‘Given the good will of our providers, there’s no risk of a lack of customers,’ Igor insisted. ‘We’re doomed to increase.’
Sacha dropped by occasionally. I observed him carefully. Aware of their hostility, he enjoyed provoking them. He appeared noiselessly. People looked up and there he was, watching us, rather like Big Ears. The others controlled themselves, tried to look contemptuous and ignore him. You looked up again, and he had gone, without anyone having heard him leave. I took care to keep up appearances and to display indifference towards him. He insisted that I did so and he did not want me to intervene or become involved.
I had made serious progress at chess and was becoming a sought-after player.
‘Being a good player is a relative notion,’ explained Leonid, who agreed to play a game only when no one else was available. ‘The new lot are really useless.’
I was following an endless revenge match between Imré and Pavel. The former was making the most of the absence of a clock to win by wearing his opponent down. Igor appeared, in a state of high excitement.
‘My friends, you’ll never guess who I’ve been talking to for a couple of hours.’
From his animated behaviour, we concluded that it was a well-known name. We guessed at pop singers or film stars, television presenters, politicians and famous sports personalities. We listed half of Paris without success.
‘Is he French?’ Gregorios asked.
‘No. He hailed me on boulevard Malesherbes. I said to myself: Igor, this is your lucky day. I watched in my rearview mirror. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Him in my taxi! I waited for a few moments and then I took the plunge. I spoke to him in Russian.’
‘Was it Gromyko, incognito?’ Pavel suggested.
‘He’s a living god!’
Then we all said ‘Nureyev’ at the same time.
‘To begin with, I didn’t want to come out with commonplace remarks such as: I’m one of your great admirers, which he must hear twenty times a day. He was slightly on his guard. I mentioned La Bayadère, which we saw in 1961 with Leonid and Vladimir. He remembered that magical evening and the crowd on its feet clapping and yelling bravos as though they would never stop. He sensed just how moved I had been. He opened his heart. I dropped him at the Opéra, by the artists’ entrance. He was in a hurry and yet he continued talking and laughing. He’s the handsomest man in the world and the greatest artist. We stayed in the car. We remembered the Kirov and Leningrad. He had tears in his eyes. He was late. I didn’t charge him the fare. He invited me to follow him inside where he was appearing with the Royal Ballet. I watched part of the rehearsal. It was extraordinary. The others stop in order to watch him. It’s as if an angel has come down to earth. When I left, he came over to thank me. Can you imagine? Him! Saying thank you to me! For having reminded him of home.’
‘What a wonderful coincidence,’ Imré said.
The word made me prick up my ears. It was clearly preordained. I wondered whether I ought to mention Holmes’s comet, but I didn’t have time.
‘My friends,’ Igor continued, ‘today is a very special day. Rudolf Nureyev is going to join us!’
This produced a chorus of exclamations, astonishment and incredulity.
‘In the taxi, I told him about the Club. He asked me masses of questions. He shook my hand and asked me for the address. He’s coming this evening, after the rehearsal.’
There was a hubbub of panic and consternation. The members rushed about in every direction, put their coats back on, did up their shirt collars, adjusted their ties, brushed the cigarette ash and specks of dandruff from their clothing, and combed their hair in the mirrors. They queued to go for a pee and wash their hands.
‘We can’t greet him in this mess!’ Vladimir pointed out.
They cleared the tables, wiped them with dishcloths, emptied the ashtrays, put away the crates that lay around, dusted the benches and swept. Madeleine directed procedures and she took the opportunity to have the windows cleaned by Goran and Danilo, two of the newcomers. All of a sudden, Igor noticed Sacha, who was polishing the bar with a white duster. He hurried over.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m making my contribution to—’
Igor didn’t allow him the time to finish his sentence. He jostled him and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. They were the same height, but Sacha was slimmer. He could have stood up for himself, but he offered no resistance. Igor shoved him outside forcefully.
‘That’s the last time! I’ve warned you!’
Sacha walked away without replying. Igor came back inside. He was furious.
‘What are you waiting for? Get to work!’
The Balto looked like a brand new café. Tomasz borrowed an Instamatic and a new roll of film from a pinball player who lived upstairs. We all went outside. It was a sunny day. We formed a welcoming committee on the pavement on the corner of boulevard Raspail and place Denfert-Rochereau. We kept an eye on the taxis, but they passed by without stopping. We waited quite happily. After a while, some went back inside to have a rest and a drink.
‘What time is he meant to be coming?’
‘They’re running late,’ Igor explained.
Vladimir displayed his decisiveness. He got hold of the phone number of the Opéra’s administration office from directory enquiries. We all gathered around him. But on this Sunday in May, there was no reply. Hopes of Nureyev’s anticipated arrival turned as flat as a cold soufflé. The members left one by one. Nobody made any unpleasant comments. Tomasz returned the camera. We were left with the members of the original group.
‘Maybe he’s forgotten,’ Pavel said.
‘Or else he couldn’t find a taxi,’ added Gregorios. ‘That can happen on Sundays.’
‘Or he was tired and went home to bed,’ Imré suggested.
Madeleine joined us.
‘In my view, he’s not going to come now. It’s kind of you to have tidied up, in any case. Drinks are on the house.’
I stayed with Igor, who was not giving up hope: ‘Something unexpected must have happened. Rehearsals can take ages. He’ll turn up.’
We had not found ourselves together in a long time
‘How are the studies going?’
‘They seem to be all right.’
‘And your girlfriend?’
‘We can’t see each other on Sundays. She stays with her family.’
‘Put yourself in her parents’ position. They work during the week. If they don’t make the most of their children on Sundays, they’ll never ever see them.’
‘How long will it go on? She’s not going to spend her life with them.’
‘You young people, you’re all the same.’
‘May I ask you something? Why are you like that with Sacha?’
‘It’s ancient history. Don’t involve yourself. He doesn’t deserve the slightest attention… Shall we still wait for him or not?’
‘Supposing he arrives and there’s no one here to greet him, what would he think?’
‘You’re right. We’ll wait for him. Artists turn up when it suits them. He spoke to me as he would to a friend. He won’t forget me. Do you know what his dream is?’
‘No.’
‘Do you promise not to talk to anyone about it? It’s a secret he’s entrusted to me. He wants to put on Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet. Can you imagine? It’s the most beautiful opera in the world. Do you know it?’
‘I’m not very well up in opera. My father adores Verdi and Rigoletto.’
‘Then he’ll love it. Ask your parents to buy the record for you. ‘The Knights’ Dance’ is my favourite bit. You listen to it and you’re transported to heaven. Do you know why Prokofiev is the Russians’ favourite composer?’
‘Because he’s talented.’
‘Not just that.’
‘He’s composed great operas and beautiful music.’
‘That wouldn’t have been enough.’
‘He’s kind and generous.’
‘I give up, Igor.’
‘Prokofiev is adored in Russia because he killed Stalin.’
‘What?’
‘On 5 March 1953, they woke Stalin up to tell him about Prokofiev’s death. The news devastated this man who had murdered millions of people, particularly since he had traumatized him, treated him badly and had humiliated him. For the first time in his life, Stalin felt remorse. He had a stroke and died that same day. Because of Prokofiev.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Michel, it’s a joke people tell in Moscow. I feel sure that if Prokofiev had thought his death would rid us of Stalin, he would happily have committed suicide.’
We stayed by the boulevard Raspail entrance. We were sitting on the bench, waiting. It was still sunny. The others went home, waving at us, telling us that he wouldn’t come and that we’d take root there. Dusk began to fall. We resigned ourselves. We smoked one last cigarette. We spotted Leonid walking along, with a crazed look in his eyes, each of his hands swathed in bandages.
‘Hey there, comrade, here we are!’ Igor called out. ‘What’s happened?’
Leonid took a moment to recover from his stupor.
‘Did you have an accident?’
‘I’m thirsty.’
We followed him inside. He appeared to be about to faint. His face was contorted and he started to sniffle. With his clumsy, swollen hands he took the small bottle from his pocket, opened it and breathed in several times through each nostril. He ordered a 102, added a few centimetres of water, knocked it back in one gulp and ordered three more from Jacky.
‘I’ll have a 51,’ I added.
‘You’ll never guess what’s happened to me,’ he said, his voice quivering. ‘I saw her again.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Milène.’
15
‘I like working on Sundays,’ Leonid began. ‘People are relaxed and the tips are better. I’d picked up a couple of Spaniards at the Ritz. They wanted the grand tour. An entire day. Malmaison, Auvers-sur-Oise and Versailles. A damn good fare. At porte Maillot, in order to avoid a motorcycle, I pull out and get stuck on the pavement. In the ten years I’ve been driving taxis, it’s the first time I’ve burst a tyre. The very nice Spanish guy says to me: “Doesn’t matter, we’ll change the wheel and set off again.” Believe it or not, I never managed to take the wheel off. The nuts were really tightly screwed on. I strained like crazy. The Spaniard, who was strong as an ox, tried with all his might. Impossible. It was as if it was soldered on. They took another taxi. I struggled away with the fucking jack. After an hour, I managed to get it off. I was dripping with sweat. The palms of my hands were bleeding. I was grazed and covered in grease. The chemists are closed on Sundays. I’m going home, I said to myself, this is a bad day. A woman with a large suitcase comes up and asks me to take her to Orly. I tell her that I don’t want to go there. She was leaving for New York. She asks me to drop her at the Invalides air terminal so that she can take the shuttle. Better than nothing. I had a bit of vodka left. I disinfect my cuts with it. The woman was screaming. It seemed as if it hurt her more than me. I put a handkerchief around each hand and I drove like that. I carried the woman’s case to the Air France counter. She gave me a good tip and told me to go to the hospital to be vaccinated against tetanus. I was about to leave when someone called out my first name. A shiver came over me. I turned round. There she was. In front of me. She hadn’t changed. She still looks like that American actress who is so beautiful. What’s her name, Igor? You know, the one in the film?’
‘Deborah Kerr.’
‘The same eyes. The same hair. A queen. In my mind, it was as though we had left one another that morning. I don’t know how long we stood there face to face.
‘“How are you, Milène?”
‘“Fine.”
‘“You seem to be in good shape.”
‘“So do you.”
‘“You’re still just as beautiful.”
‘“Don’t go by appearances. The wrinkles are on the inside.”
‘“Don’t you work at Orly any longer?”
‘“I was transferred here. It’s five minutes away from the flat. I walk here.”
‘“Since when?”
‘“Almost five years.”
‘“That’s incredible. I didn’t want to accept a fare to Orly in case I bumped into you. I’ve come here dozens of times and I’ve never ever seen you.”
‘“We must have just missed one another.”
‘“I must go. The taxi’s badly parked. I’m going to get a fine.”
‘“Are you a taxi driver?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Are you happy?”
‘“I can’t complain. Well. See you. Now, I’ll have to avoid the Invalides.”
‘I walked away. I was happy. Coming across her was a gift I hadn’t dared hope for. I couldn’t ask for more. “Leonid…”, I heard. I turned around.
‘“I’m glad to have seen you again.”
‘“So am I.”
‘“I’ve often wondered what had become of you.”
‘“As you can see, not much. I’ve still got the watch you gave me.”
‘“So have I…what’s the matter with your hands?”
‘The handkerchiefs were red. Blood was pouring everywhere. She arranged for a colleague to take over from her and took me to the air terminal’s infirmary. She took out some cotton wool and hydrogen peroxide from the first aid box. She cleaned the wounds. I observed the busy and meticulous way she looked after me. It was bliss. I wasn’t in pain. She smelled of that very mild scent. I forget what it’s called.
‘“How did you do this?”
‘“I had a problem with… the car.”
‘She put on these bandages for me. We went to the cafeteria at the air terminal. There weren’t many people there. We had coffee. We talked, about what I don’t know – just as we used to do. Sometimes we were silent. We looked at one another. It’s difficult to piece together bits of time you didn’t spend together.
‘“Aren’t you going to have problems at work?”
‘“On Sundays it’s quiet. What about your car?”
‘“I couldn’t care less!”
‘“Did you never try to see me again?”
‘“Milène, I’d made a promise. To that guy.”
‘“You’re the only man I’ve ever known who keeps his promises.”
‘“One can’t just have faults. I’ve thought about you every day.”
‘“I’ve often said to myself: Leonid must have got himself a job as a pilot. Perhaps he’s in that plane, up there, in the sky. He’s happy. I was sure of that.”
‘“It’s true that if I’d been told I’d end up as a taxi driver, I would never have believed it.”
‘“Shall we see each other again?”
‘“I don’t know. What about my promise?”
‘“Are you with someone?”
‘“I’m free as a bird. And you?”
‘“Why do you think I’m working on Sundays? Let’s have dinner together, if you like.”
‘“On one condition. That I pay.”
‘And that’s it. We’re meeting tomorrow evening. I’m going to pick her up outside where she lives at eight o’clock. Life is beginning again.’
‘I’m happy for you,’ Igor said.
‘I’m like a kid who’s feeling nervous about his first date. What do you reckon, Michel?’
‘You’ll be able to take fares to Orly again.’
Igor bought a bottle of sparkling wine to celebrate this miraculous meeting.
‘It’s not a miracle. It’s because of the comet.’
‘That’s a load of crap!’ Igor exclaimed. ‘It’s luck.’
‘This time, it may be different,’ said Leonid. ‘I was careful. I said nothing against the Rosenbergs.’
‘Leonid, they were innocent!’ I proclaimed.
‘As far as
I’m concerned, they were guilty! But from now on I’m keeping my trap shut.’
‘You’re right,’ Igor concluded. ‘It’s the secret of happiness.’
We were in the midst of discussing fate, the turmoil of our feelings, the influence stars have on taxi drivers, and the mystery of our lives, when a courier entered. He had an envelope in his hand, with the proof that Igor had not been bragging. To make amends, Rudolf Nureyev was offering him two seats for Swan Lake with Margot Fonteyn, a gala evening at the Opéra de Paris for the unveiling of Chagall’s ceiling, in the presence of the artist, of Mongénéral, of Malraux and le Tout-Paris. Igor was over the moon. Leonid did not drop any hints. Igor understood. With a heavy heart, he gave him the two tickets. Leonid invited Milène. He told her that Nureyev had sent him two invitations. She was impressed. She accepted with pleasure. Leonid had to hire a dinner jacket and buy himself a pair of shiny leather evening shoes. He did not regret it.
16
As I left the Balto, I said to myself that if this was the day for encounters, I would meet Cécile again. I’d have liked her to know Camille. I rang home to say what I was doing. My mother asked me not to come back too late. I called by at quai des Grands-Augustins. I hadn’t been there for months: I had given up going there. The concierge was not around. There was no post in the letterbox. I walked up the three floors without putting on the lights. I rang the doorbell for a long time. No one answered. I was convinced that our lives would start again from where they had broken off, as though nothing had happened. I heard a noise. I waited, but no one opened the door. The key to her apartment was on my keyring. If she’d wanted to, she would have asked me to return it to her, but she had left it with me. I went in. It was dark inside the flat. Glimmers of light shone through the open shutters. I switched on all the lights. There was the same disarray, with even more dust. In the kitchen, the fridge was empty and had been unplugged. Cécile’s bedroom. Pierre’s. Everything was motionless. I went back into the drawing room. Nothing had been moved since my previous visit. My attention was drawn to a cardboard box on the table. A photographic frame was propped up on top of it against a pile of paperbacks. It hadn’t been there last time. One of my photographs of the Médicis fountain stood prominently on top of the box. One of the five bought at Fotorama. I stood rooted to the spot in front of a close-up of Acis and Galatea. There could be no doubt. To set my mind at rest, I turned the frame over. On the reverse was the Fotorama stamp. The mystery collector was Cécile. No one could have bought these photographs other than her. Why had she left one of them as proof? To show that she had been there and to send me a friendly greeting? To tell me, I haven’t forgotten you and I loved your photos, or something else? She knew that I would be coming. She had left the photo propped up against the books, on top of the box in the middle of the table, so as to be certain that I would not miss them. Perhaps she had left a note for me? I leafed through the books, rummaged through the drawers, went through the piles of documents, newspapers and magazines. I took no precautions. I signalled my arrival like a policeman signing a search warrant. In the waste-paper basket, there were shreds of burnt paper and scraps of charred postcards. I emptied them onto the carpet, but couldn’t find anything amongst them.
The Incorrigible Optimists Club Page 54