Read Online The Incorrigible Optimists Club by Jean-Michel Guenassia - Free Book Online Page B

flowers, which remained on the table. My father behaved as if nothing were the matter and cursed the sadistic officials, who had no consideration for wives and mothers whom they obliged to work on Sundays. He put the flowers in a crystal vase without removing the wrapping. We set off for lunch without her. Her absence ruined our appetites. When she came home in the evening, she never touched the bouquet, which remained in its cellophane paper. After two days the roses withered and Maria threw them away.
    For her birthday, I had wanted to tell her about my moving up to the third year, without letting it be known that this had been achieved thanks to Nicolas. I told myself that only the result mattered. But I did not mention it; either then, or on any other day. She never asked me the question. For her, it was a given. My father, on the other hand, who had given uphis studies after taking the school certificate, was proud and happy. He announced the good news to every neighbour he came across with as much delight as if I had been accepted at the Ecole Polytechnique. He invited us to the cinema. Juliette and I wanted to see Le Voyage en ballon . He was not keen. He preferred Ben Hur . It was sold out. He resigned himself to Le Voyage . Outside the cinema, people were queuing round the block. My father tried to jump the queue, but despite his skill at easing himself into the crowd discreetly and without a fuss, he was spotted by some moaners. We strolled along the boulevards. We came to a cinema where A bout de souffle was showing. Franck had talked enthusiastically to us about it. No one was waiting. The woman at the box office advised us against it. It was not a film for children. My father thrust us into the auditorium nonetheless. He and Juliette loathed the film. We left before the end.
    â€˜How could Franck have liked such a load of rubbish?’ he moaned.
    I acted dumb. Deep down, I knew why Franck had liked the film so much. And I loved it for the same reasons.

    Once the baccalauréat exams had started, school became less important. Nicolas and I spent our days in the Luxembourg gardens, reading, dawdling or rescuing boats that were stuck in the pond. When evening came, we went to the Balto for our daily game of baby-foot. I still now and then noticed the door with the green velvet curtain at the back of the restaurant, behind the benches where the lovers sat. It was a place one did not enter. Odd-looking men, never women, came to the Balto and simply vanished behind the curtain. I often wondered where the door led. None of my baby-foot friends knew. Old father Marcusot fobbed me off with a ‘You’re not old enough’, which disheartened me. Jacky used to disappear in there with drinks. When I questioned him, he shrugged his shoulders. Nicolas had brushed me off, saying: ‘What the hell does it matter to you what’s behind that door?’
    â€˜Come on now, you donkeys, are you playing or dreaming?’ Samy called out, cocksure as ever, and off we went for another game.

8
    A t the end of June, what I had been dreading finally happened. Cécile was walking towards me up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. I could not avoid her. She rushed over to me. She was excited and spoke without finishing her sentences. She talked at the same frenetic speed as her brother. She asked me to come with her to the Sorbonne in a voice that brooked no opposition. Without waiting for an answer, she took me by the arm and dragged me into the university building. I was surprised by the continuous flow of students who walked up and down the stairs, amidst a pandemonium that required you to shout to make yourself heard. She hesitated, looking panic-stricken and ready to run away, then she gripped my hand very tightly. We went up to the first floor. She walked straight ahead, tense, head held high, pale, forcing her way through the dense mass of bodies with difficulty.
    â€˜Michel, go and look over there, please,’