Hygiene and the Assassin Read Online Free PDF Page A

novelist seemed to be thinking. Then he began to speak, in a grave tone of voice, as if he were unveiling some secret dogma.
    â€œIn the morning, I wake up at around eight o’clock. To begin with, I go to the toilet to empty my bladder and my intestines. Would you like any details?”
    â€œNo, I think that should be enough.”
    â€œSo much the better, because while it is an indispensable stage in the digestive process, it is absolutely disgusting, that you may believe.”
    â€œI’ll take your word for it.”
    â€œBlessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed. After that, I powder myself, then I get dressed.”
    â€œDo you always wear this dressing gown?”
    â€œYes, except when I go out shopping.”
    â€œDoes your handicap not make it difficult to get around?”
    â€œI’ve had time to get used to it. Then I go into the kitchen and make my breakfast. In the old days, when I spent my time writing, I didn’t cook, and I ate coarse meals, such as cold tripe . . .”
    â€œCold tripe in the morning?”
    â€œI can see why you might be surprised. You must realize that in those days, writing was virtually my sole preoccupation. But nowadays I would find it repulsive to eat cold tripe in the morning. For twenty years I have been in the habit of browning it in goose fat for half an hour.”
    â€œTripe in goose fat for breakfast?”
    â€œIt’s excellent.”
    â€œAnd you have a Brandy Alexander with that?”
    â€œNo, never when I eat. Back in the days when I was writing, I drank strong coffee. Nowadays I prefer eggnog. After that, I go out shopping and spend my morning cooking up a refined dish for lunch: fritters of brain, kidneys
en daube . . .
”
    â€œAnd complicated desserts?”
    â€œRarely. I drink only sweet things, so I don’t really feel like dessert. The occasional toffee between meals. When I was young, I preferred Scottish toffees, which are exceptionally hard. Alas, with age, I now have to make do with soft toffees, which are excellent nonetheless. I venture to claim that nothing can equal the voluptuous sensation of being bogged down that is concomitant with the paralysis of one’s jaws caused by chewing English toffees . . . Do write down what I just said, I think it rings rather well.”
    â€œThere’s no need, it’s all being recorded.”
    â€œWhat? But that’s dishonest! I can’t say anything foolish, in other words?”
    â€œYou never say anything foolish, monsieur Tach.”
    â€œYou are as flattering as a sycophant, Monsieur.”
    â€œPlease, do go on with your digestive stations of the Cross.”
    â€œMy digestive stations of the Cross? That’s a good one. You didn’t steal it from one of my novels by any chance?”
    â€œNo, I made it up.”
    â€œThat would surprise me. I would swear it was Prétextat Tach. There was a time when I knew my works by heart . . . Alas, we are as old as our memory, don’t you agree? And it’s not the arteries, as some imbeciles would have it. Let’s see, ‘digestive stations of the Cross,’ where did I write that?”
    â€œMonsieur Tach, even if you had written it, I would be just as deserving for saying it, given that—”
    The journalist came to a sudden stop, biting his lips.
    â€œâ€”given that you’ve never read a thing I’ve written, have you? Thank you, young man, that’s all I wanted to know. Who are you to believe such boundless twaddle? Do you honestly think I would ever make up such a flashy, mediocre expression as ‘digestive stations of the Cross’? It’s just about worthy of a second-rate theologian like yourself. Well, I can see with a somewhat senile sense of relief that the literary world has not changed: it is still the triumph of those who pretend to have read What’s-his-name. However, even that is no longer an achievement, for