Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [7]
“Each profession has its own risks,” said Gabriel, with what he hoped would come across as insolence.
“Certainly so, Mr. d’Allier, les risques du métier … We are also worried about your health. You seem to have taken, on a basis that can roughly be regarded as regular, products that have been subjects of stern warnings from the Surgeon-General. Mostly psylicates, from what we gathered. Are you not afraid that these habits might prove to be incompatible with your professional activities as well?”
“I think that they’re not only compatible with my teaching, but necessary to it, though that would be long and probably boring to explain, should I ever want to justify myself on this.”
“That will not be necessary, sir. We will fully trust you in that respect. As I suggested, we are just warning you for your own good. We have also been very surprised to learn that you have lectured to the Anarchist Circle in Blithedale. And this twice.”
“I am sure you know that it is because I was invited to do so, on innocent topics such as literature and music,” Gabriel answered, all the more impatiently as he thought that a good half of those anarchists were probably undercover policemen. “I do not see why these ‘fellow-citizens’ should not be ‘enlightened’ on these matters, as we can agree that, in the end, education brings more good than bad.”
Wynne smiled a decent imitation of a real smile.
“Oh, we certainly agree. We would not want you to feel defensive, Mr. d’Allier. All these facts I have alluded to are not presently seriously held against you. We would just like to make you aware that, taken all together, they may, at some point that is not under your control, combine to endanger your position as a professor. Given the present economical difficulties some of our citizens go through, it really would be a shame if a man of your standing should happen to find himself in a delicate situation. Unpleasant as is the prospect, I am nevertheless relieved that we have had the occasion to discuss this before it is too late, as we have nothing but your interest at heart. But that is not exactly the main reason for your presence among us. I know you like books and I happen to have one I want to show you, and this one, believe me, should satisfy your sense of style.”
Wynne unlocked his drawer, flourished a thin volume, bound in black leather, and handed it to Gabriel, who did his best to pretend that he was seeing A Blast on the Barren Land for the first time in his life.
“I suppose that a learned man such as you has already heard about or even read this book,” said Wynne, before propping up his square jaw with his fists.
Not only had Gabriel done that, he had also proofread and rephrased some minute parts of it. But he decided that this piece of information was to be kept locked in the safe of his cranium, for that was what a skullbox, or sulkbox, as he liked to call his own, was meant for, after all.
“I am sorry to disappoint both you and myself on that point.”
“I would not believe it, if I hadn’t your word of honour for it,” said Wynne.
“Consider you have it for all it is worth.” (“Under the present circumstances, you bastard son of a sick circus seal and a bearded woman”), added Gabriel to himself. He had been raised at St. Ignatius High School, and about all he had inherited from the Jesuits, besides his hatred of all forms of self-righteous domination, was the point and practice of “mental reservation.”
Wynne, though he still made his best effort