Free Happy Are the Happy by Yasmina Reza

printed umbrella. He fights with the struts, brings no intelligence to the effort, and ends up crushing the thing together with brute force and thenwrapping the fabric around the frame as best he can. The woman laughs. This spectacle is killing me. The journalist says, do you feel nostalgia for your childhood? By the way she’s bending toward me, as one does with deaf people, I gather she must have asked me that question at least once already. Ah no, not at all, I say, I didn’t like childhood, I wanted to be a grown-up. She leans even farther forward and says something I can’t make out. I seize my cell phone, get up, and say, excuse me for a second. I head for the ladies’ room as discreetly as possible, swaying a little because of the vodka. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m pale, I find the circles under my eyes a nice touch. I’m an attractive girl. I write a text on my phone, “I see you,” and send it to Darius Ardashir. A few days ago, I told him I was his slave, I said I wanted him to keep me on a leash. Darius Ardashir answered that he didn’t like encumbrances. Even a little suitcase disturbed him, he said. I return to the dining room carelessly. I don’t look toward the piano. When the journalist sees me coming back, her face lights up with a practically maternal glow. She says, can we continue? I say yes and sit down. Darius Ardashir has surely received my message, I see him absorbed by his cell phone. I arch my back and stretch my swanlike neck. I must absolutely avoid looking in his direction. The journalist rummages in her notes and says, you said … —My God. —You said, men are love’s guests. —I said that? Me? —Yes. —Not bad. —Can you expand on it? I say, will I get fussed at if I smoke? I’m afraid so, she says. My cell phone lights up. Darius A. is responding to my text: “Hey, sexy.” I turn around. Darius Ardashir is ordering drinks. He’s wearing a brown jacket over a beige shirt, the blond woman’s in love with him, you can see that from miles away.
Hey, sexy
,as if nothing’s going on. Darius Ardashir is a genius of the pure present. The night erases all traces of the previous day, and words start bouncing around again, as light as helium balloons. I text him: “Who is she?” I regret the text at once. I write, “No, I don’t give a shit,” but luckily I delete it. The journalist sighs and settles against the back of her armchair. I write, “We were supposed to have dinner last night, right?” I delete, delete. Reproaches make men take to their heels like sprinters. In the beginning, Darius Ardashir told me, I love you with my head, with my heart, and with my cock. I repeated that sentence to Rémi Grobe, my best friend, and he said, a poet, this guy of yours, I’m going to give that a try, there are some dopes it might work on. It works mighty well on me. I have no desire to hear music that’s too subtle. I say to the journalist, what were we talking about? She shakes her head, she’s no longer sure herself. My own head is spinning. I wave the waiter over and ask him to bring us more salted nuts, with extra cashews. I’m not going to leave that
Who is she?
hanging out there all by itself, it’s too weak. Especially since he’s not answering. I write, “Tell her you only like beginnings.” That’s excellent. I’m pressing send. No, I’m not pressing send. I can do better. I call the waiter over once again. He arrives with potato chips and nuts, a goodly portion of them cashews. I ask him for a piece of paper. I say to the journalist, excuse me, things are a little disjointed this morning. She raises a limp hand in a gesture of complete dejection. I don’t have the time to be embarrassed. The waiter brings me a big sheet of typing paper. I ask him to wait. I write my sentence on the top part of the page and fold it with care. I ask the waiter to deliver the note discreetly, without disclosing its source, to the man in the brownjacket sitting next to