The Incorrigible Optimists Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

three times, and then only narrowly, whereas he had smashed me on dozens of occasions. Samy had no time for students or bourgeois types. He had just one word for us: we were morons, and he regarded us contemptuously from his imposing height. He only spoke to his own kind and to a small number of others, one of whom was Jacky, the barman at the Balto, a mate of his, who came from the same suburb as he did. Rumours were rife about Samy and they were discussed in a hushed voice, behind his back. He was variously either a small-time crook or a major one. Nobody knew whether it was his shady appearance or his black leather jacket that had earned him this reputation or whether it was justified. He had had a soft spot for me ever since I had played ‘Come on Everybody’ on the Balto juke-box, an enormous Wurlitzer that glistened between the two pinball machines. This had earned me a friendly pat on the back and a nod of approval from him. From time to time, when a pair of good players turned up whom he knew he could not beat single-handed, he took me on to play at the back. I made it a point of honour to be worthy of his choice and I always scored two or three goals thanks to a killer shot, which I was one of the few who knew how to do. Apart from these rare displays of friendship, I was treated as contemptuously as the others, and given the nickname ‘complete moron’; I found his constantly changing attitude bewildering. When I had a bit of money, I put on a rock record, and as soon as the guitars started strumming, he gave a sigh of relief and motioned to me with a nod of his head to join him and play at the back. Together, we never lost a single match.
    The Balto was run by a family from the Auvergne. The Marcusots had come from the Cantal after the war and had spent their lives in this café. They worked there as a family seven days a week, from six in the morning until midnight. The father, Albert, ran his business masterfully and proclaimed his social success by flaunting his English bow ties, which he collected and which he was forever adjusting in the mirror to obtain a perfect balance. When the takings had been good, he drummed his fingers in satisfaction over his prominent belly.
    â€˜The dosh is all there and no one’s going to take it away from me.’
    The phrase ‘bon vivant’ could have been invented for old Marcusot. He spoke about returning to the country, and starting up a nice little business in Aurillac or Saint-Flour. His wife, the voluminous Madeleine, had no desire to go back since their three children had all settled in the Paris area.
    â€˜It’ll be bad enough to be bored stiff once we’re in the graveyard, there’s no point burying ourselves there during our lifetime. The holidays are quite enough.’
    Almost everything the Marcusots made came from the Cantal. Their truffade was as famous as it was vast, with Quercy sausages that filled you up for at least two days, and people came from afar to sample their entrecôte de Salers . Old mother Marcusot was a fine cook. She used to prepare a homemade dish of the day. The enticing aroma greeted you on arrival and it had earned her three rave reviews that hung inside a gold frame alongside the menu. People used to make many unkind remarks about the stinginess of Auvergnats. But these particular ones were generous and they paid no heed either to the portions or to the bills, which they allowed to mount up over the course of the month, but which had to be settled without any discussion by the beginning of the following month if you wished to be served again. Woe betide anyone who forgot and imagined that he could simply change restaurants, for the Auvergne phone network was quick to remind bad debtors of their obligations.
    Behind the bar was the Marcusots’ domain. The dining hall and the terrace belonged to Jacky. He dashed around from morn till night: he took orders, and as he tore past threw them at old