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

poor. It’s always the same people who are exploited. The only freedom that should be given to citizens is economic freedom. We’ve got to get back to basics: ‘To each according to his means, to each according to his needs.’ More than ever, the only real power is economic and that’s whatwe have to take back. It won’t be by fair means, but by foul. Too bad if, once again, we have to eliminate the supporters of the old order. If we have failed to create a new revolution and not sent to the guillotine those who have usurped economic power, we shall have done nothing but gossip. Elections are merely a sham.
    I’m longing to know the results of your exams. I’m not in the least worried – you’ll pass with flying colours as usual. You have to learn to have self-confidence. As soon as you’ve got your results, let me know. Did that little bugger Michel come by to take the records? I don’t understand what he’s waiting for. If he doesn’t make the most of the opportunity, too bad for him. I’m not going to lend them to anyone else, except Franck. It’s up to you. I’m not giving them, I’m lending them…

    Cécile wanted to reassure me: ‘You know, when Pierre says “little bugger”, he doesn’t mean it unkindly.’
    I did not want to take the lot. I made my selection. I counted out thirty-nine of them. Cécile refused to make a list.
    â€˜Don’t worry, you can return them when he comes home. He’s not giving them to you.’
    I left twenty behind. They could be swapped if I wanted. True to form, Franck stuck his oar in. Pierre’s letter must have made him feel uncomfortable. He put on his bad-tempered expression.
    â€˜You’d be better off swotting up your maths instead of listening to rock. What’s happened to your good resolutions? Vanished. Have you given up already? You’ll get failed next year and you’ll regret it all your life. Pierre’s right, you’re just a little bugger.’
    On the spur of the moment, I thought I was going to grab hold of him. Cécile came to my defence. We had something in common, she said. She was allergic to maths as well. She suffered from a basic incomprehension. Pierre had struggled with it for years. He had tried everything possible to help her improve. He had shouted. He had shaken her like a plum tree. In vain. She had been lucky to get herself out of it by doing a literature degree. Franck didn’t miss a trick: ‘Right! Is that what you want to do? A literature degree?’
    Cécile gave him a strange look. She was not amused. Because of me, the maths and the literature degree, they started to quarrel. The sound of their voices grew louder and increasingly sharp. Eventually they sounded like two watchdogs barking at one another. He went out, slamming the door. Cécile was annoyed. So was I. We sat on the sofa in silence. We thought Franck would come back. He did not come back.
    â€˜Why do we have this problem?’ she murmured.
    â€˜You mustn’t be cross with him; he’s not very smart at times. He doesn’t think about what he’s saying.’
    â€˜I’m talking to you about maths, little bro’. We don’t understand a thing. It’s not normal.’
    â€˜It’s in our nature. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In general, maths brains are useless in literary matters and they’re proud of it.’
    But she was so resistant to my explanations that I gave up. She insisted that we had to resolve this problem. Since it was one we shared, we would join forces. If a guy who was gifted was incapable of teaching maths to an idiot, then perhaps two idiots could manage if they were taught together. She did not want to remain a failure. I was not convinced by her reasoning. If a lame man runs with two crutches, it doesn’t make him a sprinter. But I was in no position to refuse. I agreed to her