The Most Beautiful Book in the World by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Page A

Stacy’s extraordinary look when she got back from vacation. Completely renewed! She’d been a middle-aged middle-class frump, worn down by four kids, and now her short cut had transformed her into a pretty, sporty, go-get-’em blonde. At the time I suspected her of having cut her hair in order to distract attention from some successful cosmetic surgery—that’s what all my friends do when they’ve had a facelift—but, once I’d satisfied myself that her face had not undergone any sort of surgical act, I acknowledged that she had found the ideal hairstylist.
    â€œIdeal, darling, absolutely ideal. The Atelier Capillaire on the rue Victor Hugo. I’d already heard about it a while ago but you know how it is, same thing with our hairdressers as with our husbands: we can go for years thinking we’ve got the best one around!”
    I refrained from making any sarcastic remarks about the vanity of the name of the place—“Capillary Studio,” indeed—but just wrote down that I had to ask for David and tell him Stacy sent me—“He’s a genius, darling, an absolute genius.”
    That very evening, I warned Samuel about my upcoming metamorphosis.
    â€œI think I’m going to change my hairstylist.”
    He looked at me with surprise for a few seconds.
    â€œWhat for? You’re fine as you are.”
    â€œOh, yes, I know you’re always pleased with me like this, you never criticize me.”
    â€œYou can fault me with being an unquestioning admirer . . . But what is it you don’t like about your look?”
    â€œNothing in particular. I just need a change.”
    He took careful note of my declaration as if beyond its frivolity lay some deeper consideration; and his watchful stare drove me to change the topic of conversation and then to leave the room, because I had no desire to offer myself up as subject matter for his perspicacity. While my husband’s redeeming feature may be his extreme attentiveness toward my person, at times this weighs upon me: my most insignificant words are parsed, analyzed, decrypted to such a degree that to make light of it I often tell my girlfriends that I feel like I’ve married my psychoanalyst.
    â€œDon’t complain!” they all say. “You’ve got money, he’s good-looking, he’s intelligent, he loves you, and he listens to everything you say! What more do you want? Children?”
    â€œNo, not yet.”
    â€œThen you’ve got every reason to be happy.”
    Every reason to be happy. Are there any other platitudes I hear more often than this one? Do people say this just as often when referring to others, or do they just use it for my sake? The moment I start expressing myself with even a hint of freedom, I get the phrase tossed into my face: “You have every reason to be happy.” It’s as if people were shouting at me—“Shut up, you have no right to complain”—then slamming the door in my face. And yet I have no intention of complaining, I’m just trying to give accurate—and humorous—expression to slight feelings of discomfort. Maybe it’s something to do with the tone of my voice, similar to my mother’s, a little damp and whiny, that gives people the impression I’m complaining? Or could it be that my status as a rich well-married heiress precludes me from sharing any sort of complex thoughts in public? Once or twice I was afraid that in spite of myself I might let my secret transpire through my words. But this fear hardly lasted longer than a shiver, for I am sure that I can control myself to perfection. With the exception of Samuel and myself—and a few specialists, silenced by professional discretion—not a soul knows of my secret.
    Thus, I went to the Atelier Capillaire on the rue Victor Hugo and, honestly, I had to keep focused on the miracle they’d performed on Stacy in order to put up with the