The Incorrigible Optimists Club

by Jean-Michel Guenassia

  ‘Never mind,’ Igor said to me. ‘If we haven’t got through to him ten minutes from now, go and meet your brother and give him the money. That’s the most urgent thing. I’ll speak to your father. Let’s hope he’ll wait.’

  A pensioner complained. We were monopolizing the telephone counter. He was getting impatient about not being able to gain access to the operator.

  ‘The lines are jammed.’

  ‘I just want to call Amiens.’

  ‘You’ll wait your turn, Monsieur,’ Igor replied, without getting flustered. ‘A little patience.’

  ‘Igor, may I ask you one other thing?’

  ‘If it’s legal, you may.’

  ‘It’s about school. I’ve missed the whole day and I’ve got no excuse. If I fool around, I risk being kicked out.’

  ‘Don’t count on me to forge your father’s signature.’

  ‘What if I gambled on speaking frankly to Sherlock? I’ll go to see him in his office. I’ll tell him the truth: “Well, Franck is on the run, a deserter. He’s asked me to help him. I couldn’t just leave him.” He knows him and likes him. A supervisor ought to be able to understand that. No?’

  ‘You might as well go and denounce him to the police. There’s one basic rule for survival on this earth. If you had lived on the other side, it would be etched firmly in your head: never trust people! Anyone! Do you hear me? It’s a lethal word, trust. It’s killed thousands of nutcases like you.’

  ‘Not even someone you know?’

  ‘Not even your father, your mother, your brother or your wife.’

  ‘I’m trusting you.’

  ‘I’d have nothing to gain by informing on you. Do you think I’d hesitate for a second about ratting on you, you and your family, if the police were threatening to take away my political refugee card?’

  I stared at him. His expression was impassive.

  ‘Are you joking, Igor?’

  ‘Cabin 5 for Algiers,’ called out the operator.

  We hurried over to the cabin. Igor picked up the phone and I took the earpiece.

  ‘Grand Café here,’ said a woman’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Madame, I’d like to speak to one of your customers, Monsieur Marini. He’s at the bar.’

  We could hear the woman asking: ‘Is there a Monsieur Marini here?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’ The phone was passed over.

  ‘What are you doing?’ my father yelled. ‘I was about to leave.’

  ‘There was no connection,’ Igor explained, passing the receiver to me.

  ‘Papa, it’s me. I’m with a friend. The hotel phone is being tapped, and so is the one at the flat. We have to watch what we say. Here, they can’t listen to us. Franck is in Paris. I saw him this morning.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He seems tired and strained. He needs money. He’d eaten nothing since yesterday.’

  ‘Give him whatever you have.’

  ‘May I ask Mama for some?’

  ‘Best not. Give him whatever cash you have, I’m going to come back.’

  ‘The gentleman who spoke to you can give me some money for Franck. Will you repay him?’

  ‘Of course. I’m returning to Paris as soon as I can get a seat on the plane.’

  Igor took the phone from me and glanced at his sheet of paper as he spoke: ‘Monsieur, I’m Michel’s friend. You mustn’t go by plane. The police will know. Furthermore, the flights are full. Go back to your hotel. Say that you have had some news of your son, that he’s managed to cross over into Morocco and that you are off to find him. If the receptionist asks you questions, tell her that he’s in Tangiers. Don’t give any details. Don’t take a taxi. Make sure you’re not being followed. Go to the port of Algiers. There’s a ship, the Lyautey, that’s leaving for Marseilles this evening at nine o’clock. They don’t ask for identity papers when you embark. Buy a second-class ticket and pay in cash. Don’t speak to anyone. At Marseilles, take the train to Paris. Do you want me to repeat this?’

  ‘Do you belong to the secret service, or something?’

  I rushed to rue Laplace. I arrived at the Bois-Charbon shortly after six o’clock. Franck was not there. I sat down at the back of the café at the table we had sat at in the morning and ordered a really weak lemonade shandy. The owner was playing 421 with the same customer and I recognized the same sinister-looking faces at the bar. Perhaps they were cops and they were about to pounce on me. I waited. Franck didn’t come. Had he had a problem? How would I know if he had been arrested? It would be difficult to ask the owner whether he had seen him. I waited until the last possible moment. I had to be back by a quarter to seven. I only had the money that Igor had given me. The owner looked at the twenty-franc banknote suspiciously. He handed me back the change without saying anything. On the way home, I turned around several times. I didn’t see him. I arrived five minutes before my mother. I went to see her in the kitchen where she was preparing dinner.

  ‘What did you do today, Michel?’

  ‘We had Maths and French. The English teacher’s ill.’

  ‘Still!’

  ‘And you, everything all right at the shop?’

  ‘We just don’t know how to cope. With your father away, we’re losing orders every day.’

  ‘I think he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. What’s more, I’ve got a seminar next week and I don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘Tell me something, Mama, are you really angry with Franck?’

  ‘Angry? … No.’

  ‘You don’t talk about him. You don’t seem to be bothered.’

  ‘There’s nothing more I can do for him. But he’s my son, and he always will be, whatever he may have done.’

  ‘If he got in touch with you, what would you do?’

  ‘I’d tell him he has to be responsible for himself.’

  ‘What if he asked you for help?’

  ‘I’d advise him to give himself up to the police and to trust in the law of his country. There’s no other solution for him. Why these questions?’

  ‘We’ve never talked about it. I didn’t know what you thought.’

  My mother rang the Hôtel Aletti. She was told that my father had left the hotel. She was surprised to discover that he had left for Morocco.

  9

  Ever since Moscow, the Ilyushin 12 had been flying above a dense mass of clouds. To the east, a white sun shone in a limpid sky. Gazing at this magical spectacle, Leonid and Sergei, his co-pilot, forgot about the mind-numbing din of the engines.

  ‘Have you any plans for this evening?’ Leonid asked.

  ‘I’d like to go to the cinema. At least one can see American films in London.’

  He turned towards the radio operator, at the rear of the flight deck, who was absorbed in his work and, for once, was not listening to their conversation. Alexandra, the new air hostess who, quite rightly, was said to have the finest bottom in the company, brought them scalding tea and some biscuits. At the very moment she was handing the cup to Leonid, he pricked up his ears anxiously.

  ‘Do you hear anything, Alexandra Viktorovna?’

  ‘Nothing in particular, captain.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, girl, call me Leonid.’

  ‘Captain, there’s a strange noise coming from engine number 2, as though there was a guy banging with a small hammer!’ Sergei announced in a panic.

  Leonid listened intently and concern twisted his lips.

  ‘Comrade co-pilot, you’ll have to confiscate the hammer from the guy at engine number 2!’

  Sergei fiddled with some buttons. Some warning lights came on and went out.

  ‘Small hammer confiscated from guy at engine number 2, captain.’

  ‘There you are, Alexandra. No more noise. You’re very lucky to have me aboard this plane.’

  ‘Captain, I can hear groans coming from engine number 2.’

  ‘Sergei Ivanovitch, the time has come to give back the little hammer to the guy at engine number 2.’<
br />
  Sergei fiddled with the same buttons.

  ‘Hammer returned, captain. The guy’s asking for a sickle.’

  They burst out laughing. The radio operator stood up and handed Leonid a telegram.

  ‘Bad news from London, captain,’ said the radio operator.

  If the smog of the winter of 1952 was the most deadly ever, with four thousand deaths caused by the sulphurous gas from exhaust fumes and industrial waste and hundreds of thousands of coal-fired furnaces, that of the winter of 1951 would remain in the record books as one of the worst the British capital had ever experienced. From a distance of twenty metres, nothing was visible and there was a stench of rotten eggs. Londoners, who had seen many such winters, told each other jokes about unexpected baths in the Thames – a little chilly at this time of year, don’t you find? – and cheered each other up by reminding themselves that, thanks to this ghostly fog, Claude Monet had invented Impressionism. On several occasions, London was cut off from the rest of the world when no planes could land at Heathrow. On this Tuesday 9 January, when Leonid was given the order to reroute to Paris, he thought he would land at Le Bourget, but the Paris airport was paralysed by these unscheduled arrivals and he was diverted to Orly. It was late in the day and nobody could give him any idea of how long they would be held up. Leonid was worried about his passengers becoming bad-tempered, but the announcement of the delay did not provoke any negative response in the cabin. Among the two dozen Russians Leonid had on board there were a deputy minister and a delegation of seven members of the Supreme Soviet who decided to make the most of the unexpected bad weather by fostering Franco-Soviet relationships. Taxis and a hotel had to be found for the delegation. Would there be any rooms at the Meurice?

  Inside the air terminal, the delegation from the Supreme Soviet stormed the only counter that was open, where no plans had been made to welcome them. A haughty young woman, dressed in the petrol-blue woollen serge Air France jacket and its felt beret, smiled imperturbably. Two of the people’s representatives had a basic knowledge of French, which she deliberately chose not to understand.

  ‘You’re at Air France here. Not at the tourist office,’ she replied, still maintaining her exasperating smile.

  ‘Where tourist office?’

  ‘It’s closed at this hour. Try on the Champs-Elysées.’

  ‘You telephone Champs-Elysées.’

  ‘You may use the public booths, a little further along in the hall.’

  They went there. The Post office and Telecommunications kept the same opening hours as the rest of the country. The operator had closed her metal shutter. The Air France official refused to allow her telephone to be used.

  ‘It’s an internal line for company use only.’

  ‘Me complain company,’ roared the deputy minister.

  ‘You should speak to the complaints department.’

  ‘Where department?’

  ‘On the first floor. It’s closed. It will be open tomorrow,’

  Leonid arrived at the Air France counter with the four members of his crew at the very moment the deputy minister was insulting the official in Russian. Leonid spent a moment scrutinizing this woman’s statuesque beauty. She had a wide forehead, long auburn hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders, turquoise blue eyes and widely arched eyebrows. He had the vague notion that he had seen her before. If I had ever met this woman, I would know when and where it was. I would not have forgotten this face, he thought. She looked like an American actress. At the cinema, Leonid never remembered the names of the stars, apart from Chaplin, and Laurel and Hardy. The only actress he recognized was Greta Garbo. This woman was quite unlike her. With the deputy minister yelling at him, he promised him that he would sort things out with her.

  ‘Me no speak French,’ he told her, putting on his most persuasive smile.

  He carried on in his aeronautical English. His laborious explanations came up against a wall. She spoke English without an accent.

  ‘You, French or English?’

  ‘My nationality is no concern of yours.’

  ‘Can you speak less quickly?’

  ‘I’ll tell you again one more time. You are at Orly, not at Le Bourget.’

  ‘It’s because of fog over London.’

  ‘I’ve received no instructions. My shift is over.’

  ‘You must help us.’

  ‘You are at Air France, not Aeroflot.’

  ‘We are lost, we don’t know where to go.’

  ‘I am not a travel agency.’

  ‘I am going to be obliged to inform the embassy.’

  ‘You can telephone the Pope and the President of the United States. And stop smiling at me in that idiotic way, do you think you’re Cary Grant?’

  The woman pulled down the shutter at her counter and disappeared into an office. The deputy minister and the delegation put this incident down to the spicy temperament of French women, which led them to expect a more enjoyable stay than in London. The air terminal was emptying. They rushed outside and piled into taxis. The five members of the crew were left with the last cab, and the driver refused to take them all: there were only four available seats. They insisted and promised him a large tip. He refused and made it a point of honour to justify the reputation of Paris taxi drivers.

  ‘Three in the back and one in front. Hurry up or I’m leaving!’

  A captain must ensure the safety of his crew. He saw them off and waited for a taxi that had little chance of coming. He was resigned to whiling away his time when he saw a white Peugeot 203 go past him, stop and reverse. The window of the passenger door was wound down and the Air France official appeared. Leonid felt a wave of optimism run through him. He stepped forward.

  ‘Are you going to Paris?’ she asked him with an enigmatic smile.

  ‘You’ve saved my life.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not a taxi. Since I’m in a good mood, I’m going to tell you the way. You go straight on and you’ll come to the motorway. Turn right and you may find a taxi or a bus. Otherwise, it’s not far to Paris. You can’t go wrong. You’re lucky, it’s not raining. You see, it doesn’t take much for a man to stop being cocky. I wonder why that is!’

  She drove off. He watched her disappear. He came to the main road where the cars were hurtling by. He stuck out his thumb. Nothing stopped. He continued on his way. As he walked, he hitch-hiked. After half an hour, at a crossroad, there was a sign that read: ‘Paris: 11 km’. He drew up the collar of his jacket. On the right side of the road, he noticed a patch of white, which, on closer inspection, took the shape of a car. The 203 was sitting on the verge of the road, its left front tyre burst. The woman was waving at the cars, which were whistling past her. Her coattails were flying. When she saw Leonid, she stood stock-still and rearranged her clothes.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’

  ‘You’re lucky, it’s not raining.’

  ‘I didn’t see the pot-hole.’

  ‘I thought that holes in the road only happened in Russia. I’ll be careful in future, thanks to you. Aren’t you going to change the wheel? There must be an instruction manual in the glove-box.’

  She showed him the crank, which lay near the burst tyre.

  ‘It’s impossible. I can’t do it. Can you help me?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m a captain, not a breakdown mechanic.’

  ‘You’re not much of a gentleman.’

  ‘Me! On the contrary! I’m going to do you a favour. You need to find a mechanic. If you continue along this road, you’ll find a garage. They’re closed now. They’ll fix it for you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Make the most of it. Take it out on me.’

  ‘A small puncture, and all of a sudden, oops: a smile.’

  This woman had an expression that flustered him. Leonid felt very small. Often, during the years that followed, and throughout his life, he would think back to this precise moment when his life was turned upside down. He remembered the endless silence t
hat followed this remark; he remembered hesitating, and his guardian angel saying to him: ‘Do something, Leonid Mikhaïlovitch. She’s going to make a fool of you. You’re no match for her. She’ll eat you alive. Continue towards Paris. Save yourself. Let her cope with her burst tyre.’ Why hadn’t he listened? As time went by, his responses to this question changed. For a long time, he told himself that we should ignore our conscience, otherwise, remorse would not exist, and a life without regrets is of no interest. Later on, he had come to the view that no man could resist such a smile, or if he did, he wasn’t a man. Nowadays, he told himself that he had been bloody stupid, just as all men become bloody stupid when a woman smiles at them. Leonid bent down, picked up the crank to change the wheel, and his troubles began.

  It was impossible to remove the hubcap, to unscrew the nuts, to find the right slot in which to stick the jack, to raise the car up with the crank. You would have thought some sadistic engineer had vowed to murder anyone who might try to help a woman in trouble. During the war, Leonid had dismantled engines that weighed half a ton, changed aircraft wheels that were heavier than him, fixed undercarriages that were in pieces, adjusted and reconnected incompatible parts, and no Peugeot was going to make him look ridiculous. He braced himself, cricked his back, shouted, tore the skin from his fingers, but he could not make the nuts budge – it was as if they were soldered on. He yelled, he could hear his vertebrae cracking. His muscles were tearing. His blood froze in his brain. Air drained from his lungs. A second before his heart was about to explode, he managed to move one nut. The three others required just as much effort.

  An hour later, he was dripping with sweat, his knees were bruised, his face and hands black with filth and oil, his shirt and trousers spattered with mud, grease and sweat. He got to his feet, shaking and out of breath.

  ‘You wouldn’t have managed,’ he remarked, exhausted.