Photographs from the album of happiness 13

This article is published in number 1 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until January 5, 2020

Happiness is boring, my first writing teacher said. At the heart of any really good story, there is pain. I agreed with her at the time. And maybe even today. A few years ago, however, I created a secret file on my computer called “Photos from the happiness album”. From time to time I open it. And I write

Shut the door please, the boss asked.

You know how much you respect yourself. This is not an easy interview for me.
Sales have fallen by 70%.
It is the fault of the bastard virus, but not only that.
In such a situation, Avner, we are forced to make painful decisions in our family.
A few hours later Avner went down in the elevator to floor -3 of the parking lot thinking, this is the last time I go down with this elevator. There was a queue out of the parking lot unusual for that early afternoon hour, and Avner wondered, maybe everyone just finished talking to their boss. Maybe everyone has a cardboard box in the back seat.
At home he said nothing to Ronnit, his wife. Not that she meant to hide it from him, but on entering the house she greeted him with a “hello” so depressed he thought, it’s not serious if I tell him later.
He did everything as usual. He sat with Amalia doing his arithmetic homework. He made dinner. Taken down the trash. Convinced Amalia to take a shower. Saw a little bit of news while Amalia finished washing. He switched to sports because the news showed unemployment figures. He switched to the comedy channel because football without an audience is not the same thing. He shouted to Amalia: I’ll be there in a moment! And then repeated: put on your pajamas, I’ll be there in a moment. He turned off the TV and went to his room. From the hallway he nodded to Ronnit who was looking at him over the laptop to ask, not too long a story, Avner, get up early tomorrow. He pulled out the pull-out bed under Amalia’s. He lay down on it. And he turned to the little girl, who was looking at him with a mixture of expectation and certainty that in a moment, like every evening, a story would arrive. But he wasn’t able to say a word.
The little girl continued to keep her eyes on him. In which a spark of apprehension had already ignited.
He continued to be silent.
She said, come on, dad, get started.
And with great effort he eradicated the words from inside, me. I can not.
But why? She asked, and he looked down.
She frowned as before she cried, and he braced himself for the inevitable scene whenever his daughter didn’t get exactly what she wanted. Tears, screams, punches against the wall.
Then suddenly, as if she understood, she became serious and asked: what if I told the story today, Dad?
He nodded. Surprised.
Close your eyes! She ordered.
He closed them. She started telling a story so tortuous that he struggled to follow it, there was a rabbit, and there was a hole, and one day the rabbit would go back to its hole and find a hedgehog in it, or maybe the protagonist was the hedgehog, in any case the burrow was destroyed, and the rabbit was sad at first, but then he jumped on a horse, or a horse-drawn carriage, which took him to another country, where the earth was warmer and full of baby carrots or dwarf carrots who sold carrots.
Good story, he finally told her.
And she replied, thank you. And she brought him her cheek to receive a goodnight kiss.
He gave her a long kiss, tucked her blanket and stroked her hair. Then he got up, invigorated like someone who has at least one stable thing in the world, he left the room and went to Ronnit, his wife, sat next to her and said, I want to tell you something.

(Translation by Raffaella Scardi)

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