The Incorrigible Optimists Club by Jean-Michel Guenassia

knight on f5. He did not come often. He could sense the animosity of several members of the Club, who criticized him for his communist sympathies, but accepted his money. He would spend the afternoon writing on his notepad, never looking up, absorbed in his work, dragging on his cigarette down to the filter, and nobody dared disturb him. We gazed at him from a distance, slightly intimidated, feeling we were privileged witnesses of creativity in action, and even those who disliked him watched in silence: ‘Let’s not make any noise. Sartre’s working.’

11
    T he end of the year was gloomy and Paris imprisoned beneath grey skies and freezing weather. For the first time, we did not celebrate Christmas with the family. Something that held us together had become loosened. Franck, who was training to join the school of reserve officers, had been called up for a month. He was traipsing around in the snow in deepest Germany. Wild and contradictory rumours were circulating about Algeria. Grandfather Philippe had decided to go there himself to make up his mind. People said that the newspapers were all corrupt and that you could not trust any of them, apart from L’Aurore , and even that was unreliable. Despite being busy at the shop, my mother went with him, glad to be with her beloved brother again and to make the most of a bit of blue sky. Juliette joined them. I did not want to go. I made the excuse that I was behind with school work.
    â€˜As you wish,’ my mother said, without dwelling on the matter.
    My father and I stayed at home like two bachelors. I looked after him, did the shopping and went to pick him up every evening from avenue des Gobelins where he kept an eye on the enormous building site that was going to affect the family business drastically. I would go with him to a little café in rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques that he used to patronize. He would meet his mates for a game of tarot in the back room. To begin with, I found it hard to understand the rules. Suddenly, it all became clear. I was sitting behind him, and when he hesitated about what he ought to do, he looked at me questioningly to find out whether he should attempt a ‘take’ or a ‘guard’ and whether he should push the ‘small’ to the end. The unpleasant comments of his partners didn’t bother him: ‘At the Marinis, we play as a family.’
    Together, we won frequently. Afterwards, we would go out. He loved Chinese food. Every evening, we used to go to a little restaurant in rue Monsieur-le-Prince.
    For the first time, we skipped Christmas Mass at Saint-Etienne-du-Mont because it was so cold that the square outside the Panthéon had turned into a skating-rink. We spent the evening in front of the television, stuffing ourselves with Grand Marnier-flavoured Yule log, chocolates from Murat’s and marrons glacés, and bursting out laughing whenever we imagined the people we knew in the neighbourhood who were going to get frozen stiff as they emerged from Midnight Mass. It’s not very Christian to speak badly about good Christians, but it’s fun.
    â€˜We’ll have to tell your mother that we did go. We stayed at the back of the church, the congregation was so big.’
    â€˜Why not the truth?’
    â€˜It’ll avoid arguments.’
    â€˜We can say that I was ill and that you were looking after me. There’s a flu epidemic.’

    Before Christmas, my father had given himself the very finest of presents: a Citroën DS19 Prestige. He had been talking about it for a year. My mother did not want one and preferred a sturdy 403, but he disregarded the maternal veto. One evening, he announced quite casually that he had bought it.
    â€˜That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be.’
    He had pulled out all the stops in order to have the delivery speeded up and he had managed to get it three months early. We went to collect the car from