The Incorrigible Optimists Club by Jean-Michel Guenassia Page B

Michel. Listen. Let yourself go with the music.’
    He was right. It was better with your eyes closed. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the DS, being driven along, without knowing how I had ended up there.
    â€˜Did you enjoy it?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, very much. A bit long perhaps. Especially the end.’
    â€˜For me, it could have gone on all night.’

    For New Year’s Day, we had planned to go to Lens, to Grandfather Enzo’s house, but two days beforehand, he cancelled. Grandmother Jeanne was tired and had to rest. My father felt thwarted. It wasn’t just that his mother was unwell. He was longing to show off the DS to his father and he had marked out the route we would take. He had planned to have drinks with his old friends in the area. He felt piqued to be left in the lurch. When my father’s elder brother Baptiste telephoned, I was the one who answered, convinced it was my mother. I was surprised. He never rang up. My father and he did not get on. Caught unawares, my father accepted his invitation without thinking. One of them must have felt obliged to makea gesture, and the other to accept it. There was a year’s difference in age, but Baptiste gave the impression of being older. When you saw them side by side, you would never imagine they could be brothers, so different were they. My father had bought toys for his nephews and a fine briar pipe for his brother. My uncle had not bought anything and reproached my father for showing him up. He had not wanted any presents and he refused to allow his children to open them.
    â€˜Should have warned me earlier. I would have bought some presents. You didn’t say anything to me.’
    My father kept a low profile. My cousins were dying to open the parcels and were awaiting paternal authorization.
    â€˜Baptiste, we’re not going to get all worked up on a day like this.’
    â€˜Paul, you know I’m not well off. You wanted to upset me.’
    â€˜It was for the children. You can’t refuse my presents.’
    â€˜You’re making our lives a misery with your presents. We don’t need them. What are you trying to prove, that you’re rich? OK, you win. I reckon you’ve got a big problem with money.’
    â€˜You’re talking rubbish!’
    â€˜You’ve forgotten where you come from, Paul, that’s your problem.’
    â€˜I move with the times. I make the most out of life and I try to help my family to do so. I want people to be happy. What’s wrong with that?’
    â€˜You’ve gone over to the other side! You’re a bourgeois!’
    My father reddened. He clenched his fists. I thought he was going to hit him.
    â€˜To be the right sort of guy, you’ve got to earn a shitty salary, get bored to death in a lousy job and—’
    He didn’t finish his sentence. There was a strange smell. While they were quibbling, the turkey had continued to cook. Black smoke brought us back to reality. My father rushed over to the window to air the room. Baptiste burned himself getting the dish out of the oven. The bird was completely charred. The scorched chestnuts looked like jacks from a game of pétanque. By digging away at the ribs, Baptiste pulled out slivers that were grey and inedible.
    â€˜If you had accepted these gifts without making a fuss about everything,we would have eaten in peace. I’m sick and tired of your petty preaching. You’re suffocating us!’
    â€˜If you had remained like us, nothing would have happened.’
    My father was chewing a recalcitrant chestnut. He spat it out onto the plate.
    â€˜I haven’t changed! It’s the world that is changing. Are you incapable of understanding that with your tiny commie brain? That’s it, I’ve had enough, we’re leaving!’
    He stood up, threw his napkin on the table, picked up his coat from the chair and went out without turning round. Baptiste rushed over and caught him by the