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

being serious?’
    I replied that that was what I wanted. She shook her head several times: ‘What’s the matter with you, Michel?’
    I almost burst out laughing and told her that it was a bad joke and that I didn’t mean it. But something stronger urged me on: ‘I’d prefer it. It would be better, wouldn’t it?’
    I turned away from her. I began reading again. I sensed her get to her feet. I did not hear her leave the room. She must be waiting. I turned around. She looked at me. We remained there, face to face. I knew instinctively that the first one to speak would have lost. I held her gaze without arrogance or insolence. The telephone began to ring in the dining room. No one picked it up. They had gone out. There were just the two of us. The ringing went on endlessly. We looked at one another without a word. The ringing stopped. The silence between us was restored. I saw her raise her arm. It remained in suspension with a slight quivering. I did not move. She hurled it with force. It was Malraux who bore the brunt. My book hurtled against the wall. She rubbed her hand and left the room. The front door slammed. I heard her steps growing fainter as she went downstairs. I was alone in the empty flat. The telephone rang again. I let it ring. That evening, Néron decided that our separation had lasted long enough. He returned to my bedroom and reclaimed his position at the end of my bed.
    The following morning, Maria announced that I would be going to school on my own. My mother would not be coming to collect me any longer. During the afternoon, Sherlock, the head supervisor summoned me. He was a cold, sharp-featured man, with a natural authority. At the mere sight of him, you stopped talking. You stopped running and you bowed your head when you passed him. He had a way of scrutinizing you that made you feel guilty. And yet he had never been heard to raise his voice or mistreat a pupil. Pierre Vermont liked him very much and swore that he was one of the most cultured of men, a philosophy graduate who had given up teaching to go into administration. Sherlock asked me for my pupil’s pass. He looked at it suspiciously. He had my school record open in front of him. He glanced back and forth between his figures and me, while I shifted from foot to foot.
    â€˜Marini, your results are not up to the mark. Especially in maths. If this continues, you’re going to have to repeat a year. You’ve got the final term to pull yourself together. You’re a year ahead, it would be a pity to waste it.’
    He tore up the yellow card and replaced it with a pale green one, signed it, removed my photograph, which he stapled on, and rubber-stampedit. The green card indicated that I was free to leave after the last class. He handed me the pass. Just as I was taking it, he kept hold of it.
    â€˜I don’t want to see you hanging around in bars any more. Is that clear?’
    At five o’clock, I waited. Nobody came to collect me. For a moment, I felt like going to see my mother at the shop to tell her that I was sorry. I hesitated. I decided to go home. Nicolas was the first to be surprised at my change of attitude when I refused to go with him to the Balto or the Narval. I did not mention Sherlock, just said I had to get down to work or else… Nicolas was a realistic boy who spoke without any ulterior motives: ‘You and maths, it’s a hopeless case. But don’t worry, there are masses of jobs that don’t require maths.’

    If God exists, he’s my witness that I tried. Truly. I applied myself. I spent ages at it. So did Franck. He did everything he could to knock the wretched syllabus into my head. In my mind, it was worse than a blockage, it was emptiness. I would feel that I’d understood and was making progress, but as soon as he left me on my own, I plummeted. He persisted: ‘It’s not complicated. Don’t get worked up. Any idiot is capable of