On the day before the bac, I went to the movies. Apparently, it’s the best way of relaxing. For weeks, Werner had been inviting me to come and see the film of the century according to Igor and Leonid, who spoke about it with tremors in their voices. Werner found me a seat in the cinema. There weren’t many people. The Cranes are Flying was a shock. Not just because of the perfect harmony between the lyricism and the emotions that whirl us away, but mainly because of the story, which was so simple and so human. I recognized my own parents’ story, separated as they were by war, though in their case they found each other again.
The bac was a formality. We had been trained like cattle at an agricultural show. It was as though our teachers knew the questions beforehand. There then began that lethargic, unsettled period of waiting for the results without knowing whether to be anxious or relieved. I didn’t know whether I should phone her or try to see her. I decided it was best not to show my impatience. I ran my circuits of the Luxembourg at a mad pace. It’s not easy to rid oneself of an idée fixe. I still had a slim hope that Camille might fail her bac. If she didn’t want us to be apart, she knew what she had to do. The choice lay in her hands: her parents or me. My fate would be settled in twelve days’ time. The prisoner sentenced to death, facing the firing squad, can retain one hope and tell himself, just as I did: for the time being, everything’s all right.
20
I had banned myself from the Club, but not from the Balto. I returned to my old habits and caught up with my old pals. They, at least, did not split hairs, nor did they give a damn about History. They behaved as though nothing had existed before they did; they lived in the present, they did not expect to change the world, but to enjoy it, and they did not hang around privately cursing people. Their discussions were about girls on Saturday evenings, football on Sundays, and rock’n’roll every day of the week. It was a great breath of fresh air. I played with Samy, who was still just as lethal. I took genuine pleasure ignoring the greetings of Club members. I pretended not to hear them saying hello and ‘How are you, Michel?’ They had already forgotten the previous week’s argument. They could yell and curse one another, yet ten minutes later they were joking and offering to buy drinks. But I could not rid myself of these bitter feelings. I did not have the strength just to shrug my shoulders and smile as though they had not discarded me like a stranger. Friendship is worth nothing if it is not stronger than our convictions. If it were me, I would have stood up for them against the entire world. I was less annoyed with Camille’s father than with Igor and his hopeless principles. He walked over to the baby-foot table. I kept my eyes stubbornly on the players.
‘Have you time for a game?’
‘Igor, can’t you see I’m playing?’ I replied without looking up.
‘We can talk about it, if you like.’
‘I don’t need your help. You’d be better off looking after your own children!’
‘What you say is disgusting.’
He walked away towards the door of the Club. My cheeks were burning. I took it out on my opponents. Samy and I won about ten games. We were unbeaten. We were exhausted and dripping with sweat. We ended up at the bar, and old father Marcusot poured us two shandies. Samy and Jacky were ranting and raving about Stade de Reims’ baffling game plan. I listened to them absent-mindedly.
‘How do you explain that, Michel?’
‘It’s one hell of a problem.’
‘Or else, they’re being bribed.’
‘Who by?’
‘Who knows?’
Our companion, a builder, was convinced that it was Real Madrid’s fault. He launched into a heated discussion with old father Marcusot, who was in the process of preparing his celebrated croque-monsieurs. He disagreed: ‘The Stade de Reims lot are actually useless! They were given another thrashing by Racing.’
This technical level was beyond me. I picked up the copy of France-Soir that was lying around and read the comic strips. I made the mistake of glancing at my horoscope. I was not entering a period of good fortune. Had I been born the previous day, all would have been happiness and bliss. I was doomed just by a single day. Old father Marcusot offered us some Aubrac sausage made by one of his cousins. We tasted it. It was excellent. He cut up some slices and poured himself a glass of claret. They started telling jokes. A sort of competition with laughter as the only reward.
‘And do you know this one?’ said Samy’s pal. ‘A priest is ambling along in the African bush when he comes face to face with a ferocious lion. “Dear God, vouchsafe that this lion may have a Christian thought,” implores the priest. “Dear God, give your blessing to this meal!” says the lion.’
We burst out laughing at the same time. The laughter grew hysterical. We had tears in our eyes. I no longer remember precisely what happened. I was bent double. Someone was leaning over me. I heard cries. When I recovered, old father Marcusot was clutching the lower part of his neck with his left hand and holding his chest with his right. His jaws were clenched and he was gasping for breath. Within a few seconds, his face had turned red. His head was shaking. He collapsed. Behind the bar, Jacky tried to lift him, but he was slim, and old Marcusot must have weighed at least a hundred kilos. He was unable to hold him up. Emerging from the kitchen, Madeleine began to panic. Old Marcusot was spluttering. We rushed over to help him, crowding into the narrow space behind the bar. Samy held him under the arms and dragged him into the main room, knocking into those who were clustered all around. It was turmoil. Old father Marcusot was groaning. His chest was heaving.
‘Go and fetch the doctor from the block of flats!’ Madeleine shouted to Jacky. Old Marcusot was suffocating. Samy tried to open his shirt collar, but he couldn’t manage it because of Marcusot’s bow tie. He took a kitchen knife and sliced through it. I raced to the Club where the usual calm prevailed.
‘Igor, quick!’ I yelled. ‘Old father Marcusot has had a heart attack!’
Igor rushed over with Leonid. He knelt down beside Marcusot, who was moaning in fits and starts. He took his pulse by pressing two fingers to the middle of his neck.
‘Call the emergency services!’ said Leonid. ‘Hurry! And shut up!’
Leonid pushed the group of onlookers aside unceremoniously. Madeleine, who was squatting beside her husband, held his hand.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said.
Igor began to massage his heart. He pumped his chest vigorously, both hands over the plexus. He paused for a moment and started again. Strong, regular thrusts that sank deep into his chest. Old Marcusot shuddered twice. Igor tilted his head backwards, pressed his nostrils together and, holding his chin, gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Huddled against one another, we formed an oval around his body. Leonid, his arms spread wide, provided a counterbalance. They looked frightened and distressed. I felt sure that Igor was going to save him. He blew air into his lungs. Old father Marcusot’s chest barely heaved. For about ten minutes, Igor took turns applying thoracic compression and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We could hear him blowing. He was pumping him vigorously. He checked his pulse at the carotid once more, bent over him, and pressed his ear and then his cheek against his mouth. Old Marcusot did not react. Igor drew himself upright and shook his head helplessly.
‘I think it’s all over.’
Madeleine was stroking old Marcusot’s face. She bent over him and clasped him to her.
‘Albert, it’ll be all right. The emergency service is on its way. They’ll look after you.’
‘There’s nothing more that can be done for him, Madeleine.’
‘I don’t believe it, Igor! Where’s the doctor?’
‘He didn’t suffer, you know. He wasn’t aware of anything.’
She stared at her husband’s face, reached out her hand and, shaking as she did so, closed his eyes. Igor and Leonid helped her to her feet. She fell into Igor’s and Leonid’s arms and began to weep.
Certain customers took advantage of the confusion and left without paying. That’s the way it is in Paris
cafés: as soon as the owner takes his eyes off his cash, it disappears as quickly as his friends do.
The Balto was closed on Wednesday, the day of Albert Marcusot’s funeral in his hometown of Saint-Flour. He was the shrewdest man I’ve ever met. He ate and drank too much, smoked his daily pack of yellow Gitanes, and no one could ever remember him doing any exercise apart from a game of pinball. He worked like a Trojan all his life because he loved his job. When he was happy, he tapped his large belly and exclaimed: ‘That’s where the dosh is. And no one’s going to take it from me!’ He was right. He took it with him.
21
Thursday 2 July was a foul day. The results of the bac were announced. I didn’t even go and look at them. A friend told me that I had been given a ‘satisfactory’ pass. Any normal human being would have been over the moon, and would have gone and had fun at the student ball. But I couldn’t give a damn. I had had no news of Camille for a fortnight. No phone call, no letter, no meeting. I had been expecting her to show up after the exams. We could have spent this time together. Instead every day took us a little further away from one another. I ran round the Luxembourg until I was out of breath. In the afternoons, I went to the Lycée Fénelon. It was deserted. The lists of those who had passed and failed were pinned up on the noticeboards. She had passed ‘with merit’. She had made her choice. Judging by my expression that evening, my mother thought at first that I had failed. She opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate the occasion, but I refused to clink glasses. I was clearly a killjoy. She asked me what I wanted to do next year.
‘Gym teacher.’
‘You! Are you joking?’
‘I’ve never been so serious in my life.’
It continued to rain. How long can you go on running before you’re forced to stop? The firemen tried to keep up. As soon as I accelerated, I left them standing. How about being a fireman? Do you need a diploma? I decided I would go and ask them. It would be better than teaching sport to a lot of softies. As I passed the statue of Delacroix, I spotted her. Camille was leaning against a tree. Because of the rain, we went and took cover beneath the park keepers’ mushroom-shaped shelter.
‘I called your home. Juliette told me you would be here. You’re drenched.’
‘I like running in the rain.’
‘She told me you wanted to be a gym teacher. Is that a joke?’
‘I’ve changed my mind. Now I’ve decided to be a fireman.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘Didn’t you know that it’s what every boy dreams of doing? The big red truck that really does go nee-naw. Why should you be interested in my future?’
‘You passed. You must be pleased?’
‘If you start talking to Juliette, you’ll never get away.’
‘I went by Henri-IV. I saw the results. I’m happy for you… My brother failed his bac.’
All of a sudden, the man condemned to death and facing the firing squad opens his eyes. I understood what Dostoevsky must have felt when he was told that he was reprieved. He surely did as I did. He took several deep breaths. It’s wonderful to breathe. We don’t think about it enough. I was dripping with sweat. What a lovely day it is today. How beautiful she is.
‘So will he be forced to do it again?’
‘In Israel. We’re leaving tomorrow.’
The shot had been fired. I shuddered. How long would it take for me to feel it? Why wasn’t I dead?
‘Damn it all, Camille! Why won’t you stay?’
‘I can’t, Michel.’
‘Your father told me that if you’d wanted to, you could have gone to stay with your uncle in Montreuil.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘I promise you.’
‘His brother’s in a kibbutz on the Jordanian border.’
‘Was he making fun of me?’
‘What did you think of my mother’s biscuits?’
I collapsed onto the bench.
‘You shouldn’t have come, Camille. You should have let me go on running.’
She sat down beside me. She took my hand. She gazed at me with a strange expression.
‘Michel, I love you. I love only you. I think of you day and night. Every moment. It’s unbearable. I can’t go on. I want to live with you, stay with you, never ever leave you.’
‘So do I.’
‘I feel so close to you, do you understand?’
‘Why haven’t you been in touch with me during these two weeks? I felt terrible.’
‘I wrote you two letters a day.’
‘I never received anything.’
‘I didn’t send them.’
‘Why have you come back?’
‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘Camille, don’t go. We’ll find a solution.’
‘I can’t, Michel. I’m sixteen. I must obey my parents. I couldn’t do that to them. I’m trapped.’
‘I’m ready to go with you.’
‘It’s not possible. My parents wouldn’t want it.’
‘Let’s go away together then. Doesn’t matter where. You suggested that to me. Do you remember? I know a place where we can go. No one will find us.’
‘Michel, listen to me. Do you love me?’
‘How can you ask me that question? Do you really doubt it?’
‘You’ll wait for me and I’ll wait for you.’
‘How long will that last?’
‘I don’t know. A long time. It’s a hurdle we’ll have to overcome.’
‘It’s torture.’
‘If we manage it, we’ll feel stronger. Nothing will be able to separate us again. We’ll be together for life. And after all, it’s not the end of the world. Perhaps we’ll manage to see each other during the holidays. Do you agree?’
‘Is there a choice?’
‘I swear that I’ll wait for you.’
‘Me too. I’ll wait for you.’
She smiled at me, picked up the bag that lay at her feet and took out a book, which she handed to me.
‘I’m giving it to you.’
It was her copy of Le Matin des magiciens, inscribed by Bergier and Pauwels.
‘It’s my most precious possession. Think of me as you read it.’
‘I will, I promise. It will never leave me. I’ve got nothing to give you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Will you write to me?’
‘Every day. Wait.’
I took out my wallet. I pulled out a sheet of paper folded in eight. I gave it to her. She unfolded it carefully and found my rapidly drawn sketch of her.
‘I knew you hadn’t torn it up.’
‘It doesn’t look much like you.’
‘I like it a lot.’
We sat there in silence. We wanted this moment to go on for ever. We stood up. Her eyes were red. I took her in my arms and I clasped her to me with all my strength. She gave me a long kiss on the lips. My body thrilled from head to foot. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone. It was pouring with rain.
22
Madeleine Marcusot was back by Monday. She couldn’t bear the Auvergne. Since her children had left the drinks trade and the Balto was too big a business for a woman on her own, she had decided to sell it to the son of a cousin. They were in the process of preparing the papers and the loans with the brewery agent. She introduced us to Patrick Bonnet. He was young and looked no more than thirty. From now on, he was the owner. He was full of ideas for enlarging the terrace, expanding the restaurant business in the evening and improving its reputation. He was going to change the pinball machines and would leave the baby-foot tables as they were. A lick of paint would do no harm. He offered drinks all round to celebrate his arrival. We raised our glasses in Albert’s memory. Madeleine would help him initially. In October, she would be taking over a small restaurant in Levallois. She would be near her daughter.
I was awaiting my turn at the baby-foot table when Sacha arrived. I had been round to his place three times to see whether he needed anything. His cheeks were hollow.
He had grey circles under his eyes and two weeks’ growth of beard.
‘What are you doing outside? You’ll never get better with this lousy weather.’
‘I’d run out of cigarettes.’
‘They’re bad for you, Sacha. You must stop smoking.’
‘Michel, you’re very kind, but you’re a bit of a pain in the arse.’
He went to buy two packs of Gauloises at the tobacco counter. Madeleine was in the kitchen preparing the dish of the day. She spotted him and went over to him. They embraced.
‘I’m sorry, Madeleine, I couldn’t come before now.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Sacha. You look tired. You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.’
‘I wanted to offer my condolences. To tell you just how upset I was by Albert’s death. You know how fond I was of him.’
‘He liked you very much too.’
‘He was a friend. A fine person. It was so sudden.’
‘I’m annoyed with myself, you know. He was too fat. There was no way of putting him on a diet. I should have been more forceful.’
‘It’s not your fault. He was happy.’
Suddenly, behind us, we heard a roar: ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
We turned round. Igor was red with fury.
‘I warned you: I didn’t want you bloody well setting foot here again!’
‘I came to see Madeleine.’
‘You’re forbidden to stay in this café!’
‘Fuck off!’
Igor hurled himself at him. He had lost control. He gave Sacha a colossal slap in the face that caused him to spin round ninety degrees. He grabbed him by the neck and dragged him outside, onto avenue Denfert-Rochereau. He began pummelling him with blows to the body and the head. We were dumbstruck. We watched Igor beating him up through the window. Sacha offered no resistance. He didn’t try to protect himself. He fell to his knees. Igor seized him by the lapels of his coat and hammered his face with furious blows. Sacha’s face was bleeding, but he didn’t defend himself. I went outside and hurled myself at Igor. I grabbed him by the back. He was bigger and stronger than me and he was struggling, but I clung onto his arms and he was forced to let Sacha go. Sacha collapsed with his face to the ground. Igor went on kicking him violently in the ribs.
The Incorrigible Optimists Club Page 57