Free Adam Haberberg by Yasmina Reza Page B

falsely cheerful. So one could always have liked Bonnard and suddenly no longer like him, so one could suddenly stop liking something, he thinks, stop liking a picture or a book or a place, stop liking anything at all, anyone at all, at one fell swoop. Five minutes ago you liked the painter Bonnard, he thinks, when your eyes lit upon this framed print youthought, look, Bonnard, and you liked the teapot, the composition, the dog, and the back of the chair and then all at once you no longer liked any of it at all, you loathed the woman, the dress, the wall, you found it all disgusting, you found it was a disgusting painting, you who a few minutes before and over long years had admired and liked the ingenuity, the warmth, the sensuality of Bonnard's paintings. The notion we form of things fades, he thinks. One day, he thinks, he must count the things he'd become disillusioned with. What are the masculine verbs? Goncharki had asked during one of their innumerable bibulous and elliptical discussions. Don't stop to think. Give me two. Holding and believing, Adam had replied. Isn't that your cell phone ringing? says Marie-Thérèse.
    “Where is it?”
    “I don't know, where was it?”
    “In my coat.”
    “I hung it in the hall.”
    Adam runs into the hall. He thrusts his hand into one pocket, then the other, finally he takes out the cell phone: Hello, hello? he calls into the receiver in desperate tones. Hello? he says again, absurdly, into the silence.
Unknown caller
appears on the screen. Adam waits for the little envelope signifying a messageto appear. He's standing in the hallway, between the kitchen and the living room. I take my coat, he thinks, I open the door softly, and I make my getaway. Were you too late? says Marie-Thérèse.
    “Yes.”
    “They're better now, all the same. When cell phones started they'd ring only, oh three or four times, I don't remember now, you missed half the calls.”
    “That's right,” he says, resuming his seat in the armchair.
    “Would you like more Tucs?”
    “No thanks.”
    The envelope doesn't appear. Adam dials his code. You have no new messages the voice tells him. She should shut her trap, that fat cow, he thinks, what right has the bitch to interfere in my life. Excuse me, Marie-Thérèse, I'm going to ring home just in case. “Maria, it's me. Did you call me just now?” “No.” “Is everything OK, Maria?” “Everything's OK.” “Irene hasn't got home yet?” “No.” “Are the children in bed?” “They're going to bed.” “They're not in bed yet?” “They're going to bed right now.” “Tell Gabriel to use his electric toothbrush.” “Fine.” “And not to flood the bathroom the way he generally does.” “Fine.” “See you tomorrow, Maria.” “See you tomorrow.”
    Maybe it was Albert, he thinks. I need to call my friend Albert, he says. It may have been him. “Hello?” “So?” says Albert. “Did you just call me?” “No. I've got better things to do, pal.” “How's it going?” “Where are you?” “At Viry-Châtillon.” “I hope it's worth the trip.” “We're not talking about that category of event.” “I see. So what category of event, then?” “Are you at Martine's?” “You can't talk?” “That's correct.” “Ha, ha! You can't talk … !”
    “Right, I'm hanging up.
Ciao.”
    Who had been thinking of him at that late hour?
    What precious friend had wanted to make his voice heard? Save me, my friend, I wanted to talk to you, I ran but it was too late, ring again, save me. So does he flood the bathroom? says Marie-Thérèse.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your son. You said tell him not to flood the bathroom.”
    “Yes. He floods the bathroom when he brushes his teeth.”
    “How?”
    “He plays with the water in the sink. He makes waterfalls.”
    “Tell me about your children,” says Marie-Thérèse, after a pause.
    “What do you want to know?”
    “Their ages, are they dark like you, although now, of course, you're …” She