Consequences (16 page)

The fact that she was disappointed went without saying. It was written all over her face. But she showed she was more reasonable than he had expected, and in the end kept quiet, stopped raising her fist at him.

There were soft, white, carefully folded beach robes waiting for them. As soon as he'd put one on, he hurried to his cigarettes—the first puff taken at dusk can be a superb high for the somewhat serious aficionado. He picked up his cocktail with one hand and made a friendly gesture toward Annie, who was floating near the edge. It was all becoming very pleasant, relaxing. The air was beginning to smell of ripe wood and lake; the sky was growing darker. Suddenly Annie was revealed in a much less terrible light. If she wanted to and was willing to put a minimum of work into it, he could guide her to produce work that was average for the times—to the point of being able to sign good contracts with publishers, and maybe even cop a few foreign translations. The rules weren't that hard to follow—weren't there some very bad writers nimbler than monkeys who managed to climb to the top of the ladder? She wouldn't end up one of the worst if he gave her some good writers to read, made her fill page after page, and taught her the art of provocation.

“Afghanistan is going to become a new Vietnam, everybody knows it. Anyway, she hasn't heard from him in months. Yep. Personally, I think he's not about to come back. I'm pretty sure we're losing more men than they want to tell us. Freezing at night, scorching during the day. That damn country's one big trap. I'd be surprised if he came back at all, to be honest.”

She pulled a face, then did a few lengths in the evening air.

Next he helped her out of the pool by extending a hand to hoist her up, acting thrilled with his catch and moving in a way that triggered such a violent pain near his last vertebra that he was in shock for a split second. He froze, like an animal at bay in the light of the moon. Tears rose to his eyes. Blinking them away, he crashed onto the nearest mattress somewhat terrified, as if struck by an acute bout of tetany.

He managed enough breath to explain that his coccyx had turned to crumbs and that he figured he'd rest for a few minutes before deciding what to try next, even if it only amounted to blinking. “Unfortunately, nothing can be done, unless you have something very strong,” he sighed, his heart still pounding in his chest. She came back right away with some pink pills that he gulped down unhesitatingly, because death itself was nothing compared to the unbearable flash of pain that had struck him a moment ago.

He thought of the distance to his car and the fact that he'd never be able to make it without crutches if the agony continued. The situation reminded him of some very bad moments—including the time he fell on the kitchen tiles, after she'd knocked over his chair by kicking him in the chest, because he was defending his sister: horrible memory of a time when insanity at home was raging and maximum brutality was the
rule, when staying on the ground was often the best available solution.

The swimming pool lit up automatically. The small of his back was so tensed from fear of having to suffer another bout of this sort of electric discharge that he couldn't relax it any longer. A knot had formed, a block of pain that tolerated only total immobility—no creams, massage, nothing else would work; and all he wanted to do was keep lying there for a moment, to get his breath back, not move.

His joints felt so stiff and his nerves were so on edge that he barely managed to sit up when Christian Eggbaum, her father—the same man who'd so generously treated him to that thrashing by way of his henchmen—arrived. Marc excused himself, awkwardly straightened the beach robe over his thighs, and explained that he'd suddenly been stricken with muscle paralysis in the lumbar region. “I know who you are,” answered his host. “You're my daughter's teacher.” As he said it, he came toward him with a gracious smile and extended a hand.

Later, both father and daughter helped him to the Fiat, although he refused to let them take him home with the pretext that he'd never let anyone do it, never on that road, etc. They propped him up from either side, encouraging each step as if he were a family member for whom they were responsible. The man didn't look like a vulgar mafioso, or bank robber hardened by nightclub scuffles; he looked a lot more like one of today's financial confidence men who care about the cut of their shirt and their choice of cologne, which in this case happened to be Five O'Clock Au Gingembre, by Serge Lutens.

Strange people. Annie's tablets began working during the drive back, now that those two kind souls had gently placed
him on the buoy-shaped cushion he'd bought a few days ago and he was alone at the wheel of his car, as he left the city and drove up the hill toward his place and stars appeared in the black sky over the forest.

He was in no condition to drive. He had to have the sense of the road at his fingertips to keep from flipping over into a ditch or smashing into the barrier and hurtling in a horrendous somersault to the bottom of the mountain. The road snaked, but he kept the correct path in his head and adjusted to some degree, managing to keep to his lane without too many mishaps. As long as nobody was coming the other way.

Nevertheless, seated with the small of his back nicely propped up and coccyx free of contact (thanks to that hideous donut pillow—they really were something of a miracle), seemed to make things okay. He straightened slightly—something he wasn't able to do a few moments before when the Eggbaums put him into his car and asked him to promise to come back as soon as he was back on his feet.

Once home, however, he honked his horn: no need to be foolhardy and get struck down because of overconfidence when he was so near his destination. He needed Marianne to help pry him out of the tin can he'd been driving that seemed to have been designed for midgets. He honked again, but nobody came. Then he leaned forward slightly and discovered Richard Olso's Alfa parked on the shoulder.

He lowered his window and heard more or less human-sounding cries of rage coming from the house. Like a herd having their throats cut. Or was it dogs barking? Sirens. Helicopters. Shooting. A deafening chorus. Even so, the area around the house looked a picture of calm. A wispy plume of white smoke
escaped from the chimney and vanished into the starry firmament, which was untroubled by the slightest cloud. Mountaintops twinkled in the moonlight, and the lake's placid waters sparkled through the woods as deer went by, squirrels nibbled nuts, and birds of prey glided through the mild air.

Slipping a cigarette between his lips, he grit his teeth, opened the car door. Dragged himself from his seat, relying completely on the strength of his arms. Once he was standing in the soft calm of the evening, as the racket from the house reached a peak, he checked that his balance was good enough for flicking his lighter and lit up a smoke, before starting to walk. Today, every cigarette seemed incredibly delicious.

The walls of the house were shaking. An especially violent scene from
Apocalypse Now
was playing, and Richard Olso was at the controls. It was unbelievable, but true. That unbearable din shaking the entire house was nothing less than the handiwork of that appalling cretin Richard, who'd turned into a sound engineer.

“This is incredible,” Marianne announced. “It feels like you're there.”

Apparently, the poor girl had finally snapped. “What the hell are you talking about?” he fired at her, without so much as a glance at Richard Olso. “But first of all, what is this stuff?”

“Marc, old man, it's about turning the living room into a movie theater. I'm going to give you a demonstration. Sit down.”

“Marianne, I've smashed my coccyx to smithereens. It took me fifteen minutes to get across the yard. Inch by inch. Oh, and yes, thanks for the help. It was priceless. Without you I don't know how I would have made it here.”

“Wait, Marc, you're putting us on.”

“Stay out of this. Don't try to come between me and my sister. You're wasting your time.”

All of a sudden, Marianne stood up from the couch and aimed at the screen, which went black on the image of Dennis Hopper's lunatic scowl. “First of all, where were you?” she came out with, skimming past him.

“Where? I told you. Giving lessons.”

He was looking at her back and bare shoulders as she stood in front of the picture window, which the darkness had turned into a mirror. He made a gesture indicating he actually didn't give a good goddamn about any of it and headed toward the stairs to his room, refusing to put up with those two any longer; a few minutes were too much.

Grabbing hold of the banister with both hands, he grit his teeth and launched into the first steps. Would he be in any shape to face class in less than twelve hours? He'd always been aware of having to set an example as a teacher, and steady attendance was part of what he needed to impart to novice writers: sitting down at your desk whether you wanted to or not, writing daily and relentlessly, revising phrases and words, day after day, relentlessly, never acting like an amateur, or shirking. During all these years, he'd been absent barely more than two or three times; and on some occasions, he'd been little short of heroic, because he'd felt so indisposed, and it was so difficult. Nor did he want to add to the list of the hundreds of millions of unemployed these days wandering the world half-naked, their entire families foundering, despite the faultless assistance of the banks.

He made it upstairs, his forehead damp with sweat. Exacerbated by Richard's presence, as much as by Marianne's attitude. This was the second time this week he'd found Richard Olso in
their house; he couldn't accept such frequency. How long before he'd be seeing him at their table? How long before he'd run into him early in the morning, wearing a bathrobe? Yodeling in the shower? What grotesque game was Marianne suddenly playing? What was the point of it?

He swallowed a few pills, got undressed, brushed his teeth, as the Alfa went into motion beneath his windows. By the time he made it to bed, its motor was already a distant wail. He lowered the lights, lay down. Almost immediately, the image of Myriam popped into his mind, and his breath quickened slightly. Truly disconcerting: these feelings were more intense than everything he'd ever experienced before, everything he'd ever even imagined. Not being able to hold her in his arms was beginning to hurt—not being able to smell her, penetrate her, talk to her.

He lit a last cigarette and sighed with ease at the feeling of the pills kicking in, at the definite arrival of their euphoric effect. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Marianne was sitting on his bed. “I didn't know you were still interested in me,” she confessed. “I'm happy about it.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. The navy-blue briefs he was wearing had absolutely nothing indecent about them, and this was his room; but he felt as if he were being accused of something in some way or other. She lit a cigarette and sent a few puffs in the direction of the moonlight that was washing the forest with a silvery sheen. They floated upward, veneering the ceiling.

“But what am I supposed to do?” she murmured after a moment. “Tell me what I'm supposed to do? Wait for you to
announce the news? Wait for the day you move out? Wait until I end up alone?”

He could tell she'd been drinking. He caught hold of her wrist and brought the cigarette she was holding to his lips as she watched him do it. “How long have you been thinking about this ending-up-alone business?” he said, blowing smoke. “Since when has Richard Olso become a viable option for any situation at all? Since when has a guy who confuses having talent with acting smart been able to interest you for any length of time? Did he drug you? Then what? Acting smart is great for drawing up lists, but . . .”

Obviously, it was ungrateful of him to reproach Marianne for having used her powers of attraction in one way or another to get him out of some tight spots. He was totally aware of it. If she hadn't stepped in, he'd have lost his job. It was true; without those few opportunely timed tête-à-têtes with Richard to plead his case, he'd have been let go without further consideration. Et cetera. He knew it. But this was stronger than he was; some kind of drill was spiraling through his guts.

He felt as if they were losing something, but he hadn't found any way to stop the bleeding. God knew that they stuck together, had developed a special relationship during the time when their mother had such contempt for it and would sneer about “those two virgins being
glued
to each other.” God knew how much they meant to each other—if not, where would he have found the strength to accomplish what he had; if not, what kind of uncontrollable rage would have worked its way to the surface?

But now? Where were they now? All he could do was hold her tightly against his body, and that was how they stayed,
wordlessly. Then she started weeping silently, shed some tears. She turned around to face him again, enlacing her legs with his. He understood perfectly what she was feeling, her fear of abandonment, stemming from those grim years. Only he could stave it off by holding her in his arms, his legs, as if he were building a strong barrier around her for as long as necessary; and it worked even better when they used a blanket that he'd throw over his shoulders, draping it around him like the canvas of a poorly staked tent.

The skirt bothered her, so she slipped out of it; but, like him, she left on her underwear. Most of the time, they stopped when they got to that point and stayed entwined that way, sleeping as naturally as could be, and feeling reassured, soothed. But there were times when they'd gone all the way without even being completely aware of it; it flowed from their embrace, or a kind of giving up, or from the fact that they were shaking, or rubbing together for a long time, or from alcohol and other substances, from grief; and suddenly, it would be too late, he would be inside her without having at all thought about it in advance, without even having put his hands there; and then no one said another word—or would say anything in the morning or evening or the days that followed. Neither felt any need to and thanked the other silently for not broaching the subject.