The Incorrigible Optimists Club

by Jean-Michel Guenassia

  ‘Stop it! You’re crazy!’

  I managed to heave him a couple of yards away and hold him off. Nobody came to help me. Igor was yelling that he wanted to kill him. He pushed me away. I punched him in the stomach with all my strength. He wasn’t expecting it. He looked at me in stunned amazement, his mouth gasping for air. He drew back, clutching his belly. I knelt down beside Sacha, who was unconscious and bleeding from the face. I heard loud voices. Madeleine was preventing Igor from entering the Balto: ‘Get out of my place!’ she cried. ‘Did you hear? Outside!’

  She turned to Patrick Bonnet: ‘I make it a condition of sale that this brute never sets foot here again!’

  ‘I don’t ever want to see you again!’ he said to Igor, shaking his finger at him. ‘Or you won’t know what’s hit you!’

  Igor walked off in the direction of place Denfert-Rochereau. Sacha let out a feeble moan. I wiped his bloodied forehead with my handkerchief. Madeleine and Jacky came over and joined me.

  ‘We must ring the emergency services,’ Madeleine said.

  ‘No,’ wailed Sacha with a groan.

  He stood up with difficulty. His eyes were staring, his face was swollen, one eye was closed, his nose was crooked, and one of his lips was split. He was bleeding everywhere.

  ‘Take me to the hospital next door. Quickly!’

  He put his arm on my shoulder and we inched forward. At times, he faltered. I struggled to hold him upright. He was limping and clutching his ribs. They were the toughest three hundred metres of my life. People passing by stared at us in terror. They stepped aside from us as though we had the plague. He was breathing with difficulty. Drops of blood fell on the ground and I was spattered with it just as much as he was. At Port-Royal, he collapsed. A policeman who was guiding the traffic helped me and, each of us holding one arm, we dragged him to the casualty department of Cochin Hospital. The policeman left. Two male nurses laid him out on a stretcher.

  ‘What happened to you?’ the elder of them asked.

  ‘I fell down the stairs,’ Sacha murmured.

  The nurse made a face.

  ‘I’m going to alert the duty houseman. He won’t be long.’

  He disappeared. I stayed with Sacha. He opened his eyes. He beckoned to me with his hand to come closer.

  ‘Michel, you mustn’t say anything. You found me in the street. You don’t know me.’

  ‘As you wish, Sacha.’

  ‘It’s better. I want them to look after me, but not to operate on me.’

  ‘We must wait for the doctor. Let’s see what he decides.’

  A doctor arrived. He stared at me and frowned. He palpated Sacha’s body. He couldn’t help crying out in pain. He examined his face carefully. His fingers ran over every inch of skin with the delicacy of a blind man.

  ‘I don’t want to be operated on!’

  ‘We’re going to X-ray you, Monsieur, don’t worry. It’s not painful.’

  A nurse pushed the trolley. Sacha disappeared behind a swing door. I sat down. There was the same procession of battered and blood-streaked bodies as last time, dumped here like parcels by well-meaning policemen or firemen, and the same smell of fear clung to these people living on borrowed time. Four years later, here I was again in the casualty department where I had waited after Cécile’s attempted suicide. Where was she at this moment? Did she ever think of me? I would have so liked her to be with me, to be holding my hand. Would we see each other again one day? Perhaps it was this doctor who had attended to her at the time. Camille would have told me that my being here once more was a sign, and that it was written in the stars somewhere. If she had been there, I would have cried out that there is no such thing as predestination. It was just that I lived in this damned neighbourhood and I was unlucky with my friends. I began to blubber like a kid, like a bloody fool. The only advantage of being in this human pigsty was that nobody gave a damn, no one even noticed.

  Sacha was brought back after less than an hour. He was dressed in green pyjamas and wrapped in a grey blanket. They put him in the corridor and we had to stand aside to allow the constant stream of other stretchers to go past.

  ‘What did they tell you?’

  ‘You’re to turn over and not move.’

  His face had been cleansed with arnica. He tried to sit up. He grimaced in pain. The slightest movement caused him to cry out. He breathed with difficulty in small breaths. His voice came from deep inside his throat: ‘I have to go, Michel. You’ll help me.’

  ‘Sacha, you can’t leave like this.’

  ‘They’re not allowed to keep me against my will.’

  ‘You’re not able to walk. What will you do?’

  ‘I don’t want to stay here. I want to leave.’

  He gripped me by the arm and pulled me towards him with unexpected strength. He tried to raise himself, but had to give up because of the pain. His jaw was clenched. A stretcher-bearer pushed the trolley into a room where the doctor was waiting for us. He was examining the X-rays that were spread out on a bright screen in front of him.

  ‘You have a fracture of the nasal septum at the point of the frontal sinus and the ethmoid. We’re going to have to operate.’

  ‘I don’t want you to.’

  ‘There are splinters of bone. A clot will form. You’ll be in a lot of pain. You’ll find it increasingly difficult to breathe because you have no nasal ventilation. Your turbinate bones are crushed. You risk an infection. We can operate on you immediately. Under anaesthetic, you won’t feel a thing. It’s not a major operation, but it’s vital. In three days’ time, you’ll be out. You also have two broken ribs.’

  ‘Can you put my nose back in place and nothing else?’

  ‘That will be enough for today. As for the rest, we’ll see later on. Are you ready?’

  ‘You’re not going to touch anything else?’

  ‘I promise. What’s your name?’

  ‘Gauthier. François Gauthier.’

  The doctor jotted down the name.

  ‘Where do you live, Monsieur Gauthier?’

  ‘In Bagneux. Avenue Gambetta. Number 10.’

  He wrote down Sacha’s false address on the entry certificate.

  ‘I’ve got no other papers. He beat me up so he could rob me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re here to look after you. The anaesthetist will come to see you.’

  He left with the X-rays. Sacha’s eyes were closed as though he were asleep. He opened them. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  ‘He’s stubborn, this doc.’

  ‘It’s for your own good, Sacha.’

  ‘My name is François Gauthier. And you don’t know me.’

  ‘You’re a stranger whom I picked up in the street, and you were beaten up by a thug who stole your wallet.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘You must relax. As he told you, it’s a very minor operation.’

  ‘You’ll be pleased, Michel, I’m going to have to stop smoking. Do one thing for me. I can’t move my arm. In the right-hand pocket of my coat, there’s a flap. Hand me the contents.’

  I did as he asked. I pulled out a one hundred franc note, folded in four. He took it with his good left hand and unfolded it.

  ‘Take this, Michel.’

  ‘What are you doing, Sacha?’

  ‘I’m not giving you anything. You’re to keep it for me safely. You’ll give it back to me when we see each other again. It’s a tradition at home. It’s to make sure the person who’s being operated on comes to collect it. If you think I’m leaving my cash to you, you’re quite wrong.’

  ‘I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.’

  ‘I should hope so. I’ve got a good reason to recover now.’

  He smiled with difficulty. I took his hand. It was frozen.

  ‘Get some rest, Sacha.’

  He closed his eyes. After a while, I felt the pressure slacken in his now warm hand. He had fallen asleep. A man in a white coat came in. They were going to examine him. He took Sacha away w
ithout waking him. I slipped the hundred-franc note into my wallet.

  It was still raining when I emerged from the hospital. I went back to the Balto to give Madeleine the news. The café was abuzz with excitement. Patrick Bonnet had locked the door of the Club, sealed it off with an enormous chain, and had stuck up a notice: ‘Permanent closure of these premises. Gambling forbidden. All drinks are to be consumed in the main room and orders must be renewed by the hour.’ Leonid, Vladimir, Pavel, Imré, Tomasz and Gregorios tried to make him change his mind, but the owner remained adamant.

  ‘He didn’t have to hit him. I don’t want any trouble with the police.’

  ‘He was right! The only thing I regret is not having done it myself!’ Leonid declared.

  ‘We should have got rid of him earlier. He’s been making fun of us for years!’ Vladimir added.

  ‘This is a café and restaurant for normal people. I don’t want any maniacs. The chess club is finished! And if Igor comes back, I’ll call the cops!’

  ‘If there’s not going to be a Club any more and if Igor is no longer allowed in, we’ll go somewhere else!’ said Pavel.

  ‘Fine!’

  They all trooped out together, with their heads held high. We really did think that Patrick Bonnet had shut down the Club because of Igor and Sacha’s brawl. Later on, Jacky told me that it had been decided to close it at the time the sale was being negotiated in Saint-Flour. By doing so, he hoped to improve the café’s reputation and its profitability. No one was angry with Igor. He had founded the Club and it was because of him that it was closed down. Interpreters date the official end of the Club, and of its period of renown, which some people still speak of with emotion and regret in their voices, to that Monday 6 July. As if to say: those were the good old days. The members searched for a friendly café in the neighbourhood, but didn’t find one. When times got better they moved near to the orangery in the Jardin du Luxembourg. They became accustomed to playing there in summer or winter alike. They came from countries that had polar temperatures, so it didn’t bother them if they spent hours sitting outside in the open air. Apparently, it’s invigorating for both mind and body. Some of them still play there.

  23

  I woke up at three o’clock in the morning with a tight pain in my chest. There wasn’t a sound. Outside, it was raining. It was a rotten July. I wondered how Sacha was and whether the operation on his nose had gone well. I would go and visit him tomorrow. In my mind’s eye I saw Igor hitting him in fury, and him not defending himself. Why did they all hate him? What was the secret binding them that they would not disclose under any circumstances? Why did he pretend his name was François Gauthier? What did he have to hide? I suddenly realized that I only knew his first name. I had no idea what his surname was. Was he the son of a famous and fearsome person? Or one of those war criminals, whom police forces hunt for all over the world but who eventually manages to assume a new identity and vanish? Or maybe there was no explanation and it was merely a whim on his part. Even though other members of the Club made no secret of their names, he took care to conceal his own. I decided to get to the bottom of it and call by at his place to get an answer. His name must be there, somewhere.

  In the morning, I went to his room in rue Monge. Behind the glass in the concierge’s lodge was a list by floor of the residents of the building. On the seventh, there were some ten names. No Sacha, no Gauthier, nor anything that sounded Russian or Slav. I walked up the service stairs and arrived at the top floor. There was no name on his door. It was half-open and the lock had been broken, probably with a crowbar, which had shattered the wood of the door frame. The room had been burgled. It had been turned over from top to bottom. The mattress and the pillow had been slit open, and there were feathers everywhere. The wardrobe had been emptied, clothes lay in heaps. The two shelves had been torn down. The books were strewn around. His crockery was on the floor. I didn’t know whether I should go to the police or tell Sacha in hospital. I heard a noise. A young woman was leaving her room. I had bumped into her the previous week when I was bringing him some food. I showed her the damage.

  ‘This happened last night, but I heard nothing.’

  ‘I’ve come to get some things for Sacha. He’s in hospital,’ I asserted confidently.

  ‘It’s not serious, I hope?’

  ‘He’ll be out in three or four days.’

  ‘He’s not been lucky. It’s the fourth or fifth time he’s been burgled. Last year, they stole my iron. The concierge doesn’t keep an eye on anything.’

  ‘Do you know how Sacha’s surname is spelt?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve always called him by his first name.’

  I picked up a plastic bag that was lying around and put some underwear in it.

  ‘I’m going to tidy the room and put on a new bolt,’ she said.

  When I went downstairs again, there was a light on in the lodge. I knocked on the window. The concierge appeared.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, opening her door.

  ‘Do you recognize me? I’m Sacha’s friend. I came to get some clothes for him. He’s in hospital for a few days. His room was burgled last night.’

  ‘Again! There’s nothing to steal in those attic rooms. In my day, burglars didn’t steal from the poor.’

  ‘Do you have the exact spelling of his name?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me what his surname was.’

  ‘What name was on his post?’

  ‘I’ve worked in this building for seven years and he’s never received a single letter.’

  ‘And the electricity?’

  ‘The meter is still in the owner’s name.’

  ‘What about paying his rent?’

  ‘He brings me his rent in cash every three months. And he pays for the electricity as well.’

  ‘Don’t you give him a receipt?’

  ‘We don’t do that here. When he’s a little behind, we don’t harass him.’

  ‘How did he get this room?’

  ‘It was before I arrived. I think it was a friend of his who helped him.’

  ‘Sacha doesn’t have any friends.’

  ‘The caretaker before me told me that he was someone well known. I don’t remember who. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘Don’t you find it strange that this man has no name and that his was the only room to be burgled?’

  ‘I’m not the police. As long as he pays his rent, and doesn’t make any noise or mess, it’s none of my business.’

  I tried my luck with the chemist on place Monge, the eccentric guy with the brush haircut and the English scarf. I already knew what his answer would be.

  ‘Sacha? I don’t know. That’s what I’ve always called him. How is he? Is he aware of my little bill?’

  I went back to the Cochin, resolved to obtain an answer from the man who did not exist. He was going to explain to me clearly and precisely the reasons why the members of the Club hated him. This time, he wasn’t going to get out of it either with an evasive smile, or a sidestep. I was determined that no one was going to take me for a ride any more.

  At the hospital reception desk, I addressed the official behind her glass panel.

  ‘Can you tell me which hospital building Monsieur François Gauthier is in?’

  She stared at me, picked up her telephone and spoke briefly to someone.

  ‘You may sit down. Someone will be coming.’

  ‘I just want the number of his room so I can visit him.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait. You can’t go there on your own.’

  I sat down in the waiting room. After ten minutes, the doctor who had sounded Sacha’s chest the previous day appeared. He asked me to follow him. Instead of going inside the hospital, we went into a room close to the reception area. A portly woman was sitting behind a desk. She did not introduce herself.

  ‘In what capacity do you wish to see Monsieur François Gauthier?’ the woman asked me.

  ‘He had an operation on his nose.
I wanted to find out how he was getting on.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  There was a deliberate slowness about the way she expressed herself. She weighed each one of her words.

  ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Be kind enough to answer my question. What is your relationship to him?’

  ‘Yesterday, he was lying semi-unconscious on the pavement. He had been beaten up and robbed. He was bleeding. I brought him here.’

  ‘You didn’t know Monsieur Gauthier beforehand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you interested in him?’

  ‘I feel sorry for the poor man. Is that forbidden? I live in the neighbourhood and I was calling by to find out how he is. Has something gone wrong? Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s disappeared,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I don’t believe it! What’s happened?’

  ‘The operation went perfectly. He woke up. Everything was fine. We put him in a room with another patient. I went to see him at the end of my shift. We chatted. He thanked me. He had supper. The nurse passed by three times during the night. He was asleep. By five o’clock in the morning, he had left the hospital. Vanished.’

  ‘It’s not difficult to get out of here. There’s no supervision.’

  ‘It’s a hospital, not a prison.’

  ‘We were obliged to inform the police about his disappearance,’ said the woman. ‘It’s the law. The problem is that there’s no Gauthier at the address he gave us. Can you give us your name and address? In case the police want to question you…’

  ‘I gave her my identity card. She jotted down my contact details in her file.

  ‘I’m not going to tell them anything else, you know.’