‘You mustn’t—’
‘I was joking, Michel. It was just to see what you said.’
‘I’m going to see you home.’
She shook her head and walked away.
‘Camille, we’ll think about it.’
They say that good fortune only knocks once and that when she knocks you have to seize her. Afterwards, it’s too late. She’s gone elsewhere and won’t come back. Only amnesiacs have no regrets. I’ve thought about this scene a million times. Each time, I’ve come to the same conclusion: I was a complete idiot. A coward. A man with no ambition. I belonged to the category of those who stood on the quayside and watched the ships depart. You need courage to go away. What had she thought of me? Where would we be now if I had said yes? In which African country? In Aden? In Pondicherry? In the Marquesas? In deepest Montana? It is in the heat of adventure that a rebel’s strength is measured.
I needed to talk to Sacha, to ask his advice and get him to make me feel better. At Fotorama, the owner told me that he was ill. A bad bout of flu. What with this lousy weather, it was hardly surprising. I went to his place. I hadn’t been back there for almost a year. I had forgotten that the service staircase was so filthy, with its crumbling steps, its blistered walls and its dangling electric wires. On the top floor, one out of every two light bulbs was missing. I no longer knew which his door was. I assumed it was the one with no name. I knocked a few times. I heard his voice inside: ‘What is it?’
‘It’s me, Sacha. It’s Michel.’
After a minute, the door was unbolted. In the crack, I could glimpse Sacha’s eye.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
He opened the door. He was wearing nothing but a blue woollen dressing gown. He looked like death warmed up, his hair was dishevelled and he had a week’s growth of beard. He glanced left and right down the corridor.
‘What do you want?’
‘I came to see how you were getting on.’
‘You’re the only person in Paris who remembers my existence. Would you like to come in?’
He stood back. I walked into the servant’s room. He shut the door and bolted it. He was shaken by a fit of coughing. The ashtray was full of cigarette butts. A standard lamp cast a pale glimmer and a book in Russian lay on the small table beside the unmade bed. There were patches of damp on the walls.
‘It’s freezing cold!’
‘That’s why I caught this lousy cold. The landlord doesn’t want to switch on the heating in June.’
‘You should have a little radiator.’
‘Yes, I should.’
‘I think there’s one at home. I’ll go and get it for you.’
‘It’s not worth the trouble. The bad weather won’t last. Would you do something for me, Michel?’
‘Of course, Sacha.’
‘It would be good if you could get some medicine for me. I haven’t the strength to go downstairs. Something for bronchitis and a cough. Something strong.’
‘I’ll ring your doctor.’
‘I don’t have one! Ask the man at the chemist’s in place Monge, the one with a brush cut and an English scarf. Tell him it’s for me; he knows me. Thanks to me, you’ll meet an unusual person. A chemist who gives credit!’
‘Would you like me to do some shopping? I could call in at the grocer’s shop. I think you’ve got thinner. You must get your strength back.’
‘I’m not very hungry. It’s kind of you, Michel. Really.’
Given the condition he was in, I didn’t want to bother him with my problems. I called by at home. They had switched on the central heating in our apartment. We had an oil-filled electric radiator lying around in a cupboard, which was never used. I was careful. Nobody noticed me taking it out of the flat. I pushed it down the street on its wheels. The chemist on the square gave me a bag of medicines and wrote the dosage on the packets. He jotted down the total in a notebook. I bought apples, some ham and some gruyère cheese at the grocery shop. I had a hard time taking the radiator up to the seventh floor. We plugged it in. The temperature rose rapidly. The feeling of being inside an ice box vanished.
‘It’s going to use a lot of electricity,’ I told him.
‘Don’t worry about that.’
He told me he had made a minute hole in the electricity meter, no bigger than the head of a needle. Through it, he had threaded an unfolded paperclip that blocked the motion of the serrated wheel.
‘My neighbour showed me how. They all do it upstairs. In Russia, we would never have dared. It’s fraud. It’s not the same here. We remove the paperclip a week before the official from Electricité de France is due so the meter works a bit. Apparently the man knows, but he doesn’t say anything. Tell me, have you taken some good photos of Camille?’
‘At the moment we’re getting ready for the bac. You should take your medicine and you must stop smoking.’
‘That’s what I forgot to ask you for. Some cigarettes.’
The next day, the central heating in our building broke down. The temperature dropped to fourteen degrees. The oil-filled radiator had disappeared from the cupboard.
‘It can’t just have vanished into thin air!’ my mother exclaimed suspiciously.
‘It was there last week. I’m sure of it,’ Maria protested.
‘I find that strange.’
‘I swear to you, Madame.’
‘Michel, did you touch the radiator?’
‘What do you expect me to do with it?’ I objected, with obvious sincerity.
The puzzle of the vanishing radiator preoccupied us for weeks. My mother showed the family the cupboard where it was supposed to be kept. We searched for it everywhere. We asked the neighbours and the concierge. She suspected my father of having sneaked in and taken it away to the chilly part of the countryside where he lived. There are mysteries that give rise to incomprehension and fuel discussions and controversies such as the abominable snowman, the Loch Ness monster, or flying saucers. But there are no such things as mysteries. Simply liars, two-faced bastards and idiots.
‘I’d like a bit of warmth!’ I moaned. ‘It’s incredible how freezing it is in this place. Anyone would think we were in Siberia. It’s impossible to work. Don’t be surprised if I fail my bac!’
19
I woke up in the middle of the night. It was obvious: I had to board the ship. Slip anchor. Turn my gaze from the disappearing coastline. Confront the unknown seas and sail past the headland. My decision was made. I would go away with her. I would accompany her. Nobody could prevent me doing so. A few technical details remained to be resolved. I wondered whether I should do this before or after the bac. I hesitated. The boil had to be lanced, we couldn’t prevaricate any longer. I knew from Camille that her father came back from work early. It wasn’t going to be easy to get my way; to impose myself come what may; to apply pressure and stand firm until I had what I wanted. I skipped the last lesson and went to ring his doorbell, determined to use the experience I had gained at chess to enforce my will. A man of about fifty, with a pleasant expression and an athletic build, answered the door. I recognized him from his gloomy voice.
‘Hello, Monsieur Toledano, I’m Michel Marini.’
‘Hello, Michel, how are you?’
I was surprised by this warm welcome, the outstretched hand and open smile.
‘Camille’s not here.’
I didn’t know he knew.
‘It’s you I’ve come to see.’
‘Very well, come in.’
I went inside the flat. Cardboard boxes were piled up in the hallway, labelled so that they could be distinguished one from the other. He was in the process of packing one in the dining room.
‘Leaving shortly?’
‘These boxes are going ahead of us. Some coffee?’
‘No thank you, Monsieur. I don’t feel like any.’
He looked at me and waited. He poured himself a large cup.
‘You should. It warms you up in this rotten weather. What is
it, my lad?’
He had noticed I was finding it difficult to speak.
‘Come and sit down. We’ll be quiet here. Would you like some biscuits? My wife made them.’
We sat round the table. He opened a tin filled with biscuits.
‘Help yourself. You’ll never have eaten any like these.’
I took two, out of politeness.
‘They’re delicious.’
‘You’ll have noticed there are some with orange peel. It’s my mother’s recipe – authentically Constantine.’
There comes a moment when you have to take the plunge. Even if the water is freezing or you don’t know how to swim. Before the ship sinks.
‘Monsieur Toledano, I’m leaving with you.’
He stopped munching his biscuit and put down his cup. He looked neither surprised nor angry.
‘With us, to Israel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to come on holiday?’
‘No. For ever.’
‘Because of Camille?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what does she think of this?’
‘She said goodbye to me, and told me it was over.’
‘She’s right. It’s not possible between the two of you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not Jewish.’
‘For me, it’s not a problem. I couldn’t care less about religion. I’m not a believer.’
‘You’re a nice boy, Michel. I like poets.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My daughter tells me everything. I, too, loved poetry when I was young. Apollinaire especially. Do you know Apollinaire?’
‘Not very well.’
He searched his memory.
‘I no longer remember. It was a long time ago.’
He closed his eyes…
… And how I love your rustling o season, how I love
The tumbling fruits that no one picks
The wind and the forest weeping
All their autumn tears leaf by leaf…
‘It was somewhere there inside,’ he said mischievously, pointing to his temple. ‘When you think about it, it’s amazing what we have in our heads. I’ve nothing against you. But I’d prefer my daughter to marry a Jew. It’s better.’
‘Why?’
‘For the children! Have you thought about children?’
‘Not yet.’
‘That’s the problem. Would you like it if your children went to the synagogue?’
‘Perhaps my children won’t go anywhere.’
‘You can do what you want with your children. My daughter’s children won’t go to church. Peace means being among your own kind. Jews with Jews, Catholics with Catholics.’
‘Why go away? You could be Jewish in France.’
‘If I were Chinese, I’d live in China. That would be normal, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m a Jew, I’m going to Israel. It’s not complicated. You’re French. You live in France. You’re Catholic, you’ve got nothing to do with Israel. This doesn’t prevent you and Camille being friends. But you don’t belong together. I’m glad that my daughter won’t be seeing you any more. It would not have had a happy ending.’
‘I don’t think Camille is glad to be leaving.’
‘I’m not forcing anybody. My children are free. If she had said that she wanted to stay, I would have left her with my brother in Montreuil. She wants to go to Israel because that is her country and because her family is making aliyah. We’re as close as the fingers on one hand. And tell me, your parents, do they agree? Have they given their consent for you to leave the country?’
‘No.’
‘In any case, I don’t want you around. You’re young, Michel, make the most of life. There’s no lack of girls, but you leave mine alone, all right? I’m not kicking you out, but I’ve got to finish packing two boxes. Here, have some biscuits. And keep going with the poems, you’ve got talent, I can tell you.’
I found myself on the pavement with a parcel of biscuits in my hand. Old man Toledano was very good at getting you where he wanted. I had said ‘Thank you, Monsieur’ as I left. I was not equipped to do battle with a man who recited poetry with a Bab el-Oued accent and offered you coffee and biscuits. In order to argue with the slightest chance of success, one needed great skill in dialectics. Twenty or thirty years of the Communist party. The real one. On the other side of the Wall.
Two hours later I pushed open the door of the Balto. Vladimir was distributing unsold food: four roast chickens that he was cutting into pieces, some chicken vol-au-vents, meat pies, tarts, cheese pastries, eggs in aspic, brawn, hocks of ham and mortadella. Everyone was striking bargains and going away with enough for two or three meals.
‘Is there anything you want, Michel?’
‘No thank you, Vladimir.’
‘I’ve got some rice pudding.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Shall we have a game?’ Igor asked me.
‘I don’t feel like it.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘A small problem. I’d like your advice.’
It was a very obvious mistake. In my defence, it has to be said that I was a novice in these matters. I should have thought before I spoke about it. Seeking Igor’s opinion in public also meant getting those of Leonid, Vladimir, Pavel, Imré, Tomasz, Gregorios… There was no question of dealing with sensitive matters in private. They were there to help, were they not? We were sitting on both sides of the restaurant bench. Leonid ordered two bottles of sparkling wine, and I told them my story. Not in its entirety: just the most recent episodes. They listened to me as they sipped the wine and sampled the biscuits. At the end, they looked thoughtful.
‘These biscuits are very good,’ Gregorios said. ‘In our country, we don’t make them like this.’
‘Jacky, bring us another,’ Igor called out.
‘What’s the difficulty?’ asked Pavel.
‘I’ve explained to you. Her father doesn’t like me because I’m Catholic.’
‘He’s right,’ he replied.
‘That’s discrimination!’
‘He has the right to want his daughter to marry a Jew.’
‘I know what she’s like. She’s being tricked by her family.’
‘He’s not forcing her to follow him. It’s true that they belong over there.’
‘Pavel, are you Jewish?’
‘Of course. I haven’t believed in God for donkey’s years, but I’m Jewish to my fingertips.’
‘Why don’t you go there, to Israel?’
‘The United States is where I want to go. You know, Slansky was sentenced to death because he was Jewish. Like most of those who were hanged with him.’
‘I’m talking to you about a father who’s preventing me from seeing his daughter because I’m not Jewish!’
‘It’s normal that he should not want you. It’s the reverse that would be abnormal,’ Vladimir maintained.
‘If he agrees to that, he’s no longer Jewish,’ Igor intervened.
‘Are you going to join in too?’
‘Where have you been? Have you just landed from Mars? Who do you think we all are? Communists on the run? Enemies of the people? In this club, we’re all Jews!’
‘I’m not!’ Gregorios shouted. ‘I’m an atheist. I was originally baptised Orthodox. I go to church to keep my wife happy.’
‘I’m not much of a believer,’ Leonid said.
‘You see, we conform to the original percentage,’ Igor continued. ‘Two out of every ten.’
‘I didn’t know we were in a club of sanctimonious bigots here!’
‘Don’t forget, Michel, that although very few Jews were revolutionaries, the majority of revolutionaries were Jewish. This has been forgotten, but in 1921, there were seventeen of them, out of Lenin’s twenty-two People’s Commissars. Stalin drew attention to the fact, even though we no longer knew what being Jewish meant. We no longer practised. We
never set foot in a synagogue. It was an aspect of our lives that was unimportant. We became Jews again in spite of ourselves.’
‘I don’t see the connection with me and Camille. You have a boy of my age and a younger daughter, if I remember correctly?’
‘She was two years old when I left. She’s fourteen now.’
‘If your daughter or your son told you they wanted to marry a Catholic, would it bother you?’
‘I’ll never see my children again. I don’t even know whether they’re alive. For a long time, I didn’t feel involved. They were a legacy of a world that no longer existed and deserved to be destroyed. I was anti-religious. Our memories have been jolted on either side. I knew doctors who were murdered, not because they were believers, but because they were born Jewish. I can understand your girlfriend’s father. You don’t know what he’s lived through.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. Would it be a problem for you with your daughter, nowadays?’
‘A bit. More so in the case of my son. Because of the children.’
‘Have you forgotten your grand principles? It’s the opposite of what you’ve always maintained!’
‘Perhaps I’ve changed or grown older.’
‘We’d be better off going to live in Israel,’ Vladimir said. ‘We could work there in peace.’
‘I think so too,’ Igor carried on. ‘At least I’d be allowed to practise my profession there.’
‘I thought that religion was the opium of the people.’
‘Being Zionist doesn’t mean being religious,’ Tomasz announced.
‘You’re nothing but a bunch of… of…’
Words bounced around on the tip of my tongue. None came out.
They stared at me, surprised at my aggression.
‘You mustn’t get annoyed, Michel,’ said Leonid. ‘We were just chatting.’
I felt like screaming. Something had just snapped between us. I no longer felt part of their group. They had excluded me. I had come needing to be cheered up a little and I had gone away feeling downcast. How could I have been so blind and stupid as not to notice anything? I loathed them. I made up my mind to leave this club and never set foot there again. Whoever said that revolutionaries end up as oppressors or heretics was not mistaken. He had forgotten that some of them become religious bigots.
The Incorrigible Optimists Club Page 56