The Incorrigible Optimists Club by Jean-Michel Guenassia Page A

the dealers on boulevard Arago. At the ceremony of the handing-over of the keys, one might wonder whether the word ‘car’ was appropriate. Priests celebrating the holy sacraments could not have behaved more ostentatiously. The car was a gleaming black, as shiny as a mirror, feline and alive. We walked around it, trying to absorb the fact that it was ours, not daring to touch it. The manager of the showroom explained to my father how everything worked. Papa made him go through everything several times and he repeated all the instructions so as to get them into his head. There were buttons everywhere, a stereo radio and cushions that were as comfortable as armchairs. To start with it was rather heavy going. My father had difficulties with the gear lever onthe dashboard behind the steering wheel. The car moved forward in jerks like a horse that rears up and won’t allow itself to be mounted. My father kept stalling it and grew irritable. And then, he got the hang of it and the DS was off. The car drove itself, accelerated, braked, overtook. All you had to do was let it go. We set off along the outer boulevards. People turned round to watch it go by. We took the motorway at porte d’Italie and the DS flew along, free as a bird in the sky. No other car put up any resistance. She gobbled them up like mosquitoes. My father was the happiest man in the world. He began making fun of Grandfather Phillipe, adopting the cheeky, mocking accent of Jean Gabin, whom he imitated wonderfully. I burst out laughing, and the more I laughed, the more he carried on. I was given the full repertory of Pierre Fresnay, Michel Simon and Tino Rossi. I had tears in my eyes. He switched on the radio. We were treated to a Brassens song. We took up the chorus:
    Les amoureux qui s’bécotent sur les bancs publics, bancs publics,
bancs publics ont des p’tites gueules bien sympathiques .

    On Christmas evening, my father had arranged a surprise for me. He took me to the Opéra de Paris. Since he had only had the idea at the last moment, he had paid a fortune for tickets at an agency. He dressed up for the occasion, and when I arrived in my creased suit, he looked at me in bewilderment.
    â€˜Haven’t you got anything else to put on? We’re going to the Opéra.’
    â€˜It’s all I’ve got.’
    â€˜I’m going to tell your mother to buy you some things. Come on, we’re going to be late.’
    We found ourselves in the upper circle, at the side. Despite his protests, I let him sit in the proper seat. I took the folding one. You had to dislocate your neck to get a view of the stage. The Opéra was packed, the women in evening gowns and the men in dinner jackets. He was excited. Even the programme was exorbitant.
    â€˜Your grandfather would have given anything to see Rigoletto .’
    When the lights were dimmed, there was some coughing. The orchestrastarted to play. The music was beautiful. Nothing happened. We waited in the dark before the curtain rose on the ducal palace at Mantua. Had I not read the programme I wouldn’t have known what was going on. They sang in Italian. The audience appeared to understand what they were saying. My father was ecstatic and drank in the words. I watched him humming along with the Duke. In the darkness, I couldn’t read the programme. I was bored to death. It was interminable.
    â€˜Tell me, Papa, is it much longer?’
    â€˜Make the most of it, my boy, make the most of it. Look, it’s going to be marvellous.’
    The problem was that I didn’t know what I should be making the most of. I was confused by the characters who stood there like turnips, listening to the singing, and who then carried on themselves, with great fervour, for hours. I wriggled about in my seat, as if I had ants in my pants. ‘Sssh,’ hissed the woman next to me in an aggressive voice. My father leaned over to me and whispered in my ear: ‘Close your eyes,