The Incorrigible Optimists Club

  ‘Aren’t you eating anything?’ asked Tibor with his mouth full.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Imré replied casually.

  At the Balto, Tibor enjoyed special treatment because of his status as a star, even if he no longer was one. As far as Madeleine was concerned, a screen actor could not be tied down to the material circumstances of just anyone. He was allowed to run up the largest bill by far. When it exceeded the limit, Jacky warned Albert, who alerted Madeleine who, because it was Tibor, never refused excessive spending. He was the only one to enjoy such benefits. When the bill reached breaking point, she had a word with Imré who reduced it to an acceptable level and suffered in silence. From time to time, he wavered: ‘You should watch what you eat, Tibor. You’re putting on weight.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘In France, charmers are slim. If you want to play young male leads, you’ll have to lose four or five kilos.’

  Tibor went on a diet. But he had no will power. He no longer ate anything at the Balto but was invited out by the dancers and technicians from L’Acapulco with whom he had got on well and who adored him. In time, Tibor’s little ruse was discovered.

  ‘It’s being out of work that makes me get fat! In Hungary, I ate whatever I wanted without putting on an ounce. All this wasted time. What’s happening about this offer of a tour in Brittany?’

  Imré had received a negative response a week previously.

  ‘They’re having trouble making ends meet.’

  ‘In this country, nothing ever comes of anything. Let’s go to the United States. Over there, they make hundreds of films each year. Bela Lugosi will lend me a hand. Hungarians help one another out.’

  ‘Tibor, if you want to try your luck, do so. I’m not going. I don’t speak English. In France, I’ve a chance of pulling through.’

  6

  It was a sad and gloomy Sunday. The rain was bucketing down. Everyone was lost in his own thoughts. Imré was reading Morvan Lebesque’s article in Le Canard enchaîné to Jan and Gregorios. They wouldn’t have missed his columns under any circumstances. Igor and Leonid considered him too moralistic and preferred the cartoons in Hérisson. Tibor was watching the rain falling. Tomasz was daydreaming. Pavel was continuing to translate and modify his book on the treaty of Brest-Litovsk. Kessel had arranged a meeting for him with a publisher who had asked for cuts. In a corner, Vladimir was doing a shopkeeper’s accounts. Werner and Piotr were conversing in low voices like plotters. Leonid and Virgil were playing chess. Igor and I were sitting together and following the game in silence. Monsieur Lognon, standing as was his wont, was nodding his head in appreciation. Leonid was the best player in the Club. Nobody had succeeded in beating him. To obtain a draw against him was considered an achievement. Only Igor and Werner had achieved this. At one point, not so long ago, he had been ranked among the forty best players in the USSR. In thirty-third place. This put him above any champion of France. He had won the Aeroflot pilots tournament on four consecutive years and had had the signal honour of playing two games against Stalin. He had been forewarned. He had allowed Stalin to win after having initially put him in a difficult position, which had earned him a friendly tap on the shoulder and helped him be promoted to captain on board a Tupolev aircraft. I jotted down their respective moves in my notebook. Virgil Cancicov was a good player, but he could not compete with Leonid. He launched into frenzied attacks that left Leonid impervious. Virgil wore himself out against an impenetrable defence and lost his pieces one by one. Leonid had the patience of a cat and waited to deal the deathblow. Virgil could feel the inevitable moment of execution approaching, and he retreated. Unexpectedly, he sacrificed a bishop. Leonid frowned and thought carefully, stroking his chin. He advanced his rook and Igor smiled. I made a note of the position. Monsieur Lognon’s features puckered in admiration.

  He had been coming to the Club for some months without being a member. He had not been seen coming in and no one had noticed him. He stood there, hands crossed behind his back, stomach protruding, with an unlit pipe in his mouth. He did not disturb anyone and he possessed a quality that everyone appreciated: he knew how to listen. He spent hours on end watching Pavel, Tomasz, Imré, Vladimir, or whoever it might be, with a thoughtful and affable expression, without interrupting or asking any questions. He listened with interest. He nodded with the good-natured air of a sympathetic pensioner. From time to time, he filled or relit his pipe. All one ever heard him say were things like ‘Well, my dear fellow’ or ‘It’s unbelievable, what’s happened to you’, or commonplace remarks of this kind. Monsieur Lognon was not chatty. Three or four facts that he had let slip were known about him: he had retired from Electricité de France, his wife was a caretaker, the days were long, and coming to watch the games took his mind off things. He ordered a half of beer with as little froth as possible and spent the afternoon sipping it. Without ever asking to be one, he had become a de facto member, even though he didn’t play. The perfect kibitzer, he never bothered anyone. When someone suggested he join in, he replied that he didn’t play well enough and that his passion was belote bridgée, a card game that wasn’t played at the Club. When he was asked how he was, he always replied: ‘Fine, thank you, and you?’

  The only occasion when there was any awkwardness was when Werner asked him what his first name was. It was the custom at the Club.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Monsieur Werner, I prefer to be called by my surname. I don’t like my first name. At Electricité de France my colleagues called me Lognon. My friends too.’

  We had a good laugh, when he wasn’t present, imagining what ridiculous first name his parents might have chosen for him. Tomasz searched in a post office calendar. We found some that nobody knew: Paterne, Guénolé, Fulbert or Fiacre. It became a game between Pavel, Tomasz and Tibor. They would throw out a name at random and wait to see whether he reacted: ‘Er, Léonce… Ignace… Landry.’ ‘Oh, Enguerran, um … Parfait… Aymard.’ ‘Hey, Romaric, no Barnabé.’ They never found out. Lognon remained imperturbable. They tried Adolphe, Benito and Rodrigue. According to Leonid who reasoned like an engineer, he could be called Anicet or Casimir and behave as though he hadn’t heard, or else it was a name that was missing from the calendar. In due course, we came to forget Lognon’s mysterious first name and grew accustomed to his presence, except that we never heard him approach and would discover him standing slightly set back from the table, following the game, and he would disappear as if by magic.

  ‘There are some people whose first names we do know and who get on our nerves,’ said Werner, who appreciated his discretion. ‘Each of us has his little secrets. He’s not a bad guy.’

  Inspector Daniel Mahaut rarely appeared at the Club, busy as he was with his investigations that required him to work irregular hours, and, since he lived in the suburbs, the moment he had a bit of spare time, he went home to spend it with his family. He remained close to Igor and to Werner, whom he invited on Sundays to the house in Corbeil that he had done up. He was waiting for the transfer that would send him back to his native Guadeloupe, though his daughters did not want to return home. From time to time, he would appear and have a drink. There was always someone who had a problem with the administration or a fine they wanted to be rid of. Daniel did favours without making any fuss and when he shook his head, we knew it was impossible. We were surprised to see him on this wet Sunday. He had spent the night watching a house and had just been relieved. Igor asked him what he wanted to drink. Daniel froze when he noticed the massive form of Lognon, who had his back turned to him and was following a game between Pavel and Virgil.

  ‘Oh, Désiré!’

  Lognon’s head shot up and he looked round, amazed that anyone should be calling him by his first name.

  ‘Mahaut!’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Well, what about you?’

  ‘Do you play chess?’

  ‘You know each other?’ asked Igor.

  Daniel didn’t reply. There was a
long silence. He stared at Lognon and hesitated. He didn’t know what he had said, or what he was doing there.

  ‘You know each other?’ Werner repeated.

  Lognon walked over to Daniel and whispered a few words in his ear.

  ‘It’s not true!’ Daniel exclaimed. ‘I’m dreaming. You’re crazy!’

  ‘Do you know him?’ Igor persevered.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Daniel continued after a moment’s consideration, ‘I’d like you to meet Inspector Désiré Lognon of the Secret Intelligence branch.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass!’ said Lognon.

  ‘His job is to keep an eye on you. I hadn’t realized, but you’re a gang of terrorists who threaten the security of the Eastern bloc and Franco-Russian relations.’

  Of the various feelings that swept through the group, incredulity was predominant. Only Leonid asked Lognon to step out of the Balto so that he could smash his face in without further ado. It was the general opinion that this solution offered more drawbacks than advantages. Striking an official, an officer on duty what is more, could cost them dearly. Their respective situations did not afford them this type of pleasure. What should be done about Lognon? Should he be expelled from the Club? The word ‘expulsion’ resonated in their ears uncomfortably and brought back unfortunate memories. Surely they were not going to start behaving like them? Furthermore, could a police inspector be expelled? In their own countries, that would have been impossible, for the police were everywhere. In France, people were unaware of them. Police logic required that it should stay that way.

  ‘Who’s got a criminal record?’ exclaimed Tomasz aggressively.

  ‘Pavel maybe?’ remarked Vladimir with a half-smile. ‘The State Department has refused him a visa for America. Perhaps he’s an ex-convict.’

  ‘That’s wrong, I’m the victim of a witch-hunt!’ roared Pavel, before realizing that he was making fun of him.

  Lognon was called upon to explain himself to this group that was well accustomed to collective confessions. No, he hadn’t noticed anything of importance, apart from secrets about the art of castling at the right moment or the best way of obtaining a stalemate. No, he did not discuss the results of the games. The higher echelons were not interested. Yes, he wrote bimonthly reports for his superiors. They contained no useful information. He was blamed for this. He couldn’t invent things. Yes, it was normal to keep a watch on foreigners, communists and political refugees. No, they weren’t dangerous. No, he hadn’t told them that in his opinion it wasn’t worth keeping a watch on them: he had no wish to be sent elsewhere, to infiltrate workers, students or fellaghas. It was cushy here. Lognon was asked whether he was ashamed of what he did. He thought about this and shook his head. No, he was obeying a legitimate order given by a legitimate authority. He had not manipulated, nor deceived, nor struck anyone. He was happy just to be there and keep his ears open. He had been chosen because, with his air of a next door neighbour who knew how to integrate himself into groups like a chameleon without being noticed, he inspired trust. People weren’t suspicious when you didn’t ask them a single question. It’s questioning that marks out a cop. He himself never asked any. That was his technique. Put people at their ease and keep your mouth shut. It took longer, but it was effective. Generally, people need and want to talk. As soon as they find an attentive ear, there’s no need to ask questions. You need patience. You just have to wait. He could influence them without their realizing merely with facial expressions: astonishment, surprise, bewilderment, interest, compassion. Above all, compassion. Yes, he would continue doing this as long as he was asked to do so. Better that it should be him than anyone else. He feared reprisals if he were to reveal that he had been unmasked, and he didn’t like having to implicate a colleague. They asked him to leave the room. The group pondered the matter with Daniel Mahaut.

  ‘Have we the right to prevent him setting foot in the Balto?’ asked Werner.

  ‘It’s incredible that we didn’t spot anything,’ Vladimir observed. ‘That we weren’t aware of anything. We’re getting soft. It comes from living in France. Over there, we mistrusted everyone and we were on our guard. Here, we don’t mistrust anyone. That’s how we get conned.’

  ‘And when you were on your guard, what difference did it make?’ said Pavel.

  ‘If they’re keeping watch on us,’ Leonid observed, ‘it’s because they’re frightened of us. We represent a threat, otherwise why would they keep watch on us?’

  Cock-a-hoop, Imré stared at Tibor: ‘Do you remember what I told you?’

  ‘You’re not going to have us believe that you’d guessed he was a cop!’ Pavel exclaimed.

  ‘It’s true, Imré said to me: “This guy’s odd, he’s got big lugs,”’ Tibor replied.

  We thought about Lognon’s ears. They suddenly struck us as immense, protruding and, now, threatening, what with their lobes that looked as if they had been artificially enlarged. We had never seen such large ones. We exchanged dubious glances as though we were annoyed with one another for not having noticed or been suspicious of anything.

  ‘This cop must not set foot in the Club again!’ announced Gregorios.

  Before anyone else could have a say in the matter, Daniel Mahaut intervened: ‘That would be the worst mistake you could make!’

  ‘He’s spying on us,’ Imré objected.

  ‘The most important thing is to be aware of that. If you’re aware of your opponent’s tactics in advance, you’re sure of being able to beat him, aren’t you?’

  This reasoning, aimed at the established chess players, left them unmoved.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ asked Igor.

  ‘I know the chap. He’s as slippery as an eel. You can come to an understanding with him. Ask him to submit his report to Igor or Werner.’

  Lognon hesitated a few moments before refusing.

  ‘Out of the question. If I submit a report to you, it proves nothing. I could write one behind your back. If there were a problem, I’d undertake to warn you beforehand. Either take it or leave it.’

  They accepted. Lognon walked over to Daniel: ‘It’s you who put this stupid notion into their heads.’

  ‘I advised them to be reasonable. You should be grateful to me.’

  ‘I’ve infiltrated a number of groups and networks. It’s the first time my identity has been disclosed. Because of you.’

  ‘You should think of retiring, Désiré, you’re getting old.’

  Lognon turned to Leonid and to Virgil: ‘How about finishing your game? Go on. I won’t disturb you. Behave as though I weren’t here.’

  ‘Watch out, Big Ears,’ Gregorios said slowly, ‘if any single one of us ever has problems because of you, I’ll track you down. Wherever you are. First, I’ll cut off your ears, and afterwards, I prefer not to say what I’d do with you.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to, I’m a civil servant.’

  ‘My dear fellow, if you knew what I’d done to civil servants during the civil war, you’d run a mile. Don’t forget that for the Greeks the punishment for treason is to have your eyes put out.’

  ‘I won’t cause you any harm, I promise you.’

  Now, whenever he came in, people were aware of him, voices dropped and conversations ceased. It brought back memories of their homelands and of their chess clubs. Somewhat the same atmosphere, but less oppressive. Lognon had not wanted to be called by his first name, which he loathed. That was understandable. We called him Big Ears instead. Scarcely anything changed. After a few months, we noticed that he turned up less frequently. He would come by at the weekend and ask rather gloomily for news of each of us. Nobody answered him. He was worried about what he would say in his report.

  ‘Say we’re quiet and peaceful and behaving like good citizens, and that we’re not involved in any politics,’ said Gregorios. ‘And remember that it was the Greeks who invented revenge!’

  After that, we spotted him only four or five times a year. He was unpredictable and discreet; we never saw him enter or l
eave. He would be there, following a game, without any of us knowing whether he came out of duty or for pleasure. When one of the players lost his temper, said something stupid, or moaned about the government or the authorities, they would look around to see whether he was there and would be relieved not to see him. Leonid or Pavel threatened whoever was grumbling: ‘Watch it, if you go on causing trouble, I’ll denounce you to Big Ears!’

  7

  I opened the door with my bunch of keys and put the shopping on the kitchen table. I heard her voice, coming from the far end of the flat: ‘Is that you, Michel?’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’

  Cécile was in the bath and was speaking to me through the door.