Enigma Variations

by André Aciman

To the rest of the world I might be the most cheerful person who ever leaves the tennis courts in the morning. I’ll stroll over to the 96th Street subway station, maybe run into a neighbor, joke with the neighbor, hope you’re following not far behind, which always gives me a thrill, even when I know you’re not following. Part of me wants you to see me happy, wants you to be envious of what could make me so happy. I carry this alleged happiness all the way to my office, and there I’ll greet everyone with so expansive a smile that it hovers on the brink of laughter. I can’t tell whether it’s real or contrived happiness, but it spills into every aspect of my life. Everywhere I go I affect joy, and by some strange miracle, this counterfeit joy brightens me up as well as those whose lives I touch. People look at me and I know what they think: He’s got a life. I flirt with everyone, but it’s really you I’m flirting with.