Read Online Whatever: a novel by Michel Houellebecq - Free Book Online
Authors: Michel Houellebecq
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the other hand my difficulty in breathing was becoming more and more serious, and that was most alarming. I had the feeling that if this continued I was going to die within the next few hours, before dawn at any rate. The injustice of such a sudden death hit me; it could hardly be said that I'd abused life. For a few years I was, it's true, in a bit of a bad way; but that was no reason to interrupt the experiment ; on the contrary it could be maintained, rightly so, that life was contriving to smile on me. In truth, it was all rather badly organized.
What's more, this town and its inhabitants had been instantly repugnant to me. Not only did I not want die, but above all I did not want to die in Rouen. To die in Rouen, in the midst of the Rouennais, was especially odious to me, even. That would be, I was telling myself in a state of slight delirium probably engendered by the pain, to accord them too great an honour, these idiot Rouennais. I recall this young couple, I'd managed to flag down their car at a red light; they must have ... the impression they gave. I ask the way to the hospital; somewhat annoyed, the girl cursorily points it out to me. A moment of silence. I am barely able to speak, barely able to stand, it's obvious I'm in no fit state to get there on my own. I look at them, I wordlessly implore their pity, wondering in the meantime if they actually realize what it is they're doing. And then the lights change to green, and the guy drives off.
Did they exchange a word afterwards to justify their behaviour? There's no certainty they did.
Finally I spot an unhoped-for taxi. I try and seem blasé when announcing that I want to go to the hospital, but it doesn't really work, and the driver comes close to refusing. This pathetic creep will have the gall to say to me, just before moving off, that he `hopes I won't muck up his seat covers'. As a matter of fact I'd already heard it said that pregnant women face the same problem when going into labour: aside from a few Cambodians all the taxis refuse to take them for fear of finding themselves lumbered with bodily discharges on their back seat.
So let's be off!
Once in the hospital, it has to be said, the formalities are very quick. An intern looks after me, makes me do a whole series of tests. He wishes, I think, to assure himself that I'm not going to die on him within the next hour.
Once the examination is over he comes over to me and announces that I have a pericardial, and not an infarction as he'd first thought. He informs me that the early symptoms are exactly the same; but contrary to the infarction, which is often fatal, the pericardial is a completely benign complaint, it's not the kind of thing you die of.
`You must have been scared,' he says. So as not to complicate things I reply that yes, but in fact I wasn't in the least bit scared. I just had the feeling I was about to snuff it at any moment; that's different.
Next I'm wheeled into the emergency ward. Once sitting on the bed I start sobbing. That helps a little. I'm alone in the ward, I don't have to worry. Every once in a while a nurse pokes her head round the door, assures herself that my sobbing remains more or less constant, and goes away again.
Dawn breaks. A drunk is conveyed to the bed next to mine. I continue sobbing softly, regularly.
Around eight a doctor arrives. He informs me that I'm going to be transferred to the cardiology ward and that he's going to give me an injection to calm me down. They might have thought of this a little sooner, I say to myself. Sure enough the injection sends me straight off to sleep.
On waking up, Tisserand is at my bedside. He has a distracted air, yet is glad to see me at the same time; I'm rather moved by his solicitude. He panicked on not finding me in my room, he has telephoned all over the place: to the departmental headquarters for Agriculture, the police station, our company in Paris ... He still seems rather worried; what with my white
What's more, this town and its inhabitants had been instantly repugnant to me. Not only did I not want die, but above all I did not want to die in Rouen. To die in Rouen, in the midst of the Rouennais, was especially odious to me, even. That would be, I was telling myself in a state of slight delirium probably engendered by the pain, to accord them too great an honour, these idiot Rouennais. I recall this young couple, I'd managed to flag down their car at a red light; they must have ... the impression they gave. I ask the way to the hospital; somewhat annoyed, the girl cursorily points it out to me. A moment of silence. I am barely able to speak, barely able to stand, it's obvious I'm in no fit state to get there on my own. I look at them, I wordlessly implore their pity, wondering in the meantime if they actually realize what it is they're doing. And then the lights change to green, and the guy drives off.
Did they exchange a word afterwards to justify their behaviour? There's no certainty they did.
Finally I spot an unhoped-for taxi. I try and seem blasé when announcing that I want to go to the hospital, but it doesn't really work, and the driver comes close to refusing. This pathetic creep will have the gall to say to me, just before moving off, that he `hopes I won't muck up his seat covers'. As a matter of fact I'd already heard it said that pregnant women face the same problem when going into labour: aside from a few Cambodians all the taxis refuse to take them for fear of finding themselves lumbered with bodily discharges on their back seat.
So let's be off!
Once in the hospital, it has to be said, the formalities are very quick. An intern looks after me, makes me do a whole series of tests. He wishes, I think, to assure himself that I'm not going to die on him within the next hour.
Once the examination is over he comes over to me and announces that I have a pericardial, and not an infarction as he'd first thought. He informs me that the early symptoms are exactly the same; but contrary to the infarction, which is often fatal, the pericardial is a completely benign complaint, it's not the kind of thing you die of.
`You must have been scared,' he says. So as not to complicate things I reply that yes, but in fact I wasn't in the least bit scared. I just had the feeling I was about to snuff it at any moment; that's different.
Next I'm wheeled into the emergency ward. Once sitting on the bed I start sobbing. That helps a little. I'm alone in the ward, I don't have to worry. Every once in a while a nurse pokes her head round the door, assures herself that my sobbing remains more or less constant, and goes away again.
Dawn breaks. A drunk is conveyed to the bed next to mine. I continue sobbing softly, regularly.
Around eight a doctor arrives. He informs me that I'm going to be transferred to the cardiology ward and that he's going to give me an injection to calm me down. They might have thought of this a little sooner, I say to myself. Sure enough the injection sends me straight off to sleep.
On waking up, Tisserand is at my bedside. He has a distracted air, yet is glad to see me at the same time; I'm rather moved by his solicitude. He panicked on not finding me in my room, he has telephoned all over the place: to the departmental headquarters for Agriculture, the police station, our company in Paris ... He still seems rather worried; what with my white
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