Read Online Whatever: a novel by Michel Houellebecq - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michel Houellebecq
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the feeling the nurses and the other patients were surprised I didn't receive more visits; so I've explained, for their general edification, that I was on a professional visit to Rouen at the moment it all happened; this wasn't my home town, I didn't know a soul. In short, I was there by chance.
Yet wasn't there anybody I wanted to get in touch with, inform about my state? In fact no, there was nobody.
The second week was altogether tougher; I was starting to get better, to manifest the desire to leave. Life was looking up again, as they say. Tisserand was no longer around to bring me pastries; he must have been going through his act for the good people of Dijon.
Listening by chance to the radio Monday morning, I learned that the students had ended their demonstrations, and had of course obtained everything they were asking for. On the other hand an SNCF strike had been called, and had begun in a really tough atmosphere; the trade union officials appeared overwhelmed by the intransigence and violence of the striking railwaymen. Things were proceeding as normal then. The struggle was continuing.
The next morning someone telephoned from my company, asking to speak to me; an executive secretary had been given this difficult mission. She has been perfect, saying all the right things and assuring me that the reestablishment of my health mattered more to them than anything else. She was nevertheless wishing to know if I would be well enough to go to La Roche-sur-Yon, as planned. I replied that I knew nothing for sure, but that this was my most ardent wish. She laughed, somewhat stupidly; but then she's a very stupid young woman, as I'd already remarked.
6
Rouen-Paris
I left the hospital two days later, rather sooner, I believe, than the doctors would really have wished. Usually they try and keep you in for the longest possible time so as to increase their coefficient of occupied beds; but the holiday period has doubtless inclined them towards clemency. Besides, the head doctor had promised me, `You'll be home for Christmas': those had been his very words. Home, I don't know; but somewhere, that's for sure.
I made my farewells to the worker, who'd been operated on that same morning. Everything had gone very well, according to the doctors; be that as it may, he had the look of a man whose time was running out.
His wife absolutely insisted I taste the apple tart her husband didn't have the strength to swallow. I accepted; it was delicious. `Keep your chin up, my son!' he said to me at the moment of leavetaking. I wished him the same. He was right; it's something that can always come in useful, keeping your chin up.
Rouen-Paris. Exactly three weeks before I was making this same journey in the opposite direction. What's changed in the meantime? Small clusters of houses are still smoking down in the valley, with their promise of peace and tranquillity. The grass is green. There's sunshine , with small clouds forming a contrast; the light is more that of spring. But a bit further away the land is flooded; a slight rippling of the water can be made out between the willows; one imagines a sticky, blackish mud into which the feet suddenly sink.
Not far off from me in the carriage a black guy listens to his Walkman while polishing off a bottle of J&B. He struts down the aisle, bottle in hand. An animal, probably dangerous. I try and avoid his gaze, which is, however, relatively friendly.
An executive type, doubtless disturbed by the black man, comes and plonks himself down opposite me. What's he doing here! He should be in first class. You never get any peace.
He has a Rolex watch, a seersucker jacket. On the third finger of his left hand he wears a conventionally narrow gold wedding ring. His face is squarish, frank, rather likeable. He might be around forty. His pale cream shirt has slightly darker raised pinstripes. His tie is of average width, and of course he's reading Les Échos. Not only is he reading them but
Yet wasn't there anybody I wanted to get in touch with, inform about my state? In fact no, there was nobody.
The second week was altogether tougher; I was starting to get better, to manifest the desire to leave. Life was looking up again, as they say. Tisserand was no longer around to bring me pastries; he must have been going through his act for the good people of Dijon.
Listening by chance to the radio Monday morning, I learned that the students had ended their demonstrations, and had of course obtained everything they were asking for. On the other hand an SNCF strike had been called, and had begun in a really tough atmosphere; the trade union officials appeared overwhelmed by the intransigence and violence of the striking railwaymen. Things were proceeding as normal then. The struggle was continuing.
The next morning someone telephoned from my company, asking to speak to me; an executive secretary had been given this difficult mission. She has been perfect, saying all the right things and assuring me that the reestablishment of my health mattered more to them than anything else. She was nevertheless wishing to know if I would be well enough to go to La Roche-sur-Yon, as planned. I replied that I knew nothing for sure, but that this was my most ardent wish. She laughed, somewhat stupidly; but then she's a very stupid young woman, as I'd already remarked.
6
Rouen-Paris
I left the hospital two days later, rather sooner, I believe, than the doctors would really have wished. Usually they try and keep you in for the longest possible time so as to increase their coefficient of occupied beds; but the holiday period has doubtless inclined them towards clemency. Besides, the head doctor had promised me, `You'll be home for Christmas': those had been his very words. Home, I don't know; but somewhere, that's for sure.
I made my farewells to the worker, who'd been operated on that same morning. Everything had gone very well, according to the doctors; be that as it may, he had the look of a man whose time was running out.
His wife absolutely insisted I taste the apple tart her husband didn't have the strength to swallow. I accepted; it was delicious. `Keep your chin up, my son!' he said to me at the moment of leavetaking. I wished him the same. He was right; it's something that can always come in useful, keeping your chin up.
Rouen-Paris. Exactly three weeks before I was making this same journey in the opposite direction. What's changed in the meantime? Small clusters of houses are still smoking down in the valley, with their promise of peace and tranquillity. The grass is green. There's sunshine , with small clouds forming a contrast; the light is more that of spring. But a bit further away the land is flooded; a slight rippling of the water can be made out between the willows; one imagines a sticky, blackish mud into which the feet suddenly sink.
Not far off from me in the carriage a black guy listens to his Walkman while polishing off a bottle of J&B. He struts down the aisle, bottle in hand. An animal, probably dangerous. I try and avoid his gaze, which is, however, relatively friendly.
An executive type, doubtless disturbed by the black man, comes and plonks himself down opposite me. What's he doing here! He should be in first class. You never get any peace.
He has a Rolex watch, a seersucker jacket. On the third finger of his left hand he wears a conventionally narrow gold wedding ring. His face is squarish, frank, rather likeable. He might be around forty. His pale cream shirt has slightly darker raised pinstripes. His tie is of average width, and of course he's reading Les Échos. Not only is he reading them but
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