My Monday Evening (8pm To 10pm) Group Of Optimists Anonymous

My Monday Evening (8pm to 10pm) Group of Optimists Anonymous ‘“It could be worse” and “Expect the unexpected” are my mottoes. I always tell my children it could be worse.’ The beautiful woman, more exactly the beautiful lady (as she would herself put it), who has just spoken these words backs in the comfortable leather chesterfield that smells of ancient pipe, is Emily. ‘I am optimist because I am faithful. Back in the old days I would have been a martyr because I would not have renounced my faith, because I would have remained optimist until after the end. At the end of the day God makes everything back to normal.’ She likes being president; she always knew she had oratory skills. She had first discovered this feeling of selfconfidence when she was at school and it has never failed her since. She always knew she had a certain power over weak people, and in her case everybody else was weak. ‘I will tell you all, ladies. After dinner my husband told me this – they are his own words, trust me, I am not inventing anything: ‘Emily, I really think you should stop this group thing, hand out the presidency to somebody else who is more apt – not that you are not apt – but it takes on your way of living. I think this meeting is becoming unhealthy. You take it too much at heart and neglect some things, not concerning you…I concede I may be wrong, but the children feel the same. You know, from what I gather, it looks like schadenfreude to me.’’ A loud “Oh” of indignation booms in the private room of the ILAC centre, quickly followed by a noisy murmur (actually simply lively discussions) that involves a lot of nods, tensed faces mingled with the usual – automatic – gestures of tightening a creased dress or a rebellious, not-lacquered-enough dyed lock. ‘This is preposterous my dear!’ the skinny middle-age woman who has just so virulently reacted is red with anger. ‘What did you reply to this unsuitable buffet?’ Every pair of eyes is turned towards Emily; she is conscious of the looks and she loves that, being the centre of attention. ‘Indeed I remained unscathed by this outrageous remark, ladies, and I calmly replied that we were honest ladies, drinking tea and eating home-made pies, that we were talkative, caritative souls who needed comfort and the balm of a smile. (Pause). I told him that our only sin would be to put too much milk in our tea. (Laughter. Pause). I told him he was very unjust with all of us and asked him if he wanted to come and see with his own eyes that there was nothing wrong with us, (pause) but he replied he would not and he left the room.’ Every lipsticked mouth under every pair of eyelashed eyes is grinning with self-satisfaction; for them all the female superiority was unquestionable, even natural, at least on Mondays. ‘Come on, dears, let us all have a warm, comforting cup of tea and a piece of cake. I believe Cathy made her excellent and reputable diet apple crumble.’ At the other end of the room Cathy is © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

blushing deeply, her usually rosy cheeks turn instantly to a bright red, but every other woman smiles at her in a reassuring way, just to make her feel at home. But the rows of shiny, whitened teeth make her even more embarrassed, because she herself did not have the time to go to the dentist for her monthly check-up and brightening. Emily is the first lady to get up, and no lady, for all the gold of the world, would break up this ritual. Partly because each lady had a part of that gold, and mostly because Emily is a very convincing president with a stare that can make you feel like a lamb in the hands of a smiling butcher. Emily is the president of the group and she alone brought it to what it is today: a coherent, organised group. A very coherent group: all the ladies get up at the same time, all look at each other because they notice it, and all laugh heartily and go hand in hand to the buffet. Emily had worked with exemplary tenacity: she had found the location (a private room generously lent by the ILAC centre), she had furnished it (with old chesterfields – formerly her father’s, explaining the faint pipe tobacco smell in them – and oak tables – her mother’s, explaining the absence of scratches – from her country house in County Kerry), advertised the group (in the right places, as she always said when talking about that – which was very often) and had been rewarded for her efforts, commitment and endeavour (by being automatically appointed president by the newly-formed group of Optimists Anonymous – during that memorable opening night). She was proud of herself and of this group, her achievement, and in return everybody loved her, respected and admired her. But – there is always a ‘but’, even in that case – by a strange coincidence, every lady who attended this group strongly resembled her neighbour sitting in the chesterfield: both did not work (they have never had to) but had nonetheless a timetable as full as their husband’s, they all relied on au-pair girls from different parts of the world (the more exotic they are the cheaper they are, and they can teach the children some new words in French, Italian, German, Spanish – very useful for the summer holidays), and had all a different meaning allocated to the expression ‘to go shopping’ than everyday women had. But one should not be too hasty jumping on erroneous conclusions (jumping on the gun one might say). All that matters for Emily is that every woman – lady – in her group has 1- her lilac badge with her name correctly spelt on it (she designed them) 2the correspondent (strictly personal) mug of tea, still with the correct name on it and (last but nor least) 3- that every lady feels at home. So Emily goes from group of people to group of people so as not to ostracise anyone, with a dish of home-made cocktail snacks and miniature pies (but she doesn’t listen – what for?). Everybody is discussing in reaction to Emily’s husband's attack. Emily does not show her hot temper but she is revolted, ulcerated – how dared he call them this? When she set up this group, she expressly wanted to re-assure people, and she discovered that many women of her ‘kind’ felt like her. Is there anything wrong with being contented with what you have, with what you earned, especially when you have more than other folks? Emily had always © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

wondered at material and financial troubles from afar and afar means: in the spotless lavenderscented kitchen in the morning reading the Irish Times, when the au-pair is walking Cecilia and Mark to school, when Paul, still in Austria on a business trip with his company (he had called her few minutes ago) and when a hard day of shopping and chattering around a nice cup of tea in Bewleys is ahead of her. She had a big house to furnish to her own taste inherited from her mother and to keep up and to throw parties in, and for the moment she did not think any further than that. You would expect Emily’s world to be a small world, but with due respect to you, it is not. It was Optimists Anonymous. Hence nobody, in theory, would know each other. In practice it is a little more complicated. It is not the fact that she is nicer, richer, more intelligent, that she has a bigger house, has more intelligent offspring, has not one but two country houses (one in the south of France – just in case few days in the summer were left) and has the temperament of a leader (though that was all true and freely unacknowledged by her fellow ladies) that made her different from the babbling lot under her conduct, it was the fact that her parents were French. Nobody knows; not even her best friend Margaret who is part of the group. She knows one or two other ladies for having seen them somewhere else – at a dinner probably – but that was it. She does not care if the rest know of each other. She only cares if her private life is well concealed from them by a curtain of cunning. In terms of social studies she would belong to the upper-upper class, and she reckons the rest of her flock, including dear Margaret, is below her rank and standards – and ideals. That makes people interesting and boring at the same time. Interesting the first five minutes and boring until they leave. Sometimes she fancied that everyone knew who she really was, because she had been in the newspapers a couple of times, in the background of the front-page colour picture, in the shade of her husband in her Gucci dress (with a glass of champagne nonchalantly reflecting the brightness of her diamond and sapphire rings), but that everyone stayed mute with envy. Emily’s world is big, not much than everyone else’s, if anyone else can afford what she spends each month in terms of time multiplied by money multiplied by more money, multiplied by an ego twice the normal size of a terminal egocentric. ‘Come on, ladies, let us resume our conversation’ says Emily clapping briefly her two delicate, freshly manicured hands (self-conscious of the sense of newness embalming them). Nobody forgets the ritual: Emily sits first (thus choosing her place), in the most comfortable chesterfield (probably her father’s very favourite). An interesting detail she suddenly realises is that there is only one armchair, the rest are sofas. She presides in her father’s favourite armchair (what did I tell you) – ‘well, this is fortunate,’ thinks Emily, smiling at herself (it’s difficult without a mirror but still). © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

‘Dear ones, I know you are deeply offended by my husband’s unfortunate words, but do not be too harsh on him, he is only a man after all, therefore he is liable to making mistakes.’ ‘But still Emily,’ Margaret counter-attacks, ‘with all due respect it is very rude of him to have said so. We keep records of everything we do. We demand some punishment to be conducted upon him.’ A concert of (rebellious) whispers indicates Emily that once again (almost every week and a week without is not a good week) her honour is at stake. ‘Very well Margaret,’ replies a tight-lipped Emily ‘but you wouldn’t actually be thinking I would have told you this without having devised some plot beforehand?’ ‘No – indeed not – but –’ ‘Then your demand has been granted before it was even made.’ ‘What will you do, Emily? Please tell us,’ says Cathy sheepishly (she gets the hang of it fairly quickly). Almost immediately Emily gazes at her with her round black eyes – the veryefficientpresident look making way for the don’t-interrupt-me-when-I-talk-GodAlmighty-wedon’thave-peasants-manners-here look. Cathy only arrived two or three sessions ago, but she became daring – not to say bold – very early (the little impertinent). She may not have had enough time to assimilate the ritual (so let us be lenient – leniency is good sometimes for strengthening one’s reputation). Cathy blushes under the stern stare, never so embarrassed by the silence her question raised. ‘What will I do, Cathy dear? Well, I will tell you: I will force my husband to come to our next session. I will pretend that I have cancelled the session and that we should have dinner out. Thus he will attend and see by himself that he is wrong about our designs.’ If you have any experience of personal praise, even of triumph, you will certainly know what Emily feels right now as her comrades (almost in tears at such willpower) fervently applaud her. On the other hand you may not have as high an opinion of yourself as Emily has; thus you will fail to know what it is like to have your ego flattered beyond measure as you raise your hand and the clapping hands stop immediately – just as Emily did a second ago. In the life of the common egocentric such a moment is highly (desperately sometimes) sought after. In the life of Emily this happens quite frequently, so she is right when she bursts: ‘Ladies, I thank you (very much – but what’s the point saying it) for your kindness, but I take no pride in applause. I think and do what I believe to be right, and in all honesty I think it could have been worse: my husband could have tried (unsuccessfully) to forbid me to preside my – our – group. We are all very lucky to be here tonight, enjoying our hectic lives and loving our homes and families, but we ought to remember that there are some people less lucky than us (not to say the rest of the planet). I think it is time for our weekly donation. (Chorus of nods, © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

of tightenings of dress, of certain eyes that suddenly wake up from lethargy). This week’s charity is for the children of Moldavia. A friend of mine, a well-known heart surgeon – but he does all kinds of surgery – who is working there in a hospital wrote a very moving letter to me and – in his own words – they are badly off. So we will be generous; just give what you can or what you think is necessary for the long-term: let your heart speak. Give your check to Alice who will keep the records.’ Promptly, the obedient schoolgirls, moved by Emily’s speech and by the children of Moldavia’s urgent and desperate need, eagerly grasp their wallet, feverishly scrawl a three-digit number on their check (looking quickly over the neighbour’s shoulder). As usual (and as expected), Emily’s check has four digits (but no one should clearly see the amount, just the shadow of unaccountable richnesses of heart). At that moment the (generously lent) room is filled with selfsatisfaction and heartbeats: it takes you to the guts when you are extremely proud of yourself – every self-respecting egocentric will tell you. It is a rare feeling that is difficult to reach and easy to spoil, but not when the room is full of egocentric people – that is the whole point of the group. Then the ritual goes on. ‘Thank you all my dears for your generosity; God will take this into account when our time will come. I hope that in as little as two weeks’ time we will hear from Moldavia.’ Every heart in the room – even Emily’s – sink under the weight of self-centredness. Emily goes on about Moldavia and the children who suffer there, forgotten and hopeless, and she feels like a modern George Eliot. Not that she writes – she is not egocentric enough to be (or, more accurately, to consider herself to be) a writer – no, but she is the centre of a world that lives because of her, everybody has something to say about her; she is respected for her knowledge and commitment; and like her she conceals her name under a veil. And one day she will complete the comparison with George Eliot by publishing her memoirs, because she has a diary with all the good deeds she has ever done (maybe she is egocentric enough to be a writer then). So our pseudo George Eliot eloquently talks about the past projects, the achievements as she calls them, the money collected for different (but all worthy) charities, the letters from the said (deeply moved by the geste) charities thanking them (more Emily than them) heartily and praising their too rare (or too common) virtues. Then comes the time of complaints, usually fifteen to twenty minutes, focused on the filthy beggars near Brown Thomas who cling on their Yves St Laurent dress (how poor and lonely and desperate they look – but they are not Moldaves); and this session’s extra topic is brought up by Cathy (her again): where in this town can you find a good caterer? For it seems that excellence has disappeared abroad (Ireland is so small and sunless). Again, much approbation (all the heads, taken care by never-totally-at-easewith© Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

this-particular-client hairdressers, nod self-contentedly, mirrorlessly like Emily). What follows is Emily’s favourite part: the last ten minutes. That is the time of cogitation. They all ponder on their luck, appreciating how poor the poor are, appreciating how cosy and warm their homes are, how happy their families are. But Emily does not enjoy this moment as she usually does; something hinders her. So she lets the others speak (they cannot believe their luck so they are more active than usual). Emily is lost in her thoughts – not for long as Margaret wants to have the final words, her monthly ‘tribute’, graciously (my foot, she can tell the others) granted by Emily in a moment of oblivion. ‘Dear friends (Emily startles and wakes up) I want to thank you all for your commitment and support. But let us applause our president Emily, for so many virtues incarnated into one generous being and for (well-tamed friend) her will to embetter the dreadful world we live in.’ A brief laudatory burst of applause allows Emily to realise she is in the right world, though it is Margaret who speaks. ‘Dear Emily,” adds Margaret “do bring your husband next time, we will prove him with the records we have faithfully kept up that our group is not in any way involved in any fraud.’ Emily cannot hide her frown (taken off-guard for once, expect the –); she must have missed something. ‘You say dear?’ whispers Emily in a breath. ‘Well,’ begins a histrionic Margaret, though a little suspicious ‘you told us that your husband, in his own words, has accused us of shading fraud, so we think it normal that – what is wrong Emily?’ Emily’s face has dropped in her Chanel shoes, and for the first time in her life she cannot steady herself. Her voice trembles as she whispers: ‘They have misunderstood, they have misunderstood.’ She had been genuinely surprised that the entire group had understood the word (and implications of) ‘schadenfreude’ straight. She had assumed from their virulent reaction – quite close to hers – that they knew the word (and implications of), and though she had had at first her own doubts (always expect the unexpected), she had made up her mind that she had underestimated their level of education. “Silly geese” thinks Emily. ‘What is wrong, Emily?’ Few ladies now stand up (the chesterfields suddenly too cold and too big). Weakly, Emily gets up from her (father’s favourite that smells strongly of pipe tobacco) armchair, automatically re-arranging her dress properly and says coldly: ‘I said ‘schadenfreude’, not shading fraud (that means nothing, does it). You all know what schadenfreude means, do you not?’ A chorus of bedazzled, blank eyes stare at her in complete stillness and silence. Emily always finishes what she starts (it could be worse). ‘It is the joy one takes at the other’s pain.’ (couldn’t © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

have put it better) She could not have put it better for them (silly geese she thinks). The irony of it all is that Emily finds the situation comical. So she smiles. The other ladies’ reaction is, with that exact same irony, as comical. The quickest (always the fewest) gather the words in the right order, the others take a little extra time, but all of a sudden they all understand: their faces turn from constricted pain (the effort) to gloom, then to exalted (but still unsaid unadmitted) shame. The silence becomes even more silent, ominous, heavy, suffocating for some, frightfully icy for others. Thus ends the session, on Emily’s words (which are in a way her husband’s). After an interminable (unbearable) silence that nobody wants to break by saying some (silly) thing (or worse, important things) or simply by looking at the other (acknowledging the other’s stupidity, not ours), every member takes her coat and leaves the room intact, with its smells of fresh lavender and luxury tea. For the first time in her life (so many first times) Emily feels the urge to talk to her husband, face to face, in all honesty, simply, plainly, because the thoughts in her head are buzzing (the problem of being intelligent and egocentric and of having a house crammed to the roof with mirrors) in a strange way. For the first time she is not certain that she can feel her own heartbeats (that she had found so pretty). And long after everybody left (only Margaret looked back at her before leaving, speechless), Emily is still thinking. She knows she must go (it is late), that her hectic life is waiting for her, that life more generally goes on, but she secretly wonders if 1- she will remain president 2they were all true optimists and (last but not least) 3- there will be a gathering of Optimists Anonymous next Monday (same place, same time). Emily stands up and says to herself, aloud: ‘Expect the unexpected, Emily.’ (indeed)

© Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009