Consequences (4 page)

He wouldn't have traded places with Richard. There was no sense thinking about it for hours. Ten or so years ago, his life had changed. It made a 180-degree turn the day he realized how something that seemed so complicated was really so easy. Things took on a different cast. And what a relief that had been! What a profound rebirth, in fact.

From there to thinking he wasn't against extending his hunting grounds to mothers, to the parents of students and the like, was a step he took easily. But his opinion wasn't important. He certainly wouldn't have traded places with Richard Olso, bitter and frustrated as Richard was.

“You attract them like flies to honey, don't you?” Richard snickered. “Don't tell me you don't. You seduce 'em by the dozens, right?”

It was sunny spring weather, bright and cold, and the scenery he could see through the big plate glass windows—those immense fir trees, the reflections on the lake, the snow that still lingered on the heights—were more conducive to contemplation than to any desire to be at loggerheads with the department head; those exquisite yachts darting by on silvered swells, those gulls, speedboats.

“Richard . . .” he said with a forced smile. “Richard, one of these days I'll stick you with a slander suit, you know. That'll settle it.”

“What?” clucked the other, feigning bewilderment. “Am I inventing something? Huh? You have the nerve to say it's not true?”

It was time for another cigarette. There were occasions when he would have rolled on the ground for a Winston.

“Please,” soothed Richard. “I'll let you go in a minute. Please.”

He gave in, put the pack back in his pocket. He could still hold out for a few minutes. Finding work again wasn't ever easy, and he knew there were certain lines not to cross when it came to Richard, if he didn't want to become part of the shipwrecked legions. Revolting as the equation was.

“In any case, old man, don't go looking for trouble. Evil tongues are lying in wait. There'll come a moment when I can't back you up any longer. Marianne's aware of it. For example, get nabbed playing ladykiller with a student's mother—a missing student, no less—and I won't be able to do a thing for you, and I
mean nothing. And you'll get pinched one day or another, that's for sure. I know it. We observe a certain discipline around here. I don't mind admitting it. But we're not about to change rules that have proven themselves up to now. Read my lips. We expect all professors to set an example, old man, and you know it.”

“Am I being reprimanded for something? Does inviting a woman to drink coffee call for the disciplinary committee?”

“All right, Marc, you're not a bad guy, but I know you better than you think. I'm doing my best to warn you. I don't want Marianne to be able to reproach me for not warning you. You're your own enemy, old man, oh, yes you are.”

Then Marianne parked and walked rapidly across the lot with a pile of files under each arm. He and Richard followed her with their eyes. She headed straight for the administrative buildings.

He took advantage of this to get away quickly from Richard, who was gently nodding his head in Marianne's direction. Teachers could form couples with teachers—no problem—the practice was widespread, even encouraged, around here; but that didn't mean teachers could form couples with students, or their parents. It was the law. Nobody wanted any hassles. Nobody thought about mixing categories. No sensible member of the community.

Midafternoon he gulped down some soup in the cafeteria and, just as he raised his eyes, there she suddenly was, sitting down across from him. He gaped at her for a moment, while she smiled faintly at him. “Of course you're not bothering me,” he said, “not at all. Is there something I can get you? What'll you have? I recommend the pumpkin soup, it's delicious.” He watched as she sashayed toward the pallid-looking food,
carrying a metal tray. As a rule, you had your work cut out for you if you wanted a soup worthy of the name in this cafeteria—despite all the complaints he'd addressed to the administration, to no avail, of course. But there were a few sparks of genius, some flawless flashes, like the soup in question.

Myriam served herself a large bowl. It was cold outside; soup was perfectly appropriate. She'd waited a long time before marrying, a very long time; and when she'd decided to, as she neared fifty, when she'd finally decided to take the step, her husband had been sent to the other side of the world. Less than three months later. And that was that. He had to dodge bullets even while she was speaking to him. She wondered if she ought to consider it a punishment.

“You understand, don't you?” she said, staring at her soup.

“I'd do as much, believe me. I'd pester people, I really would, I promise you. Hold on now, I say it's completely natural.” He bent and touched her wrist. She gazed up at him. “Have you read what she wrote?” he went on. “The mastery's amazing. The correct proportion of down-tempo and speed. Clarity and vagueness. It's so impressive, you know. I was about to give her a B+. A current passed between us, almost immediately. Sometimes I'd say to the others, ‘Take her example and show a little proof of an ear when you write. Just about any idiot can tell a story. The only thing it's about is rhythm, color, tone. Take your classmate's example. Don't miss the mark. Above all, be good painters, good musicians.' Too bad such speeches always put them to sleep.”

He watched her carry the first spoonful to her mouth. She hesitated.

“You're saying to yourself, ‘Then doesn't this woman have
anything else to do with her days?' You're saying to yourself, ‘What does she gain by doing this?' I really don't have an answer.”

He was tempted to touch her wrist again to verify that it really was she producing that altogether astonishing sweet electric current traveling all the way to his shoulder as soon as he laid a finger on her.

“I think I feel a little alone,” she finished, sighing. “You must find me unbearable.”

“But what an idea, marrying a sergeant, of all things. A sergeant. The world is being torn apart, isn't it? Personally, I wouldn't take up a military career these days. Not on your life. Even if I were twenty. Especially if I were twenty. On the other hand, it's steady work, and I certainly understand that. I know that isn't a moot point. We all know it. All you have to do is take a look at the state of the auto industry. What's happening to our retirement packages.”

“I've started to talk to myself when I'm alone. Or I leave the radio on. Do you know that I'm finding it harder and harder to remember what my husband looks like? Can you imagine? Can you believe it for a second? I think Barbara was preventing it. Keeping him from evaporating completely. Keeping the process from reaching its end. She was a link.”

Y
ou couldn't marry somebody in
the military and then complain that the guy wasn't keeping regular hours. Marianne came out with this idea as the setting sun trembled over the lake. They were clearing the table. They'd dined early because Marianne wanted to go back to work. They did the dishes. She washed and he rinsed. Next they went to the living room to finish the bottle of chardonnay. She planted some more incense.

“Everybody saw you in the cafeteria.”

“I know. We weren't trying to hide.”

Before sitting down, she plumped up a few couch pillows. Quite firmly. Then she held out her hand. He brought her glass. As he'd talked about his encounter with Myriam he'd lit a fire, and now the flames crackled.

“What are you getting at?” he sighed as he sat down next to her. “I can't address one word to a woman anymore without your imagining God knows what. Don't you think you're going too far?”

By way of response, she held out her feet, declared that she'd been standing since dawn and that her ankles were swollen—underfloor heating disagreed with her. He massaged them.
When he sensed her relaxing, he raised the point that the fate of that woman was hardly enviable. “It doesn't surprise me that she looks for someone to talk to. It doesn't surprise me for a second. Obviously she's lost, wants nothing, just to talk about Barbara, nothing else. It probably does her some good. Just talking about it. Nothing more. Should I have sent her packing? Turned my back? Tell me who would have had the heart to do that. Put yourself in my place for a minute.”

She rarely batted an eyelash when he was busy with her ankles. She closed her eyes, and her face took on a much softer expression, which made her almost unrecognizable—as gloomy and tense as she was most of the time. For the time being, she was floating. Filled with satisfaction. So much so that, for the moment, she stopped looking for a quarrel and gave herself up to the massage—he had a real gift for it. Outside, the wind blew through the silvery darkness, and stars sparkled on the lake.

He went out to get a log. Shivered. Filled his lungs with freezing air. For a long time. In the distance below, to the west of the city, were the lights of the campus; then those of the airport, on the Swiss side; then the absolute blackness of fields of beets; and finally, the silhouette of the mountains against a background of night, their white, still-frozen noses. He lit a cigarette. Mixing pure air with nicotine, as night fell, was by far the best you could hope for in terms of subtle intensity. What a magnificent machine we sometimes inhabit, he'd then tell himself.

Fortunately, Marianne smoked, too. The odor of stale tobacco didn't bother either of them when they woke up in that house; every inch of it was impregnated with nicotine particles—especially in winter, because they didn't disagree about
any need to open the windows to air things out, and especially these last two winters, for reasons of economy. Heating would soon become a luxury. His only minor concern came from the fact that she smoked dark tobacco. Every cloud she spewed had the form and density of a big, smooth pillow that took hours to dissipate into the air, but he refused to come off as a bad sport or quibbler or be petty about the issue. Both of them were stinking up the house. In equal proportions.

He loaded the log onto his shoulder, careful to avoid the back sprains that usually threatened men over fifty and that could turn the most robust of them into respectable-acting stuffed dummies. The day after he'd carried Barbara to her final resting place, there had been some warnings, several needlelike pains shooting through his lower back—as he first stepped out of bed and then during the car ride; a third time while writing at the blackboard; and finally, that evening, as he tried inspecting a washing machine that refused to function. He'd let out a short cry and yanked his head out of the porthole.

He came back in, shook his feet. Marianne had put on her glasses and plunged into her writing work, a cigarette in her mouth. He poked at the fire under the log. Turned and exposed his lower back to the heat of the flames. Microwaving a wet towel for three minutes was obviously a better remedy, but he didn't need it yet, the pain was lurking but hadn't hit—Voltaren, Darvocet, and Tetrazepam were his three religions in case of an attack. Chardonnay, too.

When he was done to a turn and taking a step toward the stairs leading up to his floor, she looked up at him. She often stopped him just as he was leaving. She hadn't always been like that, but aging isn't an improvement for anybody.

She took on a surprised look. “You're not going to kiss me?” she said.

He came up to her and bent down. She hadn't found a better way to verify he wasn't soaked in any particular odor, such as perfume, which would have immediately given him away; but he pretended not to notice her furtive sniffing.

Had she ever harbored anything but ordinary doubt when it came to him? Had she ever caught him red-handed? He'd learned to be discreet. He'd also been very careful not to get a swelled head about his serial successes and kept extremely vigilant. His last adventure was proof of it. Nothing could be traced back to him because he'd been so prudent until the end, and the result testified to this. Essentially, adopting good discipline was the simplest plan of all, following a few basic rules. No one wanted problems, to become the victim of a mishap. He'd done the only thing he could have done and refused to feel guilty about anything at all in such circumstances. He wasn't sorry about a single detail. Nothing contradicted his scrupulous analysis of the situation. His instincts had been right. There was no way to bring back a dead man. Or rather, a dead woman.

At times the wind in the fireplace howled like a dog covered with fleas, and the big windows trembled a little. He kissed her on the temple. She froze for three seconds, pen in air.

He took advantage of it by getting back to his bedroom. It was almost midnight. The light in the room revealed the nearest fir trees bending under gusts, the electric wires vibrating like whips, the rosebushes being manhandled, the spasms of the hedge, and the stiffness of the windsock in the form of a catfish from an Internet order mistakenly addressed to him. Thrilled by
the object after unwrapping and examining it, he'd immediately made it his, denied having gotten it.

He lit a last cigarette, thinking of the one he'd light tomorrow morning, which he was lusting after already. A man certainly could have a few vices without needing to be ashamed of them, he reckoned. The ordeals you went through in a lifetime certainly gave you the privilege.

He stood there a few minutes without moving, watching the wind blowing and listening to the last third of “The Purple Bottle” coming from his earphones.

Then his telephone rang. It was she. Myriam. It was a little late to be discussing Barbara, it occurred to him; but he made an effort to see it from her point of view. He didn't have class the next day and therefore had no reason to get up early. He let it ring. Held his breath. Looked at his watch. At the end of one minute and twenty seconds, just before his lungs exploded, he answered.