Consequences (12 page)

How could he ever cancel all that out? Moments like this. Weren't they living what they'd promised each other during their most intense ordeals? Hadn't they finally found peace, satisfaction, freedom, everything they'd ever wanted, ever strived for?

“Everything is fine,” he said.

“Obviously everything is not fine. Nobody's forcing you to say anything at all, it's really irritating.”

He put Marianne's feet back down and lit a cigarette. Last
year they'd put a nice sum into this top-of-the-line couch, which was unbelievably comfortable and spacious—some creep had been crazy enough to push up the bidding, but they'd held out, had finally outbid the son-of-a-bitch around three in the morning and become the owners of this folly for around ten times the price of a normal couch. But they hadn't regretted it for an instant, nor the way they found each of their beddings, choosing carefully after visiting nearly every online shop on the planet. He remembered how excited they were at the idea of each of them possessing his or her own bed, sheets and pillowcases, and the blankets that went with them. He leaned back, thinking that you had to have slept on the ground for a long time, even on the floor for years, before you could fully appreciate the quality of the seat on which he was sitting.

He'd ended up there one evening with a student—they'd taken advantage of a wildcat strike paralyzing the entire country and keeping Marianne at the far end of the province for the night; and the experience had been conclusive. What a piece of furniture was stuffed with didn't count for everything. Besides the quality of the springs and the density of the foam, which were both excellent, contact with the leather upholstery—a magnificent kid leather that was thick, supple, and arousing—made for everything, according to the student, and based on the small amount of time they lay there naked and kind of carefully wriggled their butts on it.

“Listen,” he said to her. She stopped studying her toes and looked up. “Now listen closely. In the first place, you have nothing to worry about and you never will from me. I didn't think I needed to remind you of that. You can sleep soundly. You're my sister, I love you. On the one hand. Now, excuse me, but, on the
other hand, allow me to point out to you, that I, for one, am not making a big deal about your relationship with that idiot. Do you really think I get a kick out of seeing you go out with that . . .”

“Go out?”

“Please, Marianne. What difference does it make what name you give it? I mean, shit, call it what you want. And in any case, I'm not going to his barbecue. I'm not going to eat sausages and get smoked in his backyard. I wouldn't count on it. You can do your thing with him in peace. Thank me.”

She grabbed a pitiful little statuette that happened to be in reach and smashed it on the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces.

It was a statue of the Blessed Virgin that changed color over time, like the hundreds of thousands like it being sold at Lourdes. It was night now. Their father had often encouraged their mother to break a dish rather than swallow her anger, but she had seldom resorted to that, and the results were well known.

At least Marianne was breaking something, and he associated the sound of glass, or smashed porcelain, anything broken into bits, with release, not the thunder that comes before a storm but that which suddenly stops the rain and brings back a blue sky, and silence.

He himself preferred walking—fast, through the woods—and the yelling that welled up when he figured he was far enough away, alone; it was a roar that would spring up out of him like the flow of blood from a big, wounded animal. Everyone had his method. His mother, as well, was the type who screamed, wrung her hands, rolled around on the floor, tore out her hair. Whole patches of it. Sometimes to the point where it looked like she'd caught ringworm.

For a long time he'd wondered if the Virgin's change in color should have been considered a miracle, or at least hypothesized to be one; and he thought about the fact that he'd never see her again and realized that he'd become used to glancing that way at least once a day. Until now.

The smallest fragments sparkled like snow on the floor, like powdered sugar. He got up and made a fire while she swept the largest pieces into a dustpan—if you could call it that. He wasn't sorry about having been so blunt with her. It behooved him to take into account, in one way or another, whatever she was accepting from Richard, regardless of the reason. What she would have accepted from anyone at all obviously wouldn't have been very pleasant for him to imagine, either; but Richard Olso was the worst of all. He'd swept her away on all counts, gotten hold of her from start to finish. There should have been a law for sisters like that who were so incredibly good at unearthing the mangiest dog in the entire region, the most pathetic lover for a hundred leagues around, the perfect asshole guaranteed to ruin your life for centuries. There ought to be the harshest of laws. It made more sense having a brother, in every case. Why complicate things?

His brother, the one he was supposed to have had, was born dead—or almost—he'd only survived a few days. This brother was his great regret. This older brother who would have at least shared his burden, made life easier—and kept all that followed from happening, couldn't he have? How many times had he fantasized about it? How many times had he kept an image of this brother with him when he was at his lowest, totally at the mercy of abuse, being humiliated or deprived of food, completely discouraged?

The simple act of thinking of this brother lit up his face with a pleasant smile while flames began dancing on the walls.

Marianne added some more incense. Luckily, his mind was occupied by another woman, because his sister, who'd lain down again on the couch, had revealed a potent sight: a view of the bottom of her ivory-colored satin panties. Luckily, he was thinking solely about another woman while Marianne kept this immodest position, more or less innocently—her long bare legs with their white thighs, her half hiked-up skirt, the soft stream of pungent smoke she was dreamily sending toward the ceiling.

“I know how to get another one,” she said.

“Really? What are you talking about?”

“Another Blessed Virgin. All right? I'll buy another one.”

“Good. Get two.”

T
he alcohol attracted the students,
and Richard had promised them the bar would be well stocked—just as he'd assured the teaching body that the food would be good and their not being there unforgivable.

Generally, any department head organizing a party definitely wouldn't be snubbed, but this was even less the case when the president himself was making the trip with his wife and drinking your champagne and wolfing down your mixed grill. Richard's backyard was fairly full. The fellow had the advantage of good spring weather, and his barbecue was roaring—at least the guy knew how to cook sausages and chicken breasts.

It was nice out, and the women were wearing sandals. Marc and Marianne made their appearance just as Richard was putting on a new batch of kebabs.

“It's great having you, Marc, and your sister. Hope you know that. Hope there's no misunderstanding here.”

“No, everything's cool. What do you suggest? Not too much fat, if possible.”

“I've got what you need. Taste this.”

“Really?”

“Come on over, Marc. I want to tell you something. Can I confide in you?”

“No, Richard, I'd rather not. I'd rather you say it right out. I don't want to keep a secret from anybody. It's nothing personal. I don't want the responsibility. I sleepwalk. Ask Marianne. I talk while I'm asleep. I walk around talking. It's as simple as that. When it comes to anything confidential, old buddy, I'm not the one to go to. I'm not worth a rat's ass when it comes to confidences.”

Behind them, several professors were getting a laugh at the sight of a handful of little kids they'd brought and who were grinningly confronting one another with water pistols. Richard smiled, turned over a few ribs.

“Marc, I just wanted to say that I appreciate your coming. You know, I'm aware of the efforts you make. I can put myself in your place. I never had a sister, but I try to put myself in your place.”

“How nice of you. Comforting. Anyway, your little party's a big success. You wouldn't happen to have any English mustard, would you?”

A half-dozen students who'd been more or less ordered to come to the party were busy going from one group to another, serving and keeping an eye on those children who'd been given free rein, making sure they weren't going to wreck the inside of the house, turn on the gas, get locked in a closet, or start a fire. Richard knew how to take advantage of his position and hadn't had any problem finding a workforce. Including Annie Eggbaum. Marc didn't notice her until the moment he was pinned against her between two tables as the two of them were passing from opposite directions. For a second they were stuck together.

“Well, Annie, of all people!” he said, keeping his hands in sight.

She gave him a dark look.

A little later, as he was extricating himself from a group who wanted to go all the way to the European Parliament over the issue of the right of Muslim women to wear a veil to school, she put herself in front of him, cheeks red with anger, and asked what the problem was.

In a career of more than twenty years, he'd never seen such behavior, such lack of respect. Such arrogance, insolence. He may have been twice her age, but she was hammering at him unrestrainedly, pushing him against the ropes.

He looked around furtively and asked that she lower her voice.

“What's your problem, huh, tell me!” she said, her temper flaring.

At first he thought he'd definitely have to strangle her to keep her quiet, because not only wasn't she speaking more softly, her voice had reached a shriek. For lack of a better solution, he took her firmly by the elbow and, smiling, led her aside.

“My god, you're insane,” he uttered between his teeth. “What's come over you? Is it about that business of lessons? Is that it?”

“You know very well that it's not about that,” she hissed back, “so stop playing dumb.”

“Excuse me?”

“You understood perfectly.”

“Wait, this won't do at all. Annie, this won't do if you take that tone. You're all red. Have you gotten sunstroke?”

With an abrupt gesture, she freed her forearm, which he was still gripping hard. “You're hurting me.”

“Could be. See these marks on my face? And I'm the one who's hurting you? You must be putting me on.”

Now it was his turn to shake with anger, because not only was she close to attracting attention to them, she was also making him get the kind of splitting migraines only he got. He narrowed his eyes and added, “Kick up a fuss, Annie, and I swear to you you'll pay dearly for it, trust me.”

“Then have a little respect for me.”

“What? I have a lot of respect for you. Don't worry. If that's what's worrying you, I can reassure you of that.”

She studied him wordlessly for a long moment. “You mean you don't get it? Is that possible? But you flirt with me, sweet-talk me to death, tell me to meet you, feel up my breasts, and then . . . nothing. You think that's normal?”

“Feel up your breasts? Now wait a minute . . .”

“When we were on that banquette.”

“Oh, I see. You call that feeling up breasts? I grabbed the sugar dispenser, that's what happened. I grabbed the damn sugar dispenser because it was going to tip over, that's all.”

He went inside to look for some Doliprane
^®
. She followed. “Listen, Annie, be nice. Leave me alone for now. If you want, we'll see each other again tomorrow when class is over. I've got a very interesting proposition for you about those private lessons. A firm one. But you've got to understand, Annie. I can't promise to turn you into a writer. Nobody has that power.
That
we really have to agree on. I can teach you the whole caboodle and all the tricks of the trade; I can help you hold the pencil, scribble a few lines; but that's all I can do. I'm not a magician, okay? Take a recipe. Is using all the ingredients enough? Of course not. You need the gift. Your father can send me his goons
again, and that won't change a thing. What we're talking about can't be converted into anything you can buy. If that were the case, I would have saved up a long time ago, Annie. I wouldn't be here teaching literature, I'd be writing it. You really need to understand that.”

She looked hard at him again. “Listen. Let me tell you something. I actually don't understand a word you're saying to me. I just want to know why you're not attracted to me. I want to know what's wrong.”

Outside of a few students who were a little drunk and were taking turns falling into one another's arms and not paying any attention to them, they were alone in the room. “Annie. Fine. If you're here to make my headache worse, say it. Say it right away. It'll save us some time. Why don't you help me find some aspirin instead? You know what would be nice? If we could shake hands.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Nice. At least you're being frank.”

They opened several cupboards, some drawers. “Why did you do that to me?” she asked, handing him a package of aspirin she'd unearthed from a fruit bowl. He thanked her with a slight movement of his head.

“You should always have some of this on hand,” he observed as he picked up a bottle of water. He swallowed the tablets. “Annie, think about it for a minute. Do you know what I'm risking if I get accused of having relations with a student? Take a good look at them,” he said, pointing to the shady part of the yard where the teachers and their spouses stood. “What do you think of them? How much time would you give me before you saw my head roll? Obviously, I wouldn't be judged with as much
disgust as an old pedophile priest, but almost, believe me. Look at 'em.”