Consequences (8 page)

She was his older sister, but didn't he deserve respect? Didn't he deserve to be spared humiliations and other betrayals of their routine after the thrashings he'd taken in her place out of a spirit of generosity? How many handfuls of hair had he lost, how many knockouts had he submitted to? Three, if you counted the time when he hadn't passed out but lay staring at the beaten-earth floor at the bottom of the stairs where that woman had thrown him, leaving him incapable of the slightest movement for minutes that felt endless, barely able to breathe and peeing in
his short pants without being able to do anything about it in the state of shock he was in.

He deserved her complete respect. She shouldn't be pushing the joke too far. He stared hard at her. She resigned herself to lowering her eyes and reaching for her cigarettes. “Marc's right,” she said. “It's late. Your chocolates did do me some good, Richard. Thanks for visiting. Thanks for caring about what happens to me.”

“Listen. It's nothing special, Marianne. You know that. Whatever you want, just ask.”

“You're too kind, Richard. But don't worry, I'll be back in stride very soon. Spring is going to help me. I'm going to start going to the gym. I'm going to sign up at one.”

“If you want, I'll give you the address of the one I go to. I think it's the best one. Do you want me to take care of it?”

Their conversation went on like that for quite some time. It was incredible. Marc was laughing sarcastically about it for a long time after Richard cleared out at the wheel of his Alfa Romeo, swallowed up by the pale night. Incredible. Grotesque.

“I should have caught this on camera,” he jeered. “I could have watched it again.”

“You couldn't be more wrong. You've got an overactive imagination.”

He caught the packet of cigarettes she threw at him in midair.

T
he next day he got
up early and went for a long walk through the woods and far into the surrounding soft green hills as a way of avoiding the temptation to go back into town in hope of running into Myriam, or maybe walk up her street, peek through her windows, or something to that effect.

Having his mind invaded by a woman like this was something new for him. He wasn't being invaded by fear, resentment, a desire for vengeance, or other lovely thoughts like the ones his mother used to inspire in him, or even the somber ambivalence his sister could evoke in him; he was being invaded by a pleasant, mysterious power that sometimes began churning like an incredibly beneficent, dangerous flood. It was incredibly new.

More than ever, walking seemed necessary. If you put the number of miles he'd traveled through these woods end to end, amidst these hills, over these streams, faults, and chasms, you'd lose your bearings. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the leaves slapping against his face, rain and night falling on his terrible path one evening in November when she was chasing him with a pitchfork. But he could also see incredible mornings sunnier than gold coins, sparkling with light that forced you to
squint, when he'd go swimming with his father in a stream so icy that his father ended up having to squeeze him in his arms until his teeth stopped chattering. Today the air smelled good—a mixture of cold earth and new grass.

For the first time since he woke up, he thought for an instant of Annie Eggbaum and the problems waiting for him when he reappeared on campus. He hurtled down a slope covered with dead, shriveled, dry gray leaves and got back on a path that passed above the road. Having no convincing explanation to give the student, or any he could be very proud of, he wagered she wasn't going to spare him her resentment. Anyone in her place would act like that. Anyone would cry out for revenge.

He held on to the idea of the private lessons she'd been clamoring for since the start of the year. He could come off as open to that; how much leeway he showed was pretty important. He could begin by giving her the gift of the first week and see what she thought of it. Raise a low grade for her from time to time to bring back her smile.

When he got near the pit, he glanced around and noticed nothing in particular, saw nothing, detected no smell coming from the damp, mossy darkness that plunged deep into the earth. Barbara's sleep was silent and peaceful, and you could only be overjoyed about it, for both of them. This pit certainly was the last word when it came to graves, the best you could want under certain circumstances. Its depth made it final, absolute. He threw in a few crocuses he'd picked up on the way and lit a cigarette, each one of which tasted more superb than the one before.

In the end, maybe he'd have to go to bed with Annie Eggbaum, he thought vaguely. It would be the only option if she
took too hard-line a position and was counting on making him pay a high price for his rudeness.

The idea of managing a double affair made him nervous, produced a certain anxiety he couldn't dispel by smoking a cigarette outdoors—a Winston—on a pleasant spring morning. Obviously, some people were thrilled about confronting the unknown, hoping and praying for it, using it to trigger matchless orgasms; but not in his case, far from it. He'd had his fill of adventures, trembling, reversals, action, surprises, suffering, joy, etc., and wasn't rubbing his hands together or chomping at the bit while watching the approach of this ordeal. The unknown had no attraction for him—quite the opposite. The unknown seemed like a phosphorescent fog to him, as thick as pudding and bringing with it every possible snare, every imaginable problem. He knew.

For years he'd been hoping for stability. A lot of things had fallen into place as soon as he'd understood he'd never be a writer, a real one. It was better to know it. A tremendous rebirth for him. He knew the burden he'd been spared. Obviously, something inside him was shattered, crushed; but what a relief when it came down to it, what freedom. Sometimes he shuddered at the mere thought of the staggeringly monastic life he'd escaped. Who'd return to handle a radioactive substance with bare hands until they were burned, or keep breathing in asbestos, being poisoned gradually, until the end result? No real writer escaped it. There was no exception to the rule. You couldn't ever envy guys like that. No one could understand your choosing to let your heart be devoured without even flinching. Most of his students thought it was a profession just like any other. Trying to make them change their minds was useless.

Annie Eggbaum had been pestering him for months to give up certain secrets about how to get to the end of a novel, and such interactions generally ended in a quiet place hidden from others' eyes, in absolute discretion; but this time the scenario seemed more complicated. He started walking again. The memory of Myriam astride him in the Fiat—although he'd indulged in the same activity several other times without reaching any kind of sexual zenith—returned, flooding his mind at regular intervals, always with the same force. What was he supposed to do about it, he asked himself as he headed back to the house; what was he supposed to do about that meteorite landing in his backyard? Trying to make a joke out of it didn't work any better.

When he got back, he was almost flattened by a heart attack: Myriam was in the living room with his sister, having a cup of coffee, and his sister was saying, “Well, well, here he is, aren't you lucky, here he is; it could have taken a lot more time. Right, Marc?”

He pulled up a chair.

“You're not saying anything. Say something,” said Marianne.

“This is Barbara's stepmother.”

“I know. We've met.”

“I told you about her.”

Myriam pushed several notebooks toward him. “I found these,” she said. “Wanted to show them to you. But I understand how abrupt this visit is. I'm embarrassed, but I didn't have your telephone number.”

He and his sister exchanged glances, then he leaned forward to pick up the notebooks, put on his glasses, and paged through them for a moment—more involved in calming down than in assessing Barbara's work, even if it was as interesting as
her stepmother claimed. He wondered whether his forehead was shiny, whether his smiles were turning into grimaces, whether they could tell how embarrassed he was by Myriam's visit.

“Can't wait to read it all,” he said. “It's really very kind of you.”

He couldn't look into her eyes. It was almost impossible for him. Outside the sun had passed behind the horizon; crows wheeled above the forest.

Suddenly she stood up. Thanked Marianne for the coffee. He lowered his eyes to the notebooks. “I'm going to read all of this,” he muttered, caressing them quietly. “It certainly is kind of you.”

“Take your time,” she said. “No hurry.” She drew back toward the door. Marianne hadn't gotten up to accompany her, and nothing could have made him get up out of the chair he was glued to.

He heard the door closing. For several seconds, the silence seemed to vibrate throughout the room. Then she got into her car and the motor droned, before the sound disappeared altogether. Marianne clucked.

“Funny girl. Not educated, but I sense a kind of inner fire, wouldn't you agree?”

“Kind of out of it, if you ask me. You know how much I detest having to deal with students' parents. It's never very healthy.”

“Aside from that, what do you think of her?”

He burst out laughing. “You're priceless.” He lit a cigarette while she studied him with a smile. Then he looked at his watch. “We're leaving in a half hour,” he announced.

“I'm okay. I feel fine.”

“A half hour,” he repeated. “Don't procrastinate. I'll tell you when I think you're ready to drive again. For today, it's out of the question. Not until you get your strength back. I'll come get you at noon.”

“Anyway, the two of you don't seem too at ease with each other.”

“You didn't think her busting in like that was annoying? I did. I hope she won't give other people any bad ideas about showing up here the minute their offspring puts ink to paper. Especially at the crack of dawn. Am I attracted to her? Is that what you want to know? Is that the question?”

She made an about-face and headed toward her room. He followed her, stopping on the threshold.

“Your suspicions are becoming unbearable,” he sighed. “I'd like to see you in that situation, with a stepdaughter who's disappeared and a husband in the war. I'd like to see you not looking for a little comforting, a few words of conversation with someone else to keep from feeling too alone. Can't you make an effort to understand? Have some empathy? Let go of your fixed ideas? Marianne?”

She was in her slip, leaning over a dresser drawer. The day he'd surprised his mother wearing one, she'd grabbed him by the throat and forced him to turn round and go back all the way to the entrance to the house, then flung him outside, even though he was in his pajamas and was only eight and the north wind threatened to knock him down any second and carry him off like a dry leaf. But it was better than the dark cellar.

By noon, he still hadn't
seen Myriam again. It wasn't for lack of his having lain in wait for her all morning, going to every building, scouring the cafeteria and vicinity, leaving the door to his office open, etc. The way she'd surprised him a few hours before may have been unsettling, but it had increased his desire to see her again tenfold, to the point that his sister—after studying for a long time the bloody steak he'd ordered for her—asked him if he hadn't been overdoing it on the caffeine, because he seemed unable to stop fidgeting. “It's obvious your mind is somewhere else,” she concluded. “How considerate of you.”

There was no sense in insisting to the contrary. He was completely aware of his state of mind but couldn't change it, couldn't even give it a name.

A few years before, during a professors' meeting to discuss the behavior of certain students, he'd come down with stomach poisoning and a high fever from eating shellfish—or was it fillet of perch?—and the effects of that fever, as far as he could remember, were a lot like this shaking he felt now, but less severe. It was like stepping into an unknown world, vertigo mixed with dread and irresistible attraction.

“Eat,” he told her. “Everything's okay.”

“To look at you, I wouldn't say so. You're not eating a thing.”

The place was crowded, and the din was just what was needed to prevent all serious conversation and leave him free to keep one eye on the entrances and exits. Ever since she'd literally fled their home early that morning, he'd had a strong desire to say a few words to her, to make up for the halfhearted welcome he'd given her just several hours after the tremendous session she'd accorded him on the roof of the shopping mall.

He didn't know what was happening to him. He needed to take one or two Doliprane
^®
, for lack of better understanding what he was coming down with. One inconvenience of losing your parents too early has to do with being left stranded before learning about life—abandoned midstream. A lot of concepts weren't handed down, a lot of data was missing. A good number of feelings weren't even categorized.

That evening he felt especially
depressed. Browbeaten. He hadn't been able to keep his sister company long and had gone upstairs very early to shut himself in his room. Had fallen across the bed with his arms crossed over his chest and stared at the ceiling in the gloomy silence. Seized by a brilliant idea, he pounced on the notebook he'd been carrying with him for years wherever he went, in case something happened. But he'd never managed to do anything good with it until now, nothing that could restore his hope.

He grabbed the pen tucked inside the spirals of the notebook, got ready to write the date, and nothing happened. When still nothing came, he rapidly drew several circles on the paper, but the goddamn pen was out of ink. “Fuck! For God's sake!” he grumbled as he ran all around his room looking for something to write with. Emotion was a rare commodity you had to grab hold of there and then—the stronger the intensity, the shorter the duration. Those were the times you could see what you were worth as a writer, without lying to yourself.