Read Online Happy Are the Happy by Yasmina Reza - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Yasmina Reza
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under a dazzling sun. A woman whose body is sinking deeper and deeper, sucked into the earth. She wants to endure
lightheartedly
and rejoices in minuscule surprises. I know about that. I admire it every day. But I’m not sure I want to hear any other words. Poets have no sense of time. They draw you into useless melancholy. I didn’t ask the Egyptian for his telephone number. I generally don’t ask.What good could come of it? Still, sometimes I get guys’ numbers. Not his. But he left a mark on me, something I can’t define. Maybe it has something to do with Beckett’s evil genius. The Egyptian isn’t what I’m searching for in the rendezvous spots behind the big worksite fence in Passy. Although I even look for him in assignation rooms where I’ve never seen him before, the thing I’m really seeking is the smell of sadness. It’s an impalpable thing, deeper than we can gauge, and it has nothing to do with reality. My life is beautiful. I do what I like to do. I get up in the morning bursting with energy. I’ve discovered that I’m strong. I mean, qualified to make decisions and take risks. My patients have my cell phone number, they can call me at any time. I owe them a lot. I’d like to be worthy of them (that’s one of the reasons why I want to keep up with the science and carry on oncology research alongside my clinical practice). I’ve known about the existence of death for a long time. Before I started studying medicine, I could already hear the clock ticking in my head. I bear no grudge against my brother. As for his place in my life, I don’t know exactly what it was. Human complexity can’t be reduced to any causality principle. It may well be that had I not lived through our years of silence, I would have had the courage to face the abyss of a relationship comprising both sex and love. Who can say? I generally pay afterward. Almost every time. The other must trust me, as though offering a token of friendship. But the Egyptian I paid beforehand. I took a chance. He didn’t put the bill in his pocket, he kept it in his hand. That bill was in my field of vision all the while I was sucking him. He put the bill in my mouth. I sucked his cock and the money. He stuffed the banknote in my mouth andput his hands on my face. It was a pledge with no tomorrow, a promise no one will ever know. When I was a child, I used to give my mother pebbles or chestnuts I’d find on the ground. I’d also sing little songs to her. Offerings at once useless and immortal. I’ve often had to convince patients that the present is the sole reality. The Egyptian boy put the banknote in my mouth and placed his hands on my face. I took everything he gave me, his cock, the money, the joy, the sorrow.
Loula Moreno
Anders Breivik, the Norwegian who shot sixty-nine people to death and killed eight others with a bomb, said during his trial in Oslo, “In normal circumstances I’m a very nice person.” When I read that statement, I immediately thought of Darius Ardashir. In normal circumstances, when he’s not applying himself to my destruction, Darius Ardashir is very nice. Apart from me, perhaps his wife, and the women who have had the misfortune of becoming attached to him, nobody knows he’s a monster. The journalist interviewing me this morning is the kind of person who drinks her tea with careful movements while performing a series of irritating little rituals. Yesterday at around six in the evening, Darius Ardashir told me, I’ll call you in fifteen minutes. My cell phone’s on the table. No call, no text. It’s noon. I nearly went crazy during the night. The journalist says, you’ve just turned thirty, do you have a wish? —I have a hundred wishes. —Pick one. I say, I’d like to play a nun. Or have wavy hair. Appalling answers. I’m trying to be witty. I don’t know how to make simple, superficial small talk. —A nun! She produces a slightly twisted smile meant to affirm that I wouldn’t be the first choice
lightheartedly
and rejoices in minuscule surprises. I know about that. I admire it every day. But I’m not sure I want to hear any other words. Poets have no sense of time. They draw you into useless melancholy. I didn’t ask the Egyptian for his telephone number. I generally don’t ask.What good could come of it? Still, sometimes I get guys’ numbers. Not his. But he left a mark on me, something I can’t define. Maybe it has something to do with Beckett’s evil genius. The Egyptian isn’t what I’m searching for in the rendezvous spots behind the big worksite fence in Passy. Although I even look for him in assignation rooms where I’ve never seen him before, the thing I’m really seeking is the smell of sadness. It’s an impalpable thing, deeper than we can gauge, and it has nothing to do with reality. My life is beautiful. I do what I like to do. I get up in the morning bursting with energy. I’ve discovered that I’m strong. I mean, qualified to make decisions and take risks. My patients have my cell phone number, they can call me at any time. I owe them a lot. I’d like to be worthy of them (that’s one of the reasons why I want to keep up with the science and carry on oncology research alongside my clinical practice). I’ve known about the existence of death for a long time. Before I started studying medicine, I could already hear the clock ticking in my head. I bear no grudge against my brother. As for his place in my life, I don’t know exactly what it was. Human complexity can’t be reduced to any causality principle. It may well be that had I not lived through our years of silence, I would have had the courage to face the abyss of a relationship comprising both sex and love. Who can say? I generally pay afterward. Almost every time. The other must trust me, as though offering a token of friendship. But the Egyptian I paid beforehand. I took a chance. He didn’t put the bill in his pocket, he kept it in his hand. That bill was in my field of vision all the while I was sucking him. He put the bill in my mouth. I sucked his cock and the money. He stuffed the banknote in my mouth andput his hands on my face. It was a pledge with no tomorrow, a promise no one will ever know. When I was a child, I used to give my mother pebbles or chestnuts I’d find on the ground. I’d also sing little songs to her. Offerings at once useless and immortal. I’ve often had to convince patients that the present is the sole reality. The Egyptian boy put the banknote in my mouth and placed his hands on my face. I took everything he gave me, his cock, the money, the joy, the sorrow.
Loula Moreno
Anders Breivik, the Norwegian who shot sixty-nine people to death and killed eight others with a bomb, said during his trial in Oslo, “In normal circumstances I’m a very nice person.” When I read that statement, I immediately thought of Darius Ardashir. In normal circumstances, when he’s not applying himself to my destruction, Darius Ardashir is very nice. Apart from me, perhaps his wife, and the women who have had the misfortune of becoming attached to him, nobody knows he’s a monster. The journalist interviewing me this morning is the kind of person who drinks her tea with careful movements while performing a series of irritating little rituals. Yesterday at around six in the evening, Darius Ardashir told me, I’ll call you in fifteen minutes. My cell phone’s on the table. No call, no text. It’s noon. I nearly went crazy during the night. The journalist says, you’ve just turned thirty, do you have a wish? —I have a hundred wishes. —Pick one. I say, I’d like to play a nun. Or have wavy hair. Appalling answers. I’m trying to be witty. I don’t know how to make simple, superficial small talk. —A nun! She produces a slightly twisted smile meant to affirm that I wouldn’t be the first choice
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