Consequences by Philippe Djian Page B

Humming softly, he carried it into her bedroom. She was still asleep. Or faking it.
    He put down the tray and decided to sit next to her in the dark. The smell of that room was truly disturbing—always had been. There was a morning odor in that room before Marianne rose, as if a part of her body had evaporated during the night and was floating in the tepid air.
    He had a whole list of suggestions for her but did nothing more than open his mouth and keep it that way for an instant, before his lips rejoined. After lighting a cigarette, he took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled a few words to her. It was the beginning of a lovely, cool, luminous, day—a few crystalline rays pierced the gaps in the curtain. But the most amazing thing of all happened as he was writing those two or three sentences; in fact, just as he was tracing out each letter: once again, he saw a few fragments of his embrace with Myriam the night before in that miserable little car where they’d gone at it, and he was secretly shaken by these visions.
    Not that he regretted giving in totally to the adventure, which he immediately classified among the best—sexually speaking. But he was aware of the measure of danger in it too, or rather, wasn’t measuring anything at all. The truth was that he found himself at the edge of an abyss and was having a hard time forming an opinion about what had happened. About this unknown territory into which he’d wandered and about which he knew nothing. His only expertise came from the world of students, malleable types; beyond that he understood nothing. Had to play it safe. Myriam could change things dramatically,irrevocably. His instinct could fathom it fully. His body clearly understood the message of the current, those subtle vibrations she was transmitting. His mind, on the other hand, seemed to be refusing to put itself on alert.
    Just before he walked into class, Richard Olso stopped him in the hall for news about Marianne. “I want to be sure that you’re doing what needs to be done, old man, I’d like to be sure of it.” He added that he’d pay her a visit—today, even. If Marc saw nothing inconvenient about it. Both of them snickered self-consciously.
    The department had organized a program of panels and meetings with professional Hollywood screenwriters, and everybody wanted to learn how to concoct a series or whatever else would rake in millions and bring with it the privilege of dining at Steven Spielberg’s table—before having coffee with Nicole Kidman. He took advantage of his students’ defection to go and get his muffler changed, in anticipation of more discreet destinations, should the need arise. Obviously, the wisest thing was not to see her again and forget her as quickly as possible—that is, if he had an iota of sense left.
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    Annie Eggbaum wasn’t particularly attractive, but she could help him get back his equilibrium if he decided to. Her face was nothing special—bland, and quality or originality weren’t present in her work. But she had a good body and was making use of lower and lower necklines as the year advanced.
    Once he had his new muffler, he went back to his office. He was looking over the papers that some of the students had handed in when she leaned in toward him—chest first—and begged him again to give her those private lessons she so direlyneeded. No exaggeration there—the poor girl would never be able to write a single good sentence.
    â€œAnnie, listen. I don’t know what to tell you. Stop bugging me. I truly believe these classes are a waste of time. You have no ear, and I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it. Why are you insisting?”
    â€œI’ll work. I’ll work twice as hard. Writing’s a question of work. It’s ninety-nine percent work. You say that all the time.”
    â€œI’m supposed to look after the one percent that’s left,