The Incorrigible Optimists Club

by Jean-Michel Guenassia

  He wanted to order another bottle, but Igor dissuaded him, asserting that Côtes-du-Rhône had a bad influence on Russian philosophy. We played a game of baby-foot. They won, but when it’s two against one and both of them are cheating, it’s not a game.

  ‘I count on your discretion.’

  ‘What do you take us for?’

  The Club was the last place to keep a secret. What one of them knew, the others would soon discover. Confidential matters, whispered in someone’s ear, and not to be disclosed under any circumstances, were passed on with the promise that they would never be mentioned: ‘You know me. I’m the soul of discretion.’ They were revealed under the same conditions and they all swore that they would not be repeated to anybody. ‘Otherwise, you can’t trust a friend any longer.’

  On the very next day, as soon as I arrived, I found myself at the centre of a heated discussion. For Werner, this was an understandable distraction, especially after seeing Le Salon de musique. Tomasz maintained that it would not have happened to him, the Poles being renowned for their quick-wittedness. Gregorios reckoned it was normal to pursue someone of the opposite sex, from the Greek hétéros, which means ‘other’ and that it would wear off after marriage, from the Greek gamos, which leads either to monogamy or polygamy. The advice rained down and I didn’t know where to put myself.

  ‘It may well be that the girl forgot you after a couple of seconds,’ Imré reckoned.

  ‘If she didn’t ask you your name, it means she wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Nowadays, girls have two or three boyfriends.’

  ‘Or else she’s a pain in the neck, and you would regret having got to know her,’ Pavel concluded.

  I found myself honoured with the unexpected compassion of Big Ears whom we had not seen for ages.

  ‘There are many men, such as you and me, whom women can see through. Don’t be disheartened.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Lognon.’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, my boy, I find a woman who reads as she’s walking a bit suspect.’

  They discussed whether I was stupid, clumsy, shy, or whether it was all a result of my lack of experience. I could tell the verdict they had reached from their expressions, from their smiles of sympathy, from their uncustomary kindness, and from the way they patted me on the shoulder to cheer me up.

  ‘I’d like to ask you something else.’

  Of course, Michel. We’re here to help you.’

  ‘What sign of the zodiac are you?’

  The world was obviously divided into two sides. Those who believed in the zodiac, even slightly, and those who took the former for idiots. It was hard to make up your mind. In spite of the conflicting views that were aired, three principles emerged: everybody knew his own star sign, including those who thought it was rubbish. Each also knew the signs of those closest to them and what their main characteristics were. None of the opponents was able to explain why he read his horoscope in the newspaper when he came across it. The reply ‘out of curiosity’ made the believers laugh.

  ‘I don’t rush to read the small ads for properties or the stock exchange rates. They don’t interest me. So one wonders why you waste your time reading what you call “crap”,’ said Imré, who was Capricorn, to Vladimir, who was Taurus and fiercely hostile.

  The third thing to note was that it aroused endless debate, which got bogged down in illogical and contradictory statements.

  ‘You see,’ explained Leonid, who was Sagittarius and did not believe, ‘Milène was Taurus with Cancer in the ascendant. It could never have worked between us.’

  ‘Even though astrology comes from the Greek astron, which means “star”, and logos, which signifies “knowledge”, those who believe in this nonsense are right-wing arseholes and those who don’t are genuine socialists!’ declared Gregorios in a peremptory manner.

  All ten of them shouted: ‘Hold on, I disagree!’

  I left them squabbling away. I don’t know where they drew the energy and strength from to battle so tirelessly for the final word as if their lives depended on it. They exhausted me. I left, with my doubts and my misgivings. The likelihood that I would bump into her again was almost nil. She may merely have been passing through Paris, in which case I hadn’t the remotest beginnings of a chance of seeing her again. I looked up. The moon was mocking me. It was a proof that everything was decreed beforehand and that we were moving onward down the endless tunnel of our fate. I was crushed by the overwhelming weight of my destiny.

  5

  They say that it is through adversity that we discover our true friends. It didn’t take me long to decide. Everyone at the Balto had made fun of me, apart from Gregorios, who had no sense of humour. I therefore began my enquiry into predestination with him.

  ‘Why do Greek stories always end in bloodshed?’ I asked him. ‘Could Orestes or Oedipus avoid their destiny? Did they have a hope of escaping from it?’

  ‘Your question is of no interest. Remember that in Greek tragedy, the gods are powerless and unable to change the lives of humans. No one can evade his destiny: neither gods, nor men. We know the end from the beginning. There’s neither mystery, nor suspense. If the heroes don’t die, there is no further tragedy. If Clytemnestra forgives Agamemnon, if Orestes doesn’t kill his mother, if they forgive one another, then you have just invented redemption and Christianity. Had Freud been born earlier, Oedipus would have enjoyed a peaceful retirement. He would have said: it’s my father and my mother who are to blame. He was not aware of this excuse and he gouged his eyes out. Jocasta didn’t know about it either and she hanged herself.’

  ‘What about you, you don’t believe in horoscopes and yet everything is pre-ordained?’

  ‘Horoscopes are for mugs. Our room for manoeuvre is tiny. We are determined by our social background and our intellectual abilities. I spend my life establishing the fact that it’s impossible to educate a majority of idiots. You can’t force the hand of fate.’

  The only one who helped me was Sacha. He had understood just how serious it was and took it to heart.

  ‘Let’s go back to the beginning, Michel. If we haven’t found the solution, it’s because we’ve addressed the problem incorrectly. Forget the emotional side. Imagine that a detective were in your position. He’s looking for this young woman. He’ll make use of the few objective facts at his disposal. Facts, nothing but facts. No verdict based on opinion or interpretation. There can only be a yes or no answer to every question.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘We know that she likes American literature, reads Le Matin des magiciens and believes in horoscopes.’

  ‘We don’t have any other clues, I agree.’

  ‘You spoke to one another for an hour: what about?’

  ‘I don’t remember a thing. We laughed at one point.’

  ‘Did you laugh together or did you make her laugh?’

  I shrugged my shoulders feebly.

  ‘I don’t see what I could have said that was funny.’

  He closed his eyes and considered the matter.

  ‘I’m going to give you my conclusion. You do have a chance of seeing her again. A young woman who reads in the street is not passing through. She’s a student. She lives in the neighbourhood. Nobody walks around reading in an area they don’t know. There’s a strong likelihood that you’ll find her again one day. The best way would be to wait at a strategic place, on the corner of rue Soufflot and boulevard Saint-Michel, say, and not move, day or night. Sooner or later, she’ll come by. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to pick the precise point. According to your description, she’s not a flirt, she doesn’t frequent the fashionable shops, or the hairdressing salons: have a look in the bookshops, hang around the Sorbonne and place Contrescarpe.’

  Sacha had cheered me up. I did search for her, everywhere it was possible to do so. I waited outside the lycées and colleges of the area. I paced up and down boulevard Saint-Michel and the narrow surrounding streets and looked in at the countless cafés,
bistros, bars and brasseries of the neighbourhood. I searched the shops and bookstores, in the record dealers, in the public gardens, on the park benches. Nothing. I reported back to Sacha on the pointlessness of my searches. He encouraged me not to give up: ‘Nobody told you it would happen quickly. If you give up, you’ll have no chance of succeeding. I’ve had an idea that may be more effective. When you don’t succeed on one path, take the opposite direction.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sacha, that’s not very clear.’

  ‘A problem has an entrance and an exit. One can start from the beginning or from the end. We’d started from the premise that you needed to find her. We’ve never examined the opposite hypothesis.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘She’s looking for you too. She bumps into the one nutcase in Paris who reads as he walks. And you made her laugh. If I were her, I’d want to see you again. In that case, what can she do? The same thing as you. She’ll start from the few facts she has in her possession in order to find you. Perhaps if we manage to join the two searches together, it will be quicker.’

  I was astonished by his intelligence. I realized what a good friend I had, someone capable of treating my problem as if it were his own.

  ‘She knows that you go to the Cinémathèque and that you borrow books from the library. You should restrict your search to those two places.’

  ‘I also told her that I was Libra.’

  ‘That’s of no interest.’

  ‘Have I asked you what sign you are?’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘It’s an important part of our conversation.’

  ‘It sounds like a joke.’

  Sacha was the exception that proved the rule. I never found out what sign he was. From that day on, I spent my time within a five-hundred-metre triangle extending from Henri-IV, to the library of the town hall in the fifth arrondissement, to the Cinémathèque in rue d’Ulm.

  ‘’What does she look like?’

  I tried to describe her. The jeans, the sneakers, the curly hair – they were all important, otherwise he could not imagine her. But it’s impossible to describe an image. Words were useless. She didn’t look like anyone we knew who might serve as a reference. I set about drawing her profile. But my artistic development had ended at nursery school – I had made no progress since then, and drew as though I were holding a broomstick. I was incapable of creating a likeness of her, but I set about trying. I took a soft lead pencil and a piece of charcoal. I drew a few shadowy sketches. As far as I was concerned, it looked like her face. Allowing for a certain amount of imagination. I showed the profile to Christiane at the library: ‘Have you seen this young woman?’

  ‘She looks like a mare with its mane flying in the breeze,’ she observed.

  ‘It’s a young girl with curly hair.’

  ‘There’s no shortage of young girls with curly hair in the library.’

  I looked around the room. There were several of them sitting around the large table.

  ‘Michel, you should take up drawing lessons.’

  ‘It’s too late. What star sign are you, Christiane?’

  ‘Capricorn, with Scorpio in the ascendant.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He’s Capricorn too.’

  ‘Do you have to belong to the same sign in order to get on well?’

  ‘It can’t do any harm. Are you interested in horoscopes now?’

  ‘Just for information. I’m doing a survey. By the way, I looked for Le Matin des magiciens and couldn’t find it.’

  ‘I don’t know why not, it was filed under Pauwels. Do you really want to read that?’

  ‘Isn’t it any good?’

  ‘It’s a con. Are you keen on horoscopes, do you want to read Le Matin, you’re not going to tell me you believe in aliens, are you?’

  I spent long sessions at the Cinémathèque, testing the absolute limits of what was possible. I had a few scholarly duties, as excessive as they were pointless, that required my presence on the school bench. I watched countless films, some that were extraordinary, some that were deadly dull, and others that were pre-war trash. I selflessly endured an uncut Dreyer and an Ozu, a retrospective of silent Mexican comedy films and, more happily, a tribute to Louise Brooks and another to Fritz Lang. I sat at the back of the cinema always in the same place near the entrance, so as not to miss her if she came in. I became a regular. They welcomed me and started asking me for my opinion. That’s how I came to meet William Delèze. He was an assistant director, and had worked with a director whose anti-colonialist film had never been released because it had been blocked by monopolies and insidious capitalism. Since then, he had not assisted anyone and spent his time having discussions, hanging around and having fun. Every time I went, he was there. He was tall, with a huge mop of hair which he wore in a spiky style, and there were infuriated moans whenever he sat down in the auditorium. In the end, he sat in the back row. The first time, he sat down in my seat, but he moved to another without making a fuss. Those seats were ours. The first to arrive kept the other’s seat for them. William took notes in the dark in a large spiral exercise book, writing pages and pages in an illegible hand. When the lights came on again, he had difficulty reading what he had written. His lines overlapped or went off at a zig-zag. Occasionally, he fell behind and would lean over and whisper in my ear: ‘What did she say?’ or ‘What was his reply?’ or ‘He didn’t switch off the light when he went out, did he?’ or ‘Did you notice: there’s no continuity between the two close-ups, it’s awful.’ At the end, he would go and stretch his legs in the foyer. As he went out, he would say either: ‘Great film’, or ‘The next one will be better’. During the film, the comments would come thick and fast. Occasionally, he would change his mind. ‘Actually it’s crap’ or ‘On second thoughts, it’s a film that makes you think’. I didn’t want to strike up a conversation or get to know him. After seeing Tokyo Story, he asked me: ‘Can’t you speak?’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  We didn’t talk to one another for a long time. Not until we watched Written on the Wind by Douglas Sirk, which put me in a good mood; before the next film, I approached him: ‘Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Are you crazy about films, too?’

  ‘Not especially. I’m looking for a young woman. According to a friend who knows about such matters, she’ll show up here sooner or later. I’m waiting.’

  He looked at me with raised eyebrows. I didn’t feel like giving him any details. I plucked up the courage and showed him my profile.

  ‘Does this drawing mean anything to you?’

  He moved the sheet in every direction and turned it to the light. He hesitated.

  ‘Is it Bette Davis?’

  I had to tell him my story quickly, as the auditorium was beginning to fill up.

  ‘It’s a great story,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a subject for a script so that I can make my first film. It’s a good beginning. Tell me what happens next.’

  The interval was over and the credits of Vera Cruz were just beginning.

  ‘If you happen to come across her…’

  ‘What shall I say to her?’

  Someone called out ‘Silence!’ and someone else said ‘Shut up!’ I sat down. I tried to think of what he should say to her. I couldn’t find the words. William was engrossed in the film. He was right to be. It was a fine western.

  I continued to pace up and down the triangle. I extended the boundaries of my search area by a hundred metres, but to no avail. Months went by. The only person I came across every day was William, who asked me what was happening and who did not seem very pleased because it meant his script was held up.

  ‘Why don’t you invent a story?’

  ‘Cinema should reflect reality. It’s time you made progress. Supposing you met another woman? A bit of action would do no harm. And if you’re on your own, the dialogue’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘What sign are you?’

  ‘I’m Taurus. But I’ve a big prob
lem. My mother can’t remember the time I was born. Can you imagine? It’s impossible to know what my ascendant is. What about you?’

  ‘I’m Libra. I don’t know yet whether I believe in it or not. I’m waiting to find out.’

  ‘Are you coming to the Cinémathèque? They’re showing Les Enfants du paradis next, in the uncut version.’

  ‘I’d rather go to the far end of rue Soufflot.’

  I had an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. And yet this had never happened to me. And then, I remembered: Les Nuits blanches. I had so loved that book. The frozen romantic dreamer who meets a suicidal stranger, harbours all sorts of illusions about her, roams around a deserted St Petersburg concocting dreams and comes crashing down when confronted with pitiless reality. What was different was the certainty I felt. I could not have deluded myself. I was not a dreamer. I waited. At the main intersection outside the Luxembourg, during the afternoon, thousands of people walked by. I set myself impossible aims: the eleventh person to emerge from rue Monsieur-le-Prince or the eighth to come out of the métro or the thirteenth to get off the 38 bus, would be her. Really stupid challenges. She may have taken another road twenty metres away, or perhaps she lived in another country. On two or three occasions, I did a double-take. A shape, a shock of hair. And what if she had changed her hairstyle, would I recognize her? I felt unsure about the shape of her face. Supposing it slowly became blurred? Or disappeared? I wondered at times whether I had not been dreaming, whether I really had met her, or if it wasn’t just my imagination or the hero of Les Nuits blanches who had come to make fun of me. I might as well be looking for a grain of sand in the desert. I gave myself one last achievable challenge: ‘If she’s not here in five minutes’ time, I’m pushing off.’

  I went back and joined William. I arrived as the lights were dimming. He had kept my seat.

  The following evening, while we were having dinner, accompanied by the droning hiss of the television, the telephone rang. Juliette rushed over, as usual, and took the call. She looked surprised.