Read Online Happy Are the Happy by Yasmina Reza - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Yasmina Reza
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for such a role. —Why not? —What’s your main fault? —I have a thousand faults. —The one you’d most like to get rid of. —My bad taste. —You have bad taste? In what? I say, men. And I immediately regret it. I always talk too much. A little girl, surely a schoolchild, is cleaning thetable next to us. She moves the match holder, she places the pastries menu on another table, she wipes the waxed wood with a damp cloth, whirling her hand in deft, efficient circles; then she puts everything back where it was and goes away. From where I’m sitting, I can see her go to the bar and ask for another assignment. The real waitress gives her a tray of advertising cards folded in the shape of tents and points her to some empty tables. The young girl sets about putting a card next to the potted violet on each table. I love her seriousness. The journalist asks, do you prefer a certain type of man? I hear myself reply, I prefer the dangerous, irrational type. I filter that through a gurgle of laughter and say, I’m talking nonsense, Madame, please don’t write that. —What a pity. —I’m not attracted by smooth, handsome guys, the
Mad Men
type, I like the little, dented ones, the kind that look bad-tempered and don’t talk much. I could continue banging on like this, but I choke on an olive pit. I say, don’t write down any of that. —I’ve already written it down. —Then don’t publish it. Nobody’s interested in that.
—Au contraire
. —I really don’t want to talk about myself that way. —Our readers will be honored. You’re giving them a gift. She readjusts her skirt under her bottom and asks for more hot water for her tea. I finish the olives and order a second glass of vodka. I let myself be reeled in, I have no authority over these people. The journalist asks me if I have a cold. No, I say, why? She finds my voice deeper in real life. She says I have bedroom intonations. I laugh stupidly. She thinks she’s flattering me with that idiotic expression. My cell phone’s still on the table, and still not giving any sign of life. None. Not one. The little girl is calmly walking back and forth among the sofas, her chin thrust well forward. —Loula Moreno,where does that come from? It’s not your real name, is it? —I took it from a song by Charlie Odine …
Loula waits for her big day to come / In some drab impresario’s bed, / Chews empty promises like gum, / With dreams of applause in her head
… —So does the big day come? —In the song? No. —Has it come for you? —Not for me either. I finish my vodka and laugh. It’s wonderful that we can laugh. Laughter’s like a joker. It works however you play it. The young girl’s leaving. She’s become a child again, with her raincoat and her schoolbag. At the moment when she disappears outside the glass-paned wooden door, I see Darius Ardashir come in. I knew he could sometimes be found in this bar. To tell the truth, I even chose the place deliberately, in the infinitesimal hope of seeing him. But Darius Ardashir isn’t with his usual co-conspirators in their dark suits and ties (I’ve never understood exactly what it is that he does, he’s the type of guy whose name is linked to politics one day and the next to an industrial group or an arms sale). He’s with a woman. I empty my glass in one gulp, igniting my throat. I’m not used to drinking. The woman is tall, with a classic look to her and her hair in a blond chignon. Darius Ardashir guides her to two armchairs in the corner near the piano. His hair’s wet. He’s got his hand on the small of her back. I fail to hear the journalist’s question. I say, I beg your pardon, I didn’t get that. I raise my glass to a waiter and order another vodka. I say to the journalist, it wakes me up, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I always have to justify myself. It’s ridiculous. I’m thirty years old, I’m famous, I can dance on any precipice. Darius Ardashir’s trying to close a little
Mad Men
type, I like the little, dented ones, the kind that look bad-tempered and don’t talk much. I could continue banging on like this, but I choke on an olive pit. I say, don’t write down any of that. —I’ve already written it down. —Then don’t publish it. Nobody’s interested in that.
—Au contraire
. —I really don’t want to talk about myself that way. —Our readers will be honored. You’re giving them a gift. She readjusts her skirt under her bottom and asks for more hot water for her tea. I finish the olives and order a second glass of vodka. I let myself be reeled in, I have no authority over these people. The journalist asks me if I have a cold. No, I say, why? She finds my voice deeper in real life. She says I have bedroom intonations. I laugh stupidly. She thinks she’s flattering me with that idiotic expression. My cell phone’s still on the table, and still not giving any sign of life. None. Not one. The little girl is calmly walking back and forth among the sofas, her chin thrust well forward. —Loula Moreno,where does that come from? It’s not your real name, is it? —I took it from a song by Charlie Odine …
Loula waits for her big day to come / In some drab impresario’s bed, / Chews empty promises like gum, / With dreams of applause in her head
… —So does the big day come? —In the song? No. —Has it come for you? —Not for me either. I finish my vodka and laugh. It’s wonderful that we can laugh. Laughter’s like a joker. It works however you play it. The young girl’s leaving. She’s become a child again, with her raincoat and her schoolbag. At the moment when she disappears outside the glass-paned wooden door, I see Darius Ardashir come in. I knew he could sometimes be found in this bar. To tell the truth, I even chose the place deliberately, in the infinitesimal hope of seeing him. But Darius Ardashir isn’t with his usual co-conspirators in their dark suits and ties (I’ve never understood exactly what it is that he does, he’s the type of guy whose name is linked to politics one day and the next to an industrial group or an arms sale). He’s with a woman. I empty my glass in one gulp, igniting my throat. I’m not used to drinking. The woman is tall, with a classic look to her and her hair in a blond chignon. Darius Ardashir guides her to two armchairs in the corner near the piano. His hair’s wet. He’s got his hand on the small of her back. I fail to hear the journalist’s question. I say, I beg your pardon, I didn’t get that. I raise my glass to a waiter and order another vodka. I say to the journalist, it wakes me up, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I always have to justify myself. It’s ridiculous. I’m thirty years old, I’m famous, I can dance on any precipice. Darius Ardashir’s trying to close a little
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