Copyright © 2012 by Laurent Gounelle
Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com® • Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in
Cover design: Shelley Noble • Interior design: Jenny Richards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.
The authors of this book do not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the authors is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the authors and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.
First published in France in 2008 by Anne Carrière Editions, Paris © Laurent Gounelle, 2008
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gounelle, Laurent
[Homme qui voulait etre heureux. English]
The man who wanted to be happy / Laurent Gounelle ; translated by Alan S. Jackson. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4019-3817-8 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Happiness—Fiction. 2. Psychological fiction. I. Jackson, Alan S. II. Title.
PQ2707.O928H6613 2012
843’.92—dc23
2012013055
Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-4019-3817-8
Digital ISBN: 978-1-4019-3818-5
15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1
1st edition, June 2012
Printed in the United States of America
“WE ARE WHAT WE THINK…
WITH OUR THOUGHTS, WE MAKE OUR WORLD.”
— BUDDHA
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
1
I DIDN’T WANT to leave Bali without meeting him. I don’t know why. I wasn’t sick; in fact, I’ve always been in excellent health. I made inquiries about his fees because, with my vacation coming to an end, my wallet was virtually empty. I didn’t even dare check my bank account anymore. People who knew him had told me, “You give what you want; you slip it in a little box on a shelf.” Right, that calmed me down, even if I was somewhat nervous at the idea of leaving a really small sum for someone who had, it was said, treated the prime minister of Japan.
It was difficult to find his house, which was hidden in a small village a few kilometers from Ubud, in the center of the island. I don’t know why, but there are practically no road signs in this country. Reading a map is possible when you have reference points; otherwise, it’s as useless as a cell phone in an area without a signal. There remained, of course, the easy solution: ask passersby. Although I’m a man, that’s never been a problem. It seems to me that some men feel they are losing their virility if they stoop to that. They prefer to retreat into a silence that means “I know,” pretending to get their bearings, until they are completely lost and their wives say, “I told you we should have asked.”
The trouble in Bali is that people are so nice that they always say yes. Really. If you say to a girl, “I think you’re very pretty,” she will look at you with a beautiful smile and reply, “Yes.” And when you ask your way, they are so anxious to help that it is unbearable for them to admit that they are unable to. So they point in a certain direction, no doubt randomly.
I was a little on edge when I found myself outside the entrance to the garden.
I don’t know why, but I had imagined a fairly luxurious house of the sort you see sometimes in Bali—pools covered with lotus flowers under the kindly shade of frangipani trees displaying great big white blossoms so intoxicatingly perfumed that it’s almost indecent. Instead, it was a series of campans, a sort of small house, without any walls, interconnected with each other. Like the garden, they were of great simplicity, quite spare, yet without giving an impression of poverty.
A young woman came to meet me, wrapped in a sarong, her black hair done up in a chignon.
“Hello, what do you want?” she asked me, speaking straightaway in heavily accented English.
My 6'3" frame and blue eyes left little doubt as to my Western origins.
“I’ve come to see Mr. … er … Master … Samtyang.”
“He will come,” she told me before disappearing between the bushes and the series of little columns that supported the roofs of the campans.
I remained standing there, slightly stupidly, waiting for His Excellency to deign to come and welcome the humble visitor that I was. After five minutes, which was long enough to make me question why I was here, I saw coming toward me a man of at least 70, perhaps even 80 years of age. The first thing that came to my mind was that I would probably have given him 50 rupiahs if I had seen him begging in the street. I tend to give only to old people: I tell myself that if they are begging at their age, it’s because they really don’t have a choice. The man walking slowly in my direction was not in rags, granted, but his clothes were disarmingly simple, minimalist, and ageless.
I’m ashamed to admit that my reflex was to think that it was the wrong person. He couldn’t be the healer whose reputation had reached overseas. Or else his gift went hand in hand with his lack of good judgment and he charged the prime minister of Japan peanuts. He might also have been a marketing genius, aiming at a clientele of credulous Westerners avid for a cliché such as the healer living an ascetic life perfectly detached from material things, but accepting a generous remuneration at the end of the session.
He greeted me and welcomed me simply, expressing himself with great gentleness in very good English. The luminosity of his gaze contrasted with the wrinkles in his tanned skin. His right ear was misshapen, as though the lobe had been partly cut off.
He invited me to follow him into the first campan: a roof supported by four small columns, against an old wall, the famous shelf along the wall, a chest in camphor wood and, on the floor, a rush mat. The chest was open and overflowing with documents, among which were plates representing the inside of the human body. These, in another context, would have made me want to scream with laughter, so far were the drawings from present-day medical knowledge.
I took my shoes off before entering the room, as is the tradition in Bali.
Th
e old man asked what was wrong with me, which rudely brought me back to the reason for my visit. What was I looking for exactly, since I wasn’t ill? I was about to waste the time of a man whose honesty, not to say integrity, I was beginning to perceive, even if I had as yet no proof of his competence. Did I simply want someone to look into my case, take an interest in me, talk about little old me, and, who knows, discover if there was a way for me to feel better? Perhaps I was obeying a sort of intuition. After all, I had been told he was a great man, which made me curious to meet him.
“I’ve come for a checkup,” I confided, blushing at the idea that this wasn’t an annual doctor’s exam and my request was out of order.
“Lie down there,” he said, pointing to the mat and showing no reaction to the strangeness of my request.
2
THUS BEGAN THE first torture session I’ve experienced in my life—and, I hope, the last. Everything started normally: lying on my back, relaxed, confident, and half amused, I felt him gently palpate different areas of my body. My head, to begin with, then the back of my neck. My arms, all the way down to the last joints of my fingers. Followed by apparently very precise areas on my chest, then my stomach. I was relieved to notice that he passed directly from my stomach to the tops of my legs. My knees, my calves, my heels, the soles of my feet: he touched nearly everything, and it was not particularly unpleasant.
Then, he reached the toes.
3
I DIDN’T KNOW it was possible to make a man suffer to that extent just by holding the little toe of his left foot between thumb and index finger. I screamed and writhed in every direction on my mat. Seen from afar, it must have looked like a fisherman trying to bait his hook with a 6'3" maggot. I agree that I am a bit of a softy, but what I was experiencing was far more painful than anything I had felt before.
“You are in pain,” he said.
No kidding. I stifled a yes between two groans. I no longer even had the strength to shout. He didn’t seem affected by my sufferings; he kept a sort of benevolent neutrality. His face even expressed a sort of goodness that was at odds with the treatment he was inflicting on me.
“You are an unhappy person,” he said, as if giving his diagnosis.
At that precise moment, yes. Very. I no longer knew whether to laugh or cry at the situation I had put myself in. I may have been doing both at the same time. And to think I could have spent my day on the beach, talking with the fishermen and looking at the pretty Balinese women!
“Your pain in this precise point is the symptom of a more general malaise. If I put the same pressure at the same point on somebody else, he wouldn’t feel pain,” he said.
Whereupon, he at last let go of my foot, and all at once, I was the happiest of men.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I am a teacher.”
He looked at me for a moment and then walked away, thoughtfully, as if concerned. I felt a little bit as if I’d said something I shouldn’t have, or I’d done something stupid. He was looking vaguely in the direction of a bougainvillea in flower a few feet away. He seemed lost in his thoughts. What was I supposed to do? Leave? Cough to remind him of my presence? He extricated me from my confusion by coming back toward me. He sat down on the floor and looked me in the eyes as he spoke.
“What’s wrong in your life? Your health is very good. So what is it? Work? Your love life? Your family?”
His questions were direct, and he was looking straight at me, leaving me no way of escape, even though his voice and eyes were kindly. I felt obliged to reply, laying myself bare to a man who was a stranger an hour before.
“I don’t know—yes, I could be happier, like everybody, I suppose.”
“I’m not asking you to reply for the others, but for you,” he calmly replied.
This guy is beginning to annoy me. I do what I want, and it’s none of his business, I thought, feeling a mounting anger.
“Let’s say I would be happier if I were with someone.”
Why did I say that? I felt my anger turning against me. I am really incapable of resisting a question. It’s pathetic.
“In that case, why aren’t you?”
Right. Now I’ve got to make a decision, even if that’s not my strong point: either I interrupt him and leave, or I play the game to the end.
I heard myself replying: “I wish I were, but for that, some woman would have to be attracted to me.”
“What’s preventing that?”
“Well, I’m far too thin,” I blurted out, red with shame and anger at the same time.
4
TALKING SLOWLY, ALMOST quietly, and making each word stand out, he said, “Your problem is not in your body but in your head.”
“No, it’s not in my head. It’s an objective, concrete fact! You just need to put me on the scales, or measure my pecs or my biceps. You’ll see for yourself, and neither the tape measure nor the scales are biased. I can’t influence them with my twisted, neurotic mind.”
“That’s not the question,” he replied patiently, keeping his great calm.
“Easily said—”
“Your problem is not your physique, but how you believe women perceive it. Actually, the success that one does or doesn’t have with the opposite sex has little to do with physical appearance. Have you never seen people whose looks are a very long way from the standards of beauty but who live with someone rather good-looking?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Anyway, most of the people who have your problem have a ‘normal’ physique, with little defects that they concentrate on. A mouth too narrow, ears too long, a little cellulite, a slight double chin, a nose too big or too small. They think they are a little too short, too tall, too fat, or too thin. When they meet a person who could love them, they have only one obsession: their defect. They are convinced they can’t be attractive because of that. And you know what?”
“What?”
“They are right! When you see yourself as ugly, other people see you as ugly. I’m sure women do find you too thin.”
“That’s right.”
“Other people see us as we see ourselves. Who is your favorite actress?”
“Nicole Kidman.”
“What do you think of her?”
“An excellent actress, one of the best of her generation. I adore her.”
“No, I mean physically.”
“Superb, magnificent—she’s a bombshell.”
“You must have seen Eyes Wide Shut by Stanley Kubrick?”
“You watch American films? Have you got a satellite receiver in your campan?”
“If my memory is right, there is a scene where we see Nicole Kidman completely naked, in the company of Tom Cruise.”
“Your memory is good.”
“Go to the video club in Kuta and have Eyes Wide Shut shown. They’ve got booths for people who don’t own a video player. When you get to that scene, freeze the frame and look carefully.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Forget for a few moments that it is Nicole Kidman. Imagine it’s someone you don’t know and look at her body objectively.”
“Yes … ?”
“You will observe that she is good-looking; she has a fine body—but not perfect, even so. Her bottom is pretty but could be more rounded, more well formed. Her breasts are not bad, but they could have been bigger, have a prettier curve, and be a little higher, more erect. You will see too that the features of her face are regular, fine, but not of exceptional beauty.”
“What are you getting at?”
“There are tens of thousands of women as beautiful as Nicole Kidman. You walk past them in the street every day, and you don’t even notice them. Her true force is elsewhere.”
“Yes?”
“Nicole Kidman is probably convinced she is superb. She must think that every man desires her and that every woman admires or envies her. She probably sees herself as one of the most beautiful women in the world. She believes it so st
rongly that other people see her like this.”
“In 2006, the British magazine Eve voted her one of the five most beautiful women in the world.”
“There you are.”
“And how do you explain that?”
“That others tend to see us as we see ourselves?”
“Yes.”
“Now that you understand this, you’re going to do an experiment. For a moment, you are going to imagine something. It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not. Just convince yourself that it is true. Are you ready?”
“What? Now? Straightaway?”
“Yes, now. You can close your eyes if it makes it easier for you.”
“Okay, I’m ready.”
“Imagine that you believe you are very handsome. You are convinced you have a huge impact on women. You’re walking on the beach, at Kuta Beach, among all the Australian women on holiday. How do you feel?”
“Really great. Really happy.”
“Describe your walk, your posture. Let me remind you that you think you are very handsome.”
“My walk … how should I describe it? Rather confident but at the same time relaxed.”
“Describe your face.”
“I’m holding my head up straight; I’m looking in front of me, a slight natural smile on my lips. I am cool and sure of myself at the same time.”
“Right. Now imagine how women see you.”
“Yes, it’s clear; I’m—how shall I put it?—I’m making a certain impact.”
“What do they think of your pecs and your biceps?”
“Er … they’re not really looking at those.”
“You can open your eyes. What women find attractive is what emanates from your body, that’s all. And that derives directly from the image you have of yourself. When you believe something about yourself, positive or negative, you behave in a way that reflects that thing. You show it to others all the time, and even if it was originally a creation of your mind, it becomes reality for other people, then for you.”
“That’s possible, even if it’s still a little abstract.”
The Man Who Wanted to Be Happy Page 1