Consequences Read Free

ram-raiding car smashing into the window of a jewelry store a few minutes from the city center, and taking millions of euros with it.
    What a fascinating profession. The arrival of spring obviously made such work even more fun—you drove with one elbow resting on your open window, could stop to have a drink without owing anybody an explanation, could even tail pretty ladies, eat lunch with all expenses paid, carry a gun, etc., as the detective had explained. A profession all about adventure in the open air.
    At any rate, nobody had seen the famous Barbara and him leaving together that night. It was a basic precaution he’d always taken, from the time he’d begun having these kinds of relations. Sleeping with a student was still very badly perceived; more often than not, you were gambling with your job if you ended up before the disciplinary committee. Usually, he broke it off beforecomplications intervened, before they were caught in flagrante delicto, before his safety measures started getting sloppy. He was used to it here, had no desire to put his job in danger for what he saw as recreation, fringe benefits.
    The sky was ablaze. He pulled together his belongings, shoved a bundle of papers under his arm, and headed for the exit as the sun was nearing its zenith. He gulped down a sandwich in the cafeteria, because Marianne probably hadn’t bothered to make them a pot-au-feu. At times—right now, for example—Marianne lived exclusively on cottage cheese, fat content, zero percent. He couldn’t explain why any more than she could but that wasn’t very important.
    Barbara’s death had clearly curbed his appetite, but this morning he was feeling better. The self-control and composure he’d given proof of in front of the detective—his perfect performance—deserved some reward, even if the ordeal hadn’t been very difficult to endure on his territory, behind his professor’s desk, which automatically put the detective at a disadvantage.
    He dug up some coins and walked to the coffee machine. Lit a cigarette. It wouldn’t be his first fine for smoking in a public place; there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been poisoned by one of the strongest drugs, which caused the most powerful dependency. These people now under attack—the cigarette manufacturers—were agents of evil, authentic assholes, but pure geniuses, too, fantastic chemists.
    While the machine ground his coffee and then released a cup and stirrer that looked like an ice cream stick, he turned his back to the room to watch the gulls flying over the lake. Then a hand grazed his shoulder.
    It was truly rare to be able to finish a smoke without atwenty-year-old girl rolling horrified eyes and remarking that she refused to come down with throat cancer because of him. Sighing and smiling faintly, he turned around, fully aware that he wasn’t setting a good example yet bathed from head to toe in his cherished nicotine. Before him stood a fairly attractive woman, close to fifty. An unusual occurrence for this campus, but certainly a pleasure—sooner or later too many smooth faces caused an overdose.
    â€œI’m Barbara’s mother,” she said.
    â€œOh, sorry. Nice to meet you,” he answered, quickly extending a hand.
    Few students could resist the temptation to confide in their moms—even if he asked them from the start to hold their tongues. For the most part, keeping a secret seemed well beyond their feeble powers. Once a mother had thrown her drink in his face as he was lunching peacefully at the pier. Any threats he’d come close to were from that sphere alone. So he put his guard up straight away.
    Touching his arm, she said, “Can we sit down? May I speak to you?”
    He raised his eyes for an instant, took her in. Even though there weren’t many people around, she led him to the table farthest away. Outside, a cold wind was blowing; but behind these