Robert - Happiness

Denis Robert is a French journalist, novelist, essayist and film director. He is highly regarded for uncovering political and financial scandals and for his unconventional journalism. Happiness is his first novel. He lives in Paris.

Denis Robert

Translated by John Innes

A complete catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the
British Library on request

The right of Denis Robert to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988

Copyright 2000 Les Arenes
Translation copyright 2009 John Innes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior permission of the publisher.

First published as Le Bonheur in 2000 by Les Arenes, Paris

First published in this translation in 2009 by Serpents Tail,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
website: www.serpentstail.com

ISBN 978 1 85242 959 1

Designed and typeset by Sue Lamble

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Bookmarque Ltd, Croydon, Surrey

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Why is your mind so occupied with sex? Because that is a way of ultimate escape. It is a way of complete self-forgetfulness. For the time being, at least for that moment, you can forget yourself and there is no other way of forgetting yourself When there is only one thing in your life that is an avenue to ultimate escape you cling to it because that is the only moment you are happy. Every other issue you touch becomes a nightmare so you cling to the one thing that gives complete self-forgetfulness, which you call happiness. But when you cling to it, it too becomes a nightmare, because then you want to be free from it; you do not want to be a slave to it.

Krishnamurti, On Love and Loneliness

We had a drink together outside a bar. She sat opposite me, smiling, not saying anything. It was chilly, she was wearing a short skirt. There were a lot of people around us on the terrace. She crossed her legs so high that I could see the white triangle of her pants. She noticed this. I knew that when she lowered her eyes, and pulled her skirt up even higher.

He attracted me, but I felt no desire for him. His freedom attracted me. That and his indifference. I was waiting to see what he would do. I didnt want to push things. I liked the way he spoke, pausing to think between each sentence, and the way he undressed me with his eyes. At the same time he had that shyness that makes you fear the worst.

Maybe he believed we met by chance. I was very self-conscious the first time.

She had read my books. People think writers like to be recognised, even admired. That was true of me at first. These days I prefer to be anonymous, to get on with my stories without having to answer to anybody.

At the time, I was dried up, blank. Not anxious, not depressed, just blank. I would have liked to be someones ghost writer, to start all over again from scratch.

I had asked her to jot down her impressions in a little notebook. To keep a record of our meetings. I gave her the notebook as a present.

He never tried to seduce me. He wasnt particularly good-looking, by any fashionable criteria. He didnt seem to care about his appearance. A bit of middle-age spread, a nice smile. He wore shapeless velvet trousers, rollnecks and classic English leather shoes, and smoked an awful lot of unfiltered cigarettes. He drank house wine. No one could guess his real character. He wouldnt even know himself.

He wasnt the type to make the first move. He must have made up his mind that his wife was all he needed. He wasnt on the prowl, he was just looking.

Men think only of sex. Some admit it, but theyre rare. Usually they dont practise it much. Others admit it to themselves and dont talk about it. They dream up all sorts of steamy scenarios without ever making them real. He thought about it, talked about it, and practised it.

She wasnt doing much with her life. Literary studies, unfinished. Freelancing, secretarial work, the odd book started and abandoned. I couldnt understand what she wanted from me. She already had that air of passivity and availability, a kind of self-sacrificial quality.

Something happened quickly with her which I find hard to define. With her, there didnt seem to be any danger.

I like to look beautiful but I am not so sure that I do. Ive got pretty legs, very pale skin, a little wrinkle at the corner of my left eye, decent breasts. If you looked hard you could spot a bit of fat at the top of my thighs. I look very good in jeans. I had got by till then without worrying too much about how men perceived me.

Hello, its me, from the other day in the caf you remember?

Of course I do, how are you?

Very well, and you?

Not much happening.

Its about that piece of work on psychoanalysis that I have to deliver soon

I felt a bit stupid. I was breathless on the phone. Thats how it always is when Im impressed. He was polite, distant too. I called him the next day for some details. And then I left my number. I have never been able to call him without this fear in my stomach.

I asked myself what she saw in me. I thought it was because of books. The fascination of a writer. But I was wrong. Maybe it was money? If I had been poor, none of this would have been possible. But money, in the end, didnt interest her.

From quite early on I wanted to play a game with her. I didnt want an ordinary affair. Seducing women is tiresome. There is something predictable and depressing about making an effort to be wonderfully witty and attractive just so you can end up in bed with someone and stick your cock in their pussy. Dangerous and unprofitable, thats what I thought of infidelity.

This was something else.

I was certain he would call me. I dont think I doubted it for a moment. The knowledge that he had a wife and three children meant nothing to me. I expected nothing from him. I was available; I was up for anything. All I wanted was for him to take advantage of this.

I made him believe that my husband was a strong presence in my life. In fact my husband loved me like you love a piece of furniture. I had become something for display. My husband never asks questions. He is always working in the laboratory or travelling somewhere. I dont think my husband fucks other women. I think that sex has ceased to interest him, that he has buried the subject beneath a great heap of far more important concerns. He is making a mistake there. I have not yet found anything as serious as sex.

Between twenty and thirty-five, I was very dependent on my wife. I spent my time dreaming and writing. I tried to come home early.

A writer can only give what he has. Having never known hardship or cruelty, I could only be a kind of detached observer of everything that was falling apart around me. Thats what I was paid for. My books, a few articles: my work left me sufficient freedom. For some time I had the feeling that Id reached my limit. I started to come home late. I waited for better days.

It wasnt him who called me but a girlfriend. I got myself ready. Short skirt, strapless bra. Make-up by Shiseido. There was going to be a little party in a restaurant. I knew hed be there. I knew hed arranged it so that Id be there.