He was poorly paid and he supplemented his income by giving private lessons to his less able pupils. This was how he got to know the desperate father of one of these ignoramuses who was amazed at his knowledge and asked him to become his speechwriter. Gregorios hesitated. The man was an ignorant, foolish and uncultivated Poujadist member of parliament whose sole conviction was that he loathed the Reds. But he agreed under pressure from his wife and because it was the Greeks who had invented discourse. It was his way of continuing the work of Demosthenes and Pericles. He peppered the politician’s speeches with Greek and Latin quotations that were unanimously admired by his fellow members of parliament, who warmly applauded this highly cultured colleague. He called on us as witnesses to his problems of conscience and moral dilemmas. Pavel, who was his best friend and chosen chess partner, listened to him politely. All too soon, Gregorios’s soliloquies ended as follows: ‘If I were to say what I think about priests, they would kick me out. I’m trapped.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Pavel replied. ‘You’re not the first or the last person to sell yourself for a mess of potage.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m not corrupt. What would you do in my position?’

  ‘I’d play the game. The clock is ticking down. You’re going to find yourself out of time and lose as a result.’

  ‘It’s not cowardice, Pavel. You know me. The worst thing is that they think of me as one of them when I actually hate them. The only thing I don’t regret is having killed a few of them.’

  Gregorios could have returned to Greece after the amnesty. But he had fallen in love with Pilar, an unassuming young woman with delicate features, who was the daughter of Republican refugees, and who taught Spanish on one of these private courses. It was the sort of family he liked to associate with. They could tell each other about the betrayals, the horrors and the ignominies of their respective civil wars. Gregorios was not surprised to discover that the Spanish Catholic Church rivalled the Greek Orthodox Church as far as appalling deeds and vile behaviour were concerned. For the sake of Pilar, who did not wish to leave her family, and because of her beautiful eyes, he gave up the idea of returning home and became a Parisian. They married and, to please her and despite his convictions, he agreed to a religious wedding. His friends made fun of him. They moved into a small flat at Porte de Vanves and had three children. Pilar changed into an unexpected and uncompromising religious zealot, who dragged him off to mass and to vespers without asking his opinion, never missed a single feast day, and pledged a mystical veneration to John XXIII. What with Pilar, his member of parliament who had become a left-wing Gaullist, and his nurturing priests, Gregorios was frightened of retracting his views and ending up like some holy Joe, and so he endured this triple calamity as he would a curse, a burden that he bore like Sisyphus, for the Greeks, in addition to sculpture, literature, philosophy, architecture, politics, strategy, sport and sporting competitions, had also invented mythology. Like any true teacher, he could not prevent himself from reluctantly desiring the happiness of the pupils.

  ‘Do you do Latin, Michel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s vital to learn Latin, even if it’s a less interesting language than Greek and has borrowed a great deal from it.’

  ‘My problem is maths.’

  ‘It was the Greeks who invented mathematics: Euclid, Pythagoras, Archimedes, Thales. Such geniuses. I’ll teach you Greek, if you like.’

  ‘Listen, Gregorios, I don’t understand a thing, even in French.’

  ‘Tough on you. You’ll remain a barbarian. From the Greek barbaros, which means stupid.’

  When Igor and Werner asked him to help Tibor, Gregorios refused. He worked to the tightest of schedules and hadn’t a moment to give to a new pupil.

  ‘That’s just as well, he’s got no money and he can’t pay you,’ Werner remarked. ‘Make an effort, Gregorios. You know his situation. You’re the only one with perfect diction. People take you for a Parisian.’

  ‘You’re an excellent teacher. Your pupils get exceptional marks,’ Igor continued.

  ‘For pity’s sake, my friends, don’t take away this breath of oxygen. The only respite I get in my crazy life is the time I spend here, among normal people, who are not religious freaks. You’ve no idea what I have to put up with.’

  They insisted, but all their pleas met with a firm and polite refusal from Gregorios. His daily game of chess was vital to him. He refused to sacrifice this brief moment of freedom. Werner had given up and was looking for an alternative solution when he noticed that Igor’s head was nodding, his lips were pursed and his eyelids were blinking.

  ‘There’s one vital reason,’ Igor murmured.

  ‘I’m sorry, friends. Nothing and nobody are going to make me change my mind.’

  ‘Tibor has been approached to play Oedipus, and what with his pronunciation, he hasn’t got a hope.’

  ‘Oedipus in Oedipus Rex?’

  ‘Can you imagine Oedipus with a Hungarian accent?’

  ‘That’s true, it’s not possible. If you could have heard Sophocles in Greek, you would have understood what theatre is. The Oresteia of Aeschylus is a tragic poem in which the words are music. In French, it’s grotesque.’

  Igor dashed over to the payphone and warned Imré, who told Tibor that Gregorios was going to give him lessons free of charge so that he could be rid of that hissing accent. Imré repeated to him what Igor had told him: ‘A director is thinking of you for the part of Oedipus.’

  ‘Oedipus? That’s wonderful. My mother used to tell me it was an exceptional play. She saw it when it was first put on in Budapest. Which director? Which theatre?’ asked Tibor excitedly.

  ‘There’s no rush. Rehearse your lines, so that the audition will be perfect.’

  Perhaps Imré should have reflected a little more, been more precise or taken precautions. So delighted was he to have found a solution, he left Tibor and Gregorios on their own.

  ‘I’m grateful for your kindness, Gregorios. You haven’t got much time. I appreciate what you are doing for me. I hope to be able to speak French like you one day.’

  ‘The Greeks have no accent. We invented diction. Don’t worry, Tibor, I won’t make you speak with a potato in your mouth.’

  ‘I shall be your best pupil. For me, it’s a matter of life or death.’

  ‘If you want to lose your nasal twang, Tibor, you must speak slowly. As though you were considering what you are about to say. Separate each syllable, keep the same tone of voice and lay the stress on the ending or when your breath gives out. For example, when you say “j’ai commandé”, put the stress on the dé; when you say “un thé au lait”, accentuate the lait.’

  ‘J’ai commandé un thé au lait.’

  ‘Put your fingers in your mouth, pull your lips towards your ears and let the sound come from your belly.’

  ‘J’ai com-man-dé un thé au lait.’

  ‘That’s perfect! We’ll work on the text. It’ll be more useful.’

  Gregorios took out two pamphlets from his briefcase and gave one to Tibor, who looked at it in surprise.

  ‘It would be best to use the proper text.’

  ‘It’s the right one. The translation’s excellent.’

  ‘There’s no need. We’re working on La Machine infernale.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘About Cocteau’s play.’

  ‘You’re acting in Oedipus Rex, the play by Sophocles.’

  ‘I’m not acting in that old-fashioned stuff, but in Cocteau’s play about Oedipus!’

  ‘How dare you compare the miserable buffoonery of that old queen with Oedipus Rex, one of the greatest plays known to man?’

  ‘It’s tedious, outdated, pompous, stilted.’

  ‘We invented theatre and psychology twenty-four centuries before Freud.’

  ‘The problem is that you haven’t invented anything since. The world has changed, and you haven’t realized.’

  ‘How could a Hungarian possibly understand Sophocles?’

  Gregorios rose to his feet with dignity, gathered up his pamphlets and left without paying the bill.

  ‘You know what the old queens say about you? You’re just a priest’s lackey!’ yelled Tibor as he hurled his thé au lait at him.

  These misunderstandings explain why Tibor retained his accent. Gregorios and he never spoke again and ostentatiously ignored one another. Imré managed to find minor roles for him. Tibor accepted them. He needed to get himself known and noticed. He played the part of a police inspector in the series Les Cinq Dernières Minutes, in which he was Superintendent Bourrel’s assistant. His only piece of dialogue consisted of saying ‘OK, boss’ four or five times, which he managed to pronounce like a Frenchman, thanks to lengthy rehearsals with Igor. Despite the minimal text, it was well paid, despite the fact that Tibor made the mistake of arguing with the director and requesting that his part be expanded.

  He had high hopes when he was taken on at the Comédie-Française. He played the halberdier in Athalie, a Roman soldier and a senator in Bérénice, a Spanish grandee and a valet in Ruy Blas, and a Moorish prince, a m
erchant and a gondolier in La Bonne Mère. They were non-speaking, purely walk-on parts. Even though he took a few paces towards the front of the stage, he remained unknown and it was killing him.

  Then Imré had the idea of changing his name. It wasn’t easy to make him agree to it, but everyone encouraged him to do so. After a good deal of trial and error, it was reckoned that François Limousin sounded one hundred per cent French and that Tibor shouldn’t mention his nationality again. In spite of his new name, the director of the play in question noticed that a particular little phrase grated on the ear and he discussed with his assistant as to whether it was Alsatian or Belgian, or perhaps from the Limousin. François Limousin found no more work than Tibor Balazs did. The pseudonym was dropped after two years of pointless struggles, and Tibor reverted to his own name. Thanks to a fellow-countryman who worked in a dubbing studio in Boulogne-Billancourt, Imré found two parts for him: that of King Hubert in Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty and that of Brutus in twenty or more instalments of Popeye, in which the characters’ pronunciation was unimportant.

  Imré had found a job as a warehouseman at a clothes wholesaler in rue d’Aboukir. He humped piles of cuttings and rolls of cloth on a trolley from one end of the Sentier neighbourhood to the other. He couldn’t take working on Tibor’s behalf any longer, and it was wearing him out. He wanted him to relieve matters by taking a small job. Tibor was furious at being cornered like this. Imré had given an ultimatum: ‘I’ll give you six months to find a real part.’

  At the end of the year, the part Tibor had hoped for had been given to someone else. He wasn’t going to accept a real job with a boss who shouted at you and colleagues who were disagreeable. Thanks to Igor, he found employment as a night porter at L’Acapulco, a striptease and ‘international attractions’ joint in Pigalle. From the early evening, he paced up and down boulevard de Clichy, dressed in the uniform and turquoise-blue cap of an officer of the imperial guard – it wasn’t known which one – and he hailed passers-by, preferably foreigners, offering them reduced price tickets for drinks and 50 per cent off bottles of champagne. It wasn’t an unpleasant job, except in March, when it was so cold, or when it rained. His boss was pleased with him. He preserved a little of his strength during the day so that he could attend auditions. He wasn’t offered a single part, even on distant provincial tours, but between the dubbing of cartoons and L’Acapulco, he didn’t manage too badly. But he didn’t know how to count or to economize – he found figures irritating. He smoked Dunhills, at least two packs a day. He only took three puffs and then stubbed them out without finishing them. As soon as he had a few pennies, he would buy himself ruinously expensive clothing. Imré, on the other hand, who worked for a pittance, never bought himself anything. And yet he must have needed to. He would pick up clothes during his wanderings around the Sentier neighbourhood. At the Balto, Tibor ordered from the menu without bothering about the price. Jacky, who knew of their difficulties and the amounts they owed, peered at Imré, who would eventually give a nod. Jacky served him the steak au poivre with his favourite potato dish.