Free Consequences by Philippe Djian Page B

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.
    â€œYou’re not saying anything. Say something,” said Marianne.
    â€œThis is Barbara’s stepmother.”
    â€œI know. We’ve met.”
    â€œI 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 asher 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.
    â€œCan’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