Happy Are the Happy Read Online Free PDF

real dump. By the end of his life, he was a wholesaler, he owned three warehouses and an apartment building. And all that, he wanted to leave all that to Israel. —Maman, what’s got into you? What’s this tale you’re telling? It’s the truth, my mother says, without even taking the trouble to turn in my direction, we were a very close, very happy family, the only black spot was Israel. One day I told him the Jews didn’t need a country and he almost hit me. Another time, he threw Vincent out of the house because he wanted to take a trip down the Nile. The man prepares to make a remark, but he’s not fast enough. By the time he opens his pallid lips, my mother has already segued into Chemla wants to give me a new treatment, I can’t take Xynophrenanymore, my hands are falling into shreds, as you see. He wants me to have another round of chemo, a chemo drip this time, which is going to make me lose all my hair. Maman, that’s not certain, I say, Chemla said one chance out of two. One chance out of two means two chances out of two, my mother says, sweeping aside my statement with a gesture, but I don’t want to die like they did in Auschwitz, I don’t want to face my end with a shaved skull. If I have this treatment, it’s good-bye to my hair. And at my age, I don’t have enough time for it to grow back. And it’s good-bye to my hats, too. My mother shakes her head and mimes distress. She’s been holding herself bolt upright while talking nonstop, stretching her neck out like a pious young girl at prayer. I don’t delude myself, you know, she says. I’m here in this dreadful room, chatting with you, but only as a favor to my sons and Doctor Philip Chemla. I’m his pet patient, he enjoys taking care of me. Just between us, these radiation treatments are useless, they do no good whatsoever. They’re supposed to make me see as well as I used to, and every day my eyes are worse. Don’t say that, Maman, I say, the doctor explained that the treatment wouldn’t produce immediate results. What are you saying? my mother asks, you’re muttering under your breath. The results aren’t instantaneous, I repeat. Not instantaneous means not guaranteed, my mother says. The truth is that Chemla’s not certain about anything. He’s groping around. I’m his guinea pig, fine, someone has to do it. I’m a fatalist. When my husband was on his deathbed, he asked me whether I was still an enemy of Israel, the homeland of the Jewish people. I answered, but no, of course not. What do you say to a man who’s not going to be around much longer? You tell him what he wants to hear. It’s strange to cling tosuch idiotic values. In your final hour, when everything’s about to disappear. A homeland, who needs a homeland? After a while, even life is an idiotic value. Even life, don’t you think? my mother says with a sigh. The man reflects. He could make a reply, because my mother seems to have suspended her babbling, and on a curiously meditative note. But at that instant a nurse calls for Monsieur Ehrenfried. The man grabs his crutch, his Prince of Wales beret, and a Loden overcoat that’s lying on the chair next to him. Still seated, he leans toward my mother and murmurs, life, maybe, but not Israel. Then he braces himself on his crutch and laboriously gets to his feet. Duty calls, he says, bowing, I’m Jean Ehrenfried. It was a pleasure. You can tell that every movement is quite difficult for him, but he continues to show a smiling face. The hat you’re wearing today, he says, is that the one that elicited compliments from your cardiologist? My mother touches her hat to verify her answer. No, no, she says, this one’s the lynx. The one I wore to Doctor Ayoun’s office is a kind of Borsalino with a black velvet rose. The man says, my compliments on the one you’re wearing today, it brought a touch of class to this waiting room. It’s my little lynx toque, says my mother flirtatiously. I’ve had it for forty years, does