Free The Incorrigible Optimists Club by Jean-Michel Guenassia

she said plaintively.
    I turned around and saw a group of students congregated around some noticeboards on which the exam results were displayed. Some of them were cock-a-hoop and were waving their hands in triumph, others had collapsed or were in tears. I shoved my way through and searched for her name among the endless lists. Sudden surges of the crowd moved me several feet away. I used my shoulders and elbows to steady myself with as much determination as if I were the one involved. Her name appeared: ‘Cécile Vermont: pass, with merit’. I struggled to extricate myself. Her eyes were closed. I yelled: ‘Cécile, you’ve passed!’
    I rushed over to her. We fell into each other’s arms. She hugged me until I almost suffocated. I could feel her body, her panting breath on my neck, her smell, her shudders of joy. The embrace seemed to last for an eternity. My head was spinning. We remained pressed to one another for a few seconds longer than the mere explosion of delight at the results warranted. She took my face in her hands and murmured: ‘Thanks, little brother, thanks.’
    It was the first time she had called me that. This new intimacy agreed with me wonderfully. When she kissed me on the cheek, my heart thumped. We walked back through the university in a jubilant mood. Up on her cloud, Cécile laughed, hopped from one foot to another, hugged everybody and cheered up those who had not got through. As if to emphasize her joy, she introduced me just by my first name. Several students gave me a puzzled look. I could sense them staring behind my back. I felt as light as a sparrow. We found ourselves on the Place de la Sorbonne once more among groups of students discussing their results. Cécile gradually recovered her natural calm. She spotted Franck before he saw her. As soon as he saw her looking so happy, he realized and took her in his arms. He whirled her round. They spent a long time kissing. Franck offered us a drink in a jam-packed café. Cécile began to talk about her exams and the traps she had known how to avoid. It was impossible to interrupt her. We didn’t want to. With her short hair and her tomboyish figure, she looked the spitting image of Jean Seberg. Just as beautiful, just as radiant, with the same grace and the same fragile intensity, except that Cécile had dark hair and large brown eyes.
    She wanted us to go and pick up the records that Franck had left for me. My protests were useless, as were Franck’s. We found ourselves in the huge apartment on the quai des Grands-Augustins, which might have seemed gloomy had it not been for the cheerful amount of clutter everywhere. Cécile had not touched a thing since Pierre’s farewell party: the empty bottles of alcohol, the books piled up, the overflowing ashtrays, the dirty plates and the paintings lying all over the floor produced a strange atmosphere in this empty place, which was far too big for her. She cleared away the clothes that were heaped on the sofa and shoved them onto the floor to make room for us to sit down. She went to look for the records. We could hear her rummaging in the cupboards as she moaned about the mess everywhere. She reappeared and then vanished immediately. Franck put his arm around my shoulder.
    â€˜Apparently you didn’t care for A bout de souffle ?’
    â€˜I liked it personally. It was Papa and Juliette who didn’t. They couldn’t understand why you had liked the film.’
    Franck looked thoughtful: ‘I love a girl who’s got a very pretty neck, very pretty breasts, a very pretty voice, very pretty wrists, a very pretty head, very pretty knees…’
    His eyes were moist and there was a furtive smile on his lips. Cécile entered the room carrying a box of records in her arms. There were far too many. I was embarrassed to take them. Cécile spelled out her broth-er’s intentions: ‘Pierre’s not giving them to you.