The Incorrigible Optimists Club

  ‘Boys and girls, if we don’t want to miss mass, we’ll have to get a move on.’

  My mother walked over to my father and said to him: ‘You see, I told you so. I was right.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s your fault.’

  ‘It’s not my fault! It’s not yours! And it’s not his! It’s this fucking war.’

  ‘It’s because of his shitty party and those lousy ideas they’ve filled his head with. If you’d done something, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘This is sheer madness! I forbid you to say that!’

  ‘You can’t forbid me anything! You’re the one who’s responsible!’

  We waited for him to react, for the voices to rise, for an explosion. He stood there, with an uncomprehending look on his face, and then his expression grew hazy. Absorbed in his thoughts, he sighed, and, head bowed, he turned around, opened the cupboard, took out his overcoat, and left, closing the door without a sound.

  ‘You’re going too far, Hélène,’ grandfather snapped. ‘It’s not his fault. You should go and talk to him.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Be careful what you say. You seem to me to be rather fraught. You should take a holiday.’

  ‘Papa, it’s—’

  ‘That’s enough! Get a grip on yourself. Come on, let’s get ready. We’ve had enough to eat as it is.’

  There was no question of a jolly meal. They put on their coats in silence.

  ‘Michel, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘Mama, I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘It’s the oysters,’ she observed, ‘he can’t eat them.’

  ‘He drank too much white wine, said Louise.

  ‘White wine at his age! Now we’ve seen it all.’

  ‘Maurice, did you give him white wine?’

  ‘He’s a grown-up now. He drank one glass.’

  ‘Two,’ I specified.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ Louise went on. ‘You don’t serve wine to a child. You don’t think at all.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ said my mother. ‘I’m going to give you a little bicarbonate of soda.’

  I lay down on the sofa. Juliette came to see me. I thought it was to cheer me up. With a broad smile, she whispered in my ear:

  ‘You’re going to die of poisoning.’

  They set off for church. From their expressions, one would have thought they were going to celebrate a burial, not a birth. I waited for ten minutes. I had a good hour and a half ahead of me. I got dressed and opened the door carefully. The building was silent. I went down the stairs in the dark so as not to arouse the attention of the concierges. It was freezing cold outside. The wind was stirring up gusts of snow and the rare passers-by hurried on, their coat collars turned up.

  I searched for him everywhere. The streets were deserted. I walked up rue Gay-Lussac as far as the Luxembourg. The restaurants and cafés were closed. Rue Soufflot was empty and the place du Panthéon was swept by icy squalls. I found him in his workers’ dive in rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques, the only place open on this Christmas night. It was a bistro for infidels who played tarot and joked as they knocked back the booze. He was watching the game attentively. I sat down next to him. He was a bit surprised to discover me there and put his arm round my shoulder.

  ‘Would you like a beer?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Have a Coke.’

  He spoke to the owner: ‘Jeannot, bring us two Cokes, please.’

  ‘I’d prefer a really weak lemonade shandy.’

  The others suggested he play tarot with them. He declined the invitation.

  ‘Thanks, fellows. We prefer to watch.’

  He drained his glass, then leaned over and asked: ‘Have they left?’

  I nodded. He got up and paid the bill.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

  We found ourselves out in the cold once more. He shielded me in his overcoat.

  ‘Papa, maybe now’s the time, if ever there was one, to go to mass and light a candle for Franck.’

  ‘You know, Michel, if God’s as great as that and sees everything, he doesn’t need us to ask him something in order to make up his mind, but if you want to, we’ll go.’

  For a long time, I felt annoyed with myself for not having gone to church. When you think about what happened afterwards, one candle isn’t much to ask. If there are that many people in the world who light candles or night-lights, you have to believe they serve a purpose and that, from time to time, in the midst of the masses of flickering flames, there must be one that catches his notice, otherwise we are only lighting them to reassure ourselves in our human darkness. But when you think of the millions and millions of candles that have been lit since mankind began, and of all the prayers and bowing and scraping, you could also say that God, if he exists, doesn’t expect anything of us.

  * The ZNA (Zone Nord-Algérois) was one of the many sectors of the country in which French troops were billeted during the Algerian War (1954–62). Tr.

  JANUARY–DECEMBER 1962

  1

  There are some tasks, such as confronting reality, telling the truth, or acknowledging our mistakes, that are insuperable. We delay, we avoid them, we move on to something else and we adopt the Jesuits’ maxim that a lie of omission is not a lie. When Cécile returned from holiday, I said nothing to her.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Like any family party.’

  We wished each other a happy New Year and much happiness.

  ‘What’s your dearest wish, Michel?’ she asked me as she cut some kugelhopf she had brought back from Strasbourg.

  ‘Apart from a Circuit 24, it would be taking a photograph of you.’

  ‘You’ve taken masses and they’re not great.’

  ‘I could take some photos of you in your bath.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘They would be artistic.’

  ‘Can’t you think of anything more original?’

  ‘If we can’t even joke any more… What would your wish be?’

  ‘I don’t want anything. A wish is something sad and impossible. I don’t feel like dreaming.’

  ‘You could think of Pierre, wish for the war to end and for him to come home.’

  ‘I do think of Pierre, the war will end and he will come home.’

  ‘What about your thesis?’

  ‘It’ll be finished on time and I’ll pass. You haven’t answered me.’

  I hesitated to tell her about the visit from the police. We would have concocted hypotheses and come up with explanations that did not stand up. We would have wished for the same thing. I knew what she was like. She would have put on her most casual air and replied that she couldn’t care less, that it was no longer her problem.

  ‘What I really want is a little more kugelhopf.’

  She had invited me for a hot chocolate and had forgotten to buy any. She made a café au lait. We finished the kugelhopf.

  ‘My uncle runs a restaurant. I can’t tell you what I’ve eaten in the past two weeks. Do you reckon I’ve put on weight?’

  ‘Since we’re leaving things unsaid, I’d prefer not to answer that. We’ll start going on runs again.’

  What would have been the point of talking about Franck? For over a year she had avoided raising the question. And besides, what would I say? We knew nothing. Maurice had some connections, but they were useless. An invisible and insurmountable wall descended the moment he mentioned the words ‘deserter’ and ‘examining magistrate’. His contacts promised to call him back. He spent hours by the telephone waiting for a call that never came. Those we did receive were not the ones he was expecting. He spent his time hanging up on people. He had arranged for someone to be constantly by the phone. We were told not to use it, in case someone might be contacting him. When he returned the calls that had come in, there was nobody there and he left pointless messages. Grandfather Delaunay had decided to take over the reins before we ended up in the ditch, b
ut the people in high places whom he once knew had all retired. No one remembered him. De Gaulle had had a clear-out in the ministries and placed his own men everywhere.

  The holidays came to an end without our having any news. Maurice, Louise and the cousins had left to go back to Algiers. Maurice appeared optimistic. He had his networks down there and he would soon obtain information. But his friends in Algeria were like his friends here, they shrugged their shoulders fatalistically and advised him not to dwell on the matter. At the court in Algiers, he was sent from one office to another. Even his friend Fernand, whom he regarded as a brother, and who was a head of department at the Préfecture, seemed to be evasive and elusive. ‘Drop it, Maurice,’ he said finally, unable to help, ‘Don’t get involved.’

  Two words summed up the tragedy: military justice. It was secret. Like a hidden danger or a shameful illness, it was spoken of in hushed voices. We couldn’t let anyone else know, otherwise we would be courting endless trouble. Whenever Maurice rang, my father rushed over to the phone, my mother listened in, and they conducted a three-way discussion. The examining magistrate at the permanent military tribunal of the armed forces had refused to see him. He had not been allowed to enter the El-Biar barracks and he had been obliged to wait in the blazing sun. A parachutist had told him that he was wasting his time and that he should not come back. For a month, our lives revolved around these nightly calls. Whatever my father might say about Maurice, my uncle spared no effort to obtain information. Then he came up with a solution. My mother was firmly opposed to it. Maurice knew ‘a very nice person’ who ran a hotel at Bab-el-Oued that was frequented by Massu, Bigeard and half the general staff. In spite of my father’s exhortations, she refused to allow her brother to ask this woman for help. It required Philippe to become involved for her to give way: ‘You’re boring us stiff, Hélène, with your qualms! Let Maurice deal with it. This is for men to sort out!’

  ‘It’s our last chance,’ Maurice explained, trying to persuade her. ‘She knows everyone in Algiers.’

  Igor, Werner, Pavel or Gregorios had faced up to impossible situations and endured the cruellest ordeals without panicking. When I walked into the Club, Big Ears was chatting to Tomasz. I was convinced they were going to guess what my problems were from my expression or my demeanour, but apparently one can endure the worst torments without anyone suspecting. I sat down and made comments about the game being played. I waited for one of them to ask me: ‘What’s the matter, Michel?’

  Nobody noticed a thing. I kept my secret to myself. Yet what was the point of having so many friends if you couldn’t talk to them? I made up my mind to ask Igor. He was someone who would understand and he would know what to do. I was sure that Big Ears would not be there on a Sunday. When I arrived at the Balto, there was a group of people congregated around Madeleine and Imré, listening to the radio. Albert was switching impatiently from one station to another.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Imré replied.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘There’s been an attempt on Sartre’s life. He may have been killed!’ Jacky exclaimed.

  On that 7 January 1962 a bomb attack by the OAS had destroyed the small flat on the fourth floor of 42 Rue Bonaparte where Jean-Paul Sartre had lived with his mother since 1946. Another bomb, the previous year, had caused some damage. This time, the flat had been wrecked, his piano demolished, and his manuscripts scattered.

  Thanks to old Marcusot’s Auvergne grapevine, the following day Sartre found a studio flat to rent that was very close to the Balto, on the tenth floor of a modern building at 222 Boulevard Raspail. He moved in as unobtrusively as possible for fear of another attack. The tenants were scared stiff about having him as a neighbour and ten of them signed a petition, which the estate agent threw in the bin. Sartre started coming to the Balto and the local bistros more frequently. He had his table in the dining room, close to the door to the Club. He spent his mornings writing and no one dared to disturb him apart from Jacky, who served him a café crème as soon as he arrived, and brought him another whenever he waved his hand. Occasionally, he would sit down next to Sartre and they would chat. We wondered what they could possibly be saying to one another. Jacky had only one topic of conversation: the Stade de Reims football team. We deduced that Jean-Paul Sartre liked football too. One day, we asked Jacky: ‘What can you have to say to one another?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You and Sartre have been chatting for an hour. What did he say to you? Is he interested in soccer?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a complicated guy. He never stops asking me questions about my job.’

  ‘About your job?’

  ‘Yeah. He thinks that compared to other café waiters, I’m not playing at being a waiter. I interest him a great deal. He says that I’m genuine, that I’m not pretending, that I’m not acting a part in relation to what I do, but that I am living in reality as far as who I am. Apparently I’m the only waiter he knows who doesn’t use his social background to achieve his position, yet I am, essentially, a café waiter, and that astonishes him. The guy’s really got a lot of time on his hands, hasn’t he? What’ll you have?’

  Sartre would sometimes spend the afternoon working in the dining room without coming into the Club. Although Igor, Leonid and Gregorios had huge admiration for him, Imré, Vladimir, Tomasz, Piotr or Pavel detested him on account of his defence of Stalin’s communism, his double standards over events in Budapest, and because he had asserted at the time of the Kravchenko trial that all anti-communists were dogs. They walked past him without looking at him or saying hello. Sartre did not glance at them. As for me, every time I saw him, I gave a nod. He replied with a little bob of his head. On one occasion, he ran out of matches. I offered to go and get him some.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I brought him a book of matches.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  He smiled at me. I didn’t dare address myself to the former pupil of the Lycée Henri-IV and tell him that we had that in common. I wanted to say something more original, I was not sure what. How could you be intelligent in front of Jean-Paul Sartre?

  ‘Did you hear what happened yesterday? Racing thrashed Stade de Reims yet again. Things aren’t what they used to be.’

  He stared at me in astonishment. He said nothing, lit his cigarette, went back to his work and started writing. I concluded from this that I had blundered and that he was a Stade de Reims supporter. On another occasion, I picked up one of his sheets of paper that had fallen on the floor. In his metallic voice, he said to me: ‘Thank you, young man.’

  ‘I’m at the Lycée Henri-IV, you know.’

  ‘We had a lot of fun there. I have good memories of it.’

  I was very proud of this exchange. I repeated it to Cécile. I told her she would be welcome to come and see him, but her contact with the Club had been so unfortunate that she did not want to set foot there again.

  The great writers have pointed out that women are superior to men and have attributed to them instinctive psychological skills. At the Club, nobody had detected anything different in my attitude, but eventually, Cécile noticed something unusual about my behaviour. We had completed our run round the Luxembourg and were resting by the Médicis fountain.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Michel?’

  ‘I’m a bit out of breath.’

  ‘You look as if something’s wrong.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Have you got problems?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something at school?’

  She was insistent. The great writers have subtly observed that women are insistent. Until they obtain satisfaction and the hero confesses. Which can give rise to an outburst. Having read a great deal, I decided not to admit to anything. After closely analysing Isabel Archer, Jane Eyre and Marguerite Gautier, I was forewarned that they could have recourse to weapons that men were unable to resist.

  ‘You’re
not allowed to fib to me, little bro’.’

  ‘I’m not fibbing.’

  ‘If it was important, would you tell me?’

  ‘Stop it, Cécile. Come on, let’s do another circuit.’

  We set off at a trot. I could see from her expression that she did not believe me. The great writers have often solved their hero’s problems with a convenient escape, but I’d never read anything in which the two protagonists set off running together.

  ‘Whatever you say. You’ve got a strange look on your face.’

  I said nothing to Cécile. I said nothing to Igor. Every evening, I hoped for an answer. When the telephone rang, we rushed over. But Maurice’s efforts were proving to be unsuccessful. The acquaintances of his woman friend at the hotel were taking a lot of persuading. She would continue to make enquiries. Still nobody was able to tell us why Franck had deserted and what had become of him.

  2

  ‘Those who have never flown in a Sturmovik 2 will never experience the delightful sensation of piloting a steam iron,’ Leonid explained to me. ‘Especially when there’s a Messerschmitt 109, which is almost two tons lighter, flying at 200 km per hour faster and clinging to your tail like a magnet. Then, you really do start to sweat and your balls shrink to nothing. You can hear the bullets whistling around you, making holes in the cockpit; your machine-gunner lies bleeding, your joy-stick no longer works. You don’t know what to do. No one can teach you how to extricate yourself from this hornet’s nest because no one has come out of it alive. Your only god is called Parachute. Believe it or not, I never ever thought to myself that I was finished. Twice, I was able to land, one of them a crash landing. I was wounded seven times. I always trusted in my lucky star. Two or three times, I had close shaves. To begin with, we had no rear-gunner. Afterwards, when Ilyushin put one in for us, beneath an extended canopy, it was worse. The plane was as unsteady as a legless man on a scooter. The recoil from our 37mm guns gave us no accuracy. Little Father Stalin had a tantrum. He knew what this meant. They slaved away day and night. We switched to a two-seater, with new engines and armour-plated structures. By the end of forty-two, we began getting decent Ilyushas, with 20mm guns, and then we were able to do them some damage. Our bombs mopped up everything over an area of a thousand square metres. We knocked out their tanks and their Stukas as though we were showing off. It was in the Urals that the war tipped the other way.’