Read Online Invisible Love by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Howard Curtis - Free Book Online

me independently of my dogs. Then, when he found out that I was a writer, he opened his door to me.
    Our relationship began on a footing of great respect. He liked my books, I loved his modesty.
    I invited him to my house, he received me in his. A bottle of whiskey served as a pretext ever since we had discovered a mutual passion for this drink. Sitting by the fire, we would talk about the proportion of malt that gave the precious liquid taste, the process of drying in a peat fire, the essence of the wood the cask was made from; Samuel went so far as to prefer distilleries located by the sea, claiming that as whiskey aged it became imbued with the smells of seaweed, iodine, and salt. Our liking for whiskey had paradoxically developed our taste for water, for, in order to preserve the strongest specimens, single casks of 55 or 60 degrees, we would have two glasses in our hands—one of whiskey, one of water—which led our taste buds to seek out the best springs.
    Whenever I entered the room where Samuel Heymann sat in the company of his dog, I always had the feeling I was disturbing them. There they were, man and beast, motionless, beautiful, noble, shrouded in silence, united by the white light filtering in through the curtains. Whatever the hour when I surprised them, they would both have identical expressions, whether pensive, playful or weary . . . As soon as I crossed the threshold, my entrance disturbed their pose and forced the tableau to come to life. The dog would lift his head in surprise, tilt his bald cranium to the left, push his ears forward, then look me up and down with his hazel eyes: “What an indiscreet person! I hope you have a good reason.” Less brusquely, his master would suppress a sigh, smile, and stammer a courtesy that barely concealed an exasperated “What? Again?” Joined in a constant communion, spending all their days and nights together, they never seemed to tire of one another, enjoying every moment they shared, as if for them there was nothing more perfect in this world than to breathe side by side. Anyone who suddenly appeared was breaking in on something rich and strong and full.
    Outside books and whiskey, our conversations quickly languished. Apart from the fact that Samuel had no patience with general topics, he never told me anything personal, any anecdote about his childhood, his youth, or his love life. He was eighty years old, and yet it was if he had been born yesterday. If I ever delivered myself of a confession, he would receive my confidence but would not give me any revelation in return. True, mention of his daughter sometimes altered this mask, because he loved her, loved her success—she ran a law practice in Namur—and made no secret of the fact. But there too, sincere as he was, he made do with conventional phrases. I came to the conclusion that he had never been passionate about anything, and that I was seeing the full extent of his private life when I contemplated the couple he formed with his dog.
    Last summer, a series of lecture tours abroad kept me out of the country for several months. On the eve of my departure, he wished, with a touch of mockery, “A happy journey to the writer who is more interested in talking than in writing.” As for me, I promised to bring him back a few valuable books and some rare bottles to occupy our winter.
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    *
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    I returned to some devastating news.
    A week earlier, the dog Argos had been run over by a truck.
    And five days later, Samuel had taken his own life.
    The village was in a state of shock. In a tearful voice, the grocer told me the news before I got home: the doctor’s housekeeper had found him lying on the floor of his kitchen, pieces of brain and blood spattering the tiled walls. According to the police, he had taken his rifle and shot himself in the mouth.
    â€œMagnificent . . . ” I thought.
    We never react to a death the way we are expected to: instead of