Impurity Larry Tremblay (novels for students .txt) 📖

of a constipated little present tense. His existence would be meaningless. His name would crumble into dust as soon as it was uttered, his reflection in the mirror erased as soon as it was perceived, replaced by another, equally ephemeral. It would dance in the void like an atom in a tailspin.

In that whirlwind of thoughts that he thinks are brilliant, Antoine tells himself it’s time for him to find his Simone de Beauvoir.

Something is choking him. He touches his face. It’s not his. The violent beating of his heart drives him out of bed. Then, all at once, it all comes back. He fell asleep with his wife’s herbal mask on his face. He showers. Greenish water runs off his face and disappears, swirling down the bathtub drain.

He has slept for a long time. It’s nearly noon. He goes out to buy the papers.

It’s the kind of day he likes: humid, sultry, heavy. He arrives at the terrace of the Fleur d’oranger, on avenue Bernard. Orders bacon and eggs. He can’t remember the last time he was so bold. Generally, he strictly follows his doctor’s orders: a fat-free diet. His cholesterol is high. He’s not overweight, doesn’t take escalators, walks as much as possible. But he doesn’t play any sports and the mere thought of physical activity bores him. He laughs at the over-fifties, in head-to-toe Nike, sweat-stained, breathing like hopeless cases longing to postpone the moment when they’ll breathe their last. He observes with disgust the grimacing faces of Sunday joggers, their twisted lips seeking air, their expressions demented, as if they were being pursued by death itself.

Antoine eats with gusto, plunging into his newspapers. Nothing about Félix Maltais. Not even a snippet. For the media, file closed, subject exhausted. The way that Félix had chosen to put an end to his life unsettles Antoine. Ever since hearing of his death, memories keep recurring. He orders another coffee and drives this wave of nostalgia from his mind. He prefers not to reopen that page of his life. He doesn’t like emotivity and its jolts. Just as he can’t stand tear-jerker films and, even less, TV shows that deal with family reunions. He is appalled by emotional exhibitionism. Why must millions of viewers, transformed into slimy voyeurs, witness the misfortunes of others, their heartbreaks and their minor happinesses when the camera zooms in on their shameless embraces? A son, a mother, a twin sister lost for ten, twenty, thirty years, has been found for them and here they are, snuffling on the set of a TV show, surrounded by lights, their outbursts encouraged by a presenter with an impeccable smile – irrefutable proof of the depth of her intentions. Why participate in this media circus to deal with your relationship problems, to confess to the woman in your life that you’ve been cheating on her from the start, to tell your parents you’ve been a sex worker since you were thirteen, to announce to your children that you’re going to start changing genders in one week’s time?

When his son was still in his teens and living at home, Antoine quarrelled with him more than once about that kind of program. Jonathan was not ashamed to let his tears flow when a mother embraced a daughter who’d just been found. Though he explained to the boy that it was just a trick to hike up profits, Jonathan refused to listen to his arguments. He couldn’t see how bringing together people separated by the vicissitudes of life could be a malevolent venture because it was taking place under spotlights.

“I think just the opposite of you, Dad. Reunions or confessions, when they get media attention, become exemplary, and those who experience them come out of them magnified.”

“I doubt that.”

“For once in their lives they emerge from the shadows. They can finally be seen. Their struggles and their joys are legitimized.”

“Know what you are?”

“I have a hunch you’re going to tell me.”

“A sentimental decadent. You can’t analyze a phenomenon from its causes, you’re too obsessed by its shimmering effects.”

“Thus sayeth the philosophy prof!”

Antoine has often imagined that his son’s taste for cultural products manufactured with a view to exciting the tear ducts of their consumers originated in his first name. He’d never liked “Jonathan.” But it was Alice, at the birth of their son, who had won. She had imposed her “Jonathan” so vehemently that he had to retreat with his “Philippe” between his teeth. Would he have been a better father, a different one anyway, if he’d held a “Philippe” in his arms?

Alice had wanted to give birth to a little seagull like Jonathan Livingston, who had so moved her that she’d sworn that one day she would have a little Jonathan of her own. She and Antoine had had a heated discussion about the work of Richard Bach, author of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Actually, neither of them had read the novel, but they’d seen the film a few years after the book came out. Antoine had hated it and enjoyed ridiculing it in front of Alice, who’d been overwhelmed by it. Yes, the metaphor was exaggerated, sure, it was somewhat sanctimonious, but the message was so profound and the values so universal that one could only be touched by the story of that bird.

“Jonathan,” she argued, “represents the search for oneself. He recognizes his own difference. He knows that life is a journey. He must find the road that will lead him to himself. You see, Antoine, it’s simple: gulls only fly to look for food. They spend their time quarrelling over fish heads. They rummage in garbage cans. That’s their life and for them, it’s fine. No one questions their way of doing things. Little Jonathan, though, is different. He wants to fly for the sake of flying, not just for food. He is thirsty and hungry for freedom, don’t you get it? It’s simple, maybe a little too facile for you, but it’s genuine: not to