Miss Perdrix had been teaching for many long years at the Ecole Alsacienne in Paris, but she could only teach up until the sixth row; any further than that and her eyesight failed her. Behind the sixth row was the domain of those children who didn’t give a damn, who threw paper airplanes at one another and stuck chewing gum under the desks, or simply fell asleep on their notebooks. Among them was a pupil with a crooked face and a dull-witted manner, little Jean-Paul Belmondo. He was the king of the ne’er-do-wells, and was proud of his title. The class erupted with laughter at his every instance of mischief, and he had no lack of creativity in the field. Miss Perdrix would have dearly liked to silence this little rascal with his stuck-out chin and piggish lip, but her efforts were all in vain – he played a clown with his tousled hair, and a clown he would remain. His father lamented the boy’s academic failure; none of the elite schools in Paris would take him with those grades, and his son appeared destined for a life of mediocrity. Farewell to graduating from a great university, and the prodigal son he had dreamed of. Jean-Paul had boundless energy, and would put it to no good use. Outside the classroom Jean-Paul was game for anything; the streets belonged to him, and his exploits impressed even the most courageous of his classmates. He loved the thrill of a dare, and would accept almost any. “I dare you to climb the statue of Catherine de Medicis!” “I dare you to jump in the fountain!” “I dare you to roll that bin down the hill!” And so Jean-Paul jumped, climbed and rolled. There was no barrier, no wall, no rule that would withhold him. His father tried to encourage him to make a career in boxing – while he lacked the capacity for discipline, at least in the ring he could exert himself with dignity. At least he might show talent for something…but his first bout was a fiasco. The crowd booed him, calling him the grasshopper, and Jean-Paul went to pieces. His father buried his face in his hands at the humiliation. His son’s only talent appeared to be disappointment.
The father had a friend at the Marigny theatre, who said he could give Jean-Paul a role if the boy showed he could live up to his latest ambition: ‘becoming an actor.’ André Brunot welcomed the Belmondo boy with a perplexed expression. The young man’s reputation preceded him, and he was certainly no looker. He walked like a circus clown, his hair in a mess, and his jeering eyes and frayed shirt seemed to portend little but ill. André Bruno was a man of letters, a lover of theatre and the arts. What could he offer this clownish young man, standing there with his hands in his pockets? Had he prepared a text? No, he had nothing prepared. Did he know any speeches or verses? Not one. Ah yes, there was that thing they were supposed to learn at school! In fact, recitation had been one of his less embarrassing grades. The young man began to stumble his way through The Cobbler and the Financier. He swayed like a loose puppet to the rhythm of La Fontaine’s phrases, fumbling the enjambments and forgetting words, speaking with a vulgar cockiness and an idiotic expression on his face. The next day, his father received a letter whose message came as no surprise: Jean-Paul was not made for the theatre. His friend’s opinion was frank, as a good friend’s should be. Whatever would he do with this son of his?
Alan Alfredo Geday