Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Can you train yourself to love the right man? Of course you can. The problem is forgetting about the wrong man, the one passing by who came in a door that was left open without asking permission.

What exactly did I want from Jacob? I knew from the beginning that our relationship was doomed, although I never imagined it would end in such a humiliating way. Maybe I just wanted what I got: adventure and joy. Or maybe I wanted more—to live with him, to help him grow his career, and to give him the support he no longer seemed to get from his wife and the affection he complained he lacked at one of our first meetings. To pluck him from his home, the way you pluck a flower from someone else’s garden, and plant him on my land, even though I know flowers can’t survive being treated that way.

I’m hit with a wave of jealousy, but this time there are no tears, just anger. I stop walking and sit on a bench at a random bus stop. I watch the people coming and going, all so busy in their own worlds, tiny enough to fit on the screen of the smartphones from which they are unable to unglue their eyes and ears.

Buses come and go. People get off and walk quickly, maybe because of the cold. Others board slowly, not wanting to get home, to work, or to school. But no one shows any anger or enthusiasm; they’re not happy or sad, just poor souls mechanically carrying out the mission that the universe assigned on the day they were born.

After a while I manage to relax a little. I’ve figured out a few pieces of my inner puzzle. One of them is the reason why this hatred comes and goes, like the buses at this stop. I may have lost the thing that’s most important to me in life: my family. I’ve been defeated in the battle to find happiness, and this not only humiliates me, it keeps me from seeing the way forward.

And my husband? I need to have a frank conversation with him tonight and confess everything. I feel like this will set me free, even if I have to suffer the consequences. I’m tired of lying—to him, to my boss, to myself.

I just don’t want to think about this now. More than anything else, it’s jealousy that eats away at my thoughts. I can’t get up from this bus stop because it’s as though there are chains attached to my body. They are heavy and difficult to haul around.

You mean she likes hearing stories about his infidelities while she’s in bed with her husband and doing the same things he did with me? I should have realized he had other women when he took the condom from the nightstand. I should have known I was just one more by the way he took me. Many times I left that damn hotel feeling that way, telling myself I wouldn’t see him again—all the while aware that this was just another one of my lies and that if he called, I would always be ready, whenever and wherever he wanted.

Yes, I knew all that. And yet I tried to convince myself I was only looking for sex and some adventure. But it wasn’t true. Today I realize that yes, I was in love, despite having denied it on all my sleepless nights and empty days. Madly in love.

I don’t know what to do. I guess—in fact, I’m sure—that all married people always have a secret crush. It’s forbidden, and flirting with the forbidden is what makes life interesting. But few people take it further; only one in seven, according to the article I read in the newspaper. And I think only one in a hundred is capable of getting confused enough to be carried away by the fantasy, like I did. For most, it’s nothing more than a fling, something you know from the beginning won’t last long. A little thrill to make sex more erotic and hear “I love you” shouted out at the moment of orgasm. Nothing more.

And what if it had been my husband who’d found a mistress? How would I have reacted? It would have been extreme. I would have said that life is unfair, that I’m worthless, and I’m getting old. I’d have screamed bloody murder, I’d have cried nonstop from jealousy, which would have actually been envy—he can, and I can’t. I’d have left, slamming the door behind me, and taken the children to my parents’ house. Two or three months later I would have regretted it and tried to find some excuse to go back, imagining he would want the same. After four months, I would be terrified by the possibility of having to start all over again. After five months, I would have found a way to ask to come back “for the children,” but it would be too late: he would be living with his mistress, a much younger woman, pretty and full of energy, who had begun to make his life fun again.

The phone rings. My boss asks after my son. I say I’m at a bus stop and can’t hear well, but that everything’s fine and soon I’ll be at the paper.

A terrified person can never see reality, preferring to hide in their fantasies. I can’t go on like this for more than an hour. I have to pull myself together. My job is waiting, and it might help me.

I leave the bus stop and start walking back to my car. I look at the dead leaves on the ground. In Paris, they’d have already been swept up, I think. But we’re in Geneva, a much wealthier city, and they’re still there.

These leaves were once part of a tree, a tree that has now gone to ground to prepare for a season of rest. Did the tree have any consideration for the green cloak that covered it, fed it, and enabled it to breathe? No. Did it think of the insects who lived there and helped pollinate its flowers and keep nature alive? No. The tree just thought about itself; some things, like leaves and insects, are discarded as needed.

I’m like one of those leaves on the city ground, who lived thinking it would be everlasting and died without knowing exactly why; who loved the sun and the moon and who watched those buses and rattling streetcars go by for a long time, and yet no one ever had the courtesy to let her know that winter existed. They lived it up, until one day they began to turn yellow and the tree bid them farewell.

It didn’t say “see you later” but “good-bye,” knowing the leaves would never be back. And it asked the wind for help loosening them from their branches and carrying them far away. The tree knows it can grow only if it rests. And if it grows, it will be respected. And can produce even more beautiful flowers.

Enough. Work is the best therapy now that I’ve cried all the tears and thought about everything I needed to think about. But I still can’t shake anything.

I get to the street where I parked on autopilot and find a guard in a red and blue uniform scanning my car’s license plate with a machine.

“Is this your vehicle?”

Yes.

He continues his work. I say nothing. The scanned plate has already entered the system. It’s been sent to the main office to be processed and will generate a letter with the discreet police seal in the cellophane window of an official envelope. I’ll have thirty days to pay 100 francs, but I can also challenge the fine and spend 500 francs on lawyers.

“You went over by twenty minutes. The maximum here is half an hour.”

I just nod. I see he’s surprised—I’m not pleading with him to stop and saying I’ll never do it again, nor did I run to stop him when I saw he was there. I had none of the reactions to which he’s accustomed.

A ticket comes out of the machine as if we’re in the supermarket. He places it in a plastic envelope (to protect it from the elements) and goes to the windshield to place it behind the wiper. I press the button on my key and the lights flash, indicating that a door was left open.

He realizes the foolishness of what he was about to do, but like me, he’s on autopilot. After the sound of the doors being unlocked jolts him, he walks up to me and hands me the ticket. We both leave happy. He didn’t have to handle any complaints, and I got a little of what I deserve: a punishment.

I’LL FIND out shortly if my husband is exercising the utmost self-control or if he really doesn’t give a damn about what happened.

I get home on time after another day of gathering information about the most trivial things in the world: pilot training, a surplus of Christmas trees on the market, and the introduction of electronic controls at railroad crossings. This made me extremely happy, because I was in no condition, physical or mental, to think much.

I prepare dinner as if this were just another evening among the thousands we’ve spent together. We spend some time watching TV while the children go up to their rooms, lured by the tablets or video games on which they kill terrorists or soldiers depending on the day.

I put the dishes in the dishwasher. My husband is going to try to put our kids to bed. So far we’ve only talked about our daily duties. I can’t tell if it was always like this and I never noticed, or if it’s especially strange today. I’ll find out soon.

While he’s upstairs, I light the fireplace for the first time this year. Watching the fire soothes me, and although I’m revealing something I expect he already knows, I need all the help I can get. I open a bottle of wine and prepare a plate of assorted cheeses. I take my first sip and stare at the flames. I don’t feel anxious or afraid. Enough with this double life. Whatever happens today will be better for me. If our marriage has to end, so be it; it will end on a late autumn day before Christmas, while watching the fireplace and talking like civilized people.

He comes downstairs, sees the scene I’ve prepared, and asks nothing. He just settles in next to me on the sofa and also watches the fire. He drinks his wine. I get ready to refill his glass, but he waves his hand, indicating it was enough.

I make a stupid comment: the temperature today fell below zero. He nods.

Apparently, I’ll have to take the initiative.

I really regret what happened at dinner last night …

“It wasn’t your fault. That woman is really weird. Please don’t invite me to any more things like that.”

His voice seems calm. But everyone learns as a child that before the worst storms, there’s always a moment when the wind stops and everything seems absolutely normal.

I push the matter. Marianne exhibited the jealousy hiding behind her modern, liberal mask.

“It’s true. Jealousy tells us: ‘You could lose everything you worked so hard to achieve.’ It blinds us to everything else, to the moments we’ve joyfully experienced, to happy times and the bonds created during those occasions. How is it that hatred can wipe out a couple’s entire history?”

He’s laying the groundwork for me to say everything I need to say. He continues:

“Everyone has days when they say: ‘Well, my life isn’t exactly lining up with my expectations.’ But if life asked you what you had done for it, what would you say?”

Is that a question for me?

“No. I’m questioning myself. Nothing happens without effort. You have to have faith. And for that, you have to break down the barriers of prejudice, which requires courage. To have courage, you must conquer your fears. And so on and so forth. Let’s make peace with our days. We can’t forget that life is on our side. It also wants to get better. Let’s help it out!”

I pour myself another glass of wine. He puts more wood on the fire. When will I have the courage to confess?

But he doesn’t seem to want to let me talk.

“Dreaming isn’t as simple as it seems. On the contrary, it can be quite dangerous. When we dream, we put powerful engines in motion and can no longer hide the true meaning of our life from ourselves. When we dream, we also make a choice of what price to pay.”

Now. The longer I take, the more suffering I’ll cause us both.

I raise my glass, make a toast, and say there is something troubling my soul. He replies that we already talked about this over dinner that night when I opened my heart and told him about my fear of being depressed. I explain that that’s not what I’m referring to. He interrupts me and continues his line of thought.

“Going after a dream has a price. It may mean abandoning our habits, it may make us go through hardships, or it may lead us to disappointment, et cetera. But however costly it may be, it is never as high as the price paid by people who didn’t live. Because one day they will look back and hear their own heart say: ‘I wasted my life.’ ”

He is not making things any easier. Let’s suppose what I have to say isn’t nonsense, that it is something tangible, genuine, threatening?

He laughs.

“I controlled the jealousy I feel because of you, and I’m happy with that. You know why? Because I always have to show I’m worthy of your love. I have to fight for our marriage, for our union, in ways that have nothing to do with our children. I love you. I would endure anything, absolutely anything, to always have you by my side. But I can’t stop you from leaving one day. So if that day comes, you are free to leave and seek your happiness. My love for you is stronger than anything, and I would never stop you from being happy.”

My eyes well up with tears. So far I’m not sure what he’s really saying. If this is just a conversation about jealousy or if he’s giving me a message.

“I’m not afraid of loneliness,” he continues. “I’m afraid of deluding myself, of looking at reality the way I would like it to be and not how it really is.”

He takes my hand.

“You are a blessing in my life. I may not be the best husband in the world, because I hardly ever show my feelings. And I know you need that. I also know that because of this, you might not think you’re important to me, you might feel insecure, or things like that. But it’s not like that. We should sit in front of the fire and talk about everything except for jealousy. Because I’m not interested in that. Perhaps it would be good to take a trip together, just the two of us? Spend New Year’s Eve in a different city or even a place we’ve already been?”

“But what about the children?”

“I’m sure their grandparents would be delighted to take care of them.”

And he concludes:

“When you love each other, you have to be ready for anything. Because love is like a kaleidoscope, the kind we used to play with when we were kids. It’s in constant movement and never repeats itself. If you don’t understand this, you are condemned to suffer for something that really only exists to make us happy. And you know the worst thing? People like that woman, always worried about what others think of their marriage. That doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that counts is what you think.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. Everything I had to say has lost its importance. He knows what is going on and is able to deal with the situation in a way I never could.

IT’S SIMPLE; as long doing anything illegal, making and losing money on the financial market is allowed.”

The former tycoon is trying to maintain his pose as one of the richest men in the world. But his fortune evaporated in less than a year after the big financiers discovered he was selling dreams. I try to show interest in what he’s saying. After all, I was the one who asked my boss to drop the series of articles about searching for solutions to stress for good.

It’s been one week since I received Jacob’s message saying I’d ruined everything. One week since I roamed the streets aimlessly, a moment I would soon be reminded of by the traffic ticket. One week since that conversation with my husband.

“We always have to know how to sell an idea. That is what constitutes success for any individual,” continues the former tycoon. “Knowing how to sell what they want.”

My dear fellow, despite all your pageantry, your aura of seriousness, and your suite in this luxury hotel; despite this magnificent view, your impeccably tailored suit from London, your smile, and your hair, dyed with utmost care so as to leave just a few white hairs to give the impression of “naturalness”; despite the confidence with which you speak, there is something I understand better than you: going around selling an idea isn’t everything. You have to find someone to buy. That goes for business, politics, and love.

I imagine, my dear former millionaire, that you understand what I’m talking about: you have charts, assistants, presentations … but what people want are results.

Love also wants results, although everyone insists, no, that the act of loving justifies itself. Is that how it is? I should be walking through the Jardin Anglais, in my fur coat my husband bought when he went to Russia, looking around at the autumn, smiling up at the sky and saying: “I love you, and that’s enough.” Could that be true?

Of course not. I love, but in return I want something concrete—holding hands, kisses, hot sex, a dream to share, the chance to create a new family and raise my children, the opportunity to grow old alongside the person I love.

“We need a very clear goal for any given step,” explains the pathetic figure in front of me with a seemingly confident smile.

I must be verging on madness again. I end up relating everything I hear or read to my emotional situation, even this boring interview with this annoying caricature. I think about it twenty-four hours a day—while I’m walking down the street, or cooking, or spending precious moments of my life listening to things that, rather than offer distraction, push me even deeper into the abyss where I’m plummeting.

“Optimism is contagious …”

The former tycoon cannot stop talking, certain that he will convert me and that I’ll publish this in the newspaper and his redemption will begin. It’s great to interview people like this. We need to ask only one question, and they talk for an hour. Unlike my conversation with the Cuban shaman, this time I’m not paying attention to a single word. The recorder is turned on, and later I’ll trim this monologue down to six hundred words, the equivalent of about four minutes of conversation.

Optimism is contagious, he states.

If that were the case, all you would have to do is go to the person you loved with a huge grin, full of plans and ideas, and know how to present the package. Does it work? No. What is really contagious is fear, the constant fear of never finding someone to accompany us to the end of our days. And in the name of this fear we are capable of doing anything, including accepting the wrong person and convincing ourselves that he or she’s the one, the only one, who God has placed in our path. In very little time the search for security turns into a heartfelt love, and things become less bitter and difficult. Our feelings can be put in a box and pushed to the back of the closet in our head, where it will remain forever, hidden and invisible.

“Some people say I’m one of the most well-connected men in my country. I know entrepreneurs, politicians, industrialists. What is happening with my companies is temporary. Soon you will witness my comeback.”

I’m also a well-connected person, I know the same types of people he knows. But I don’t want to prepare a comeback. I just want a civilized ending for one of these “connections.”

This is because things that don’t end clearly always leave a door open, an unexplored possibility, a chance that everything might still go back to being as it was before. I’m not used to this, but I know a lot of people who love being in this situation.

What am I doing? Comparing economics to love? Trying to establish a connection between the financial world and the emotional world? It’s been one week since I last heard from Jacob.

It’s also been one week since that night in front of the fireplace, when my relationship with my husband returned to normal. Will the two of us be able to rebuild our marriage?

Until this spring I was a normal person. One day I discovered that everything I had could disappear just like that, and instead of reacting like an intelligent person, I panicked. That led to inertia. Apathy. An inability to react and change. And after many sleepless nights, many days of finding no joy in life, I did exactly what I feared most: I walked the other way, despite the dangers. I know I’m not the only one—people have a tendency for self-destruction. By chance, or because life wanted to test me, I found someone who grabbed me by the hair—literally and figuratively—and rattled me, shaking off the dust that had been piling up and making me breathe again.

All of it completely false. It’s the type of happiness that addicts must find when they do drugs. Sooner or later the effects pass, and the despair becomes even greater.

The former tycoon starts talking about money. I didn’t ask anything about it, but he talks anyway. He has an enormous need to say he isn’t poor, that he can maintain his lifestyle for decades to come.

I can’t stand to be here any longer. I thank him for the interview, turn off the recorder, and go get my coat.

“Are you free this evening? We could get a drink and finish this conversation,” he suggests.

It’s not the first time this has happened. In fact, it’s almost a given with me. Even though Mme König won’t admit it, I am pretty and smart and I’ve used my charm to get certain people to say things they wouldn’t normally say to journalists, even after warning them I could publish everything. But the men … oh, the men! They do everything they can to hide their weaknesses and any eighteen-year-old girl can manipulate them without much effort.

I thank him for the invitation and say I already have plans for that evening. I’m tempted to ask how his latest girlfriend reacted to the wave of negative press and the collapse of his empire. But I can already imagine, and it’s of no interest to the newspaper.

I leave, cross the street, and go to the Jardin Anglais, where, moments ago, I imagined walking. I go to the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor on the corner of Rue du 31 Décembre. I like the name of this street because it always reminds me that sooner or later, another year will end and, once again, I’ll make big resolutions for the next.

I order a scoop of pistachio with chocolate. I walk to the pier and eat my ice cream while looking at the symbol of Geneva, its jet of water shooting up in the sky and creating a curtain of droplets before me. Tourists get closer and take photos that will come out poorly lit. Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a postcard?

I have visited many monuments around the world, many of mighty men whose names are long forgotten, but who will remain eternally mounted on their beautiful horses. Of women holding their crowns or swords to the sky, symbolizing victories that no longer appear even in textbooks. Of lone, nameless children carved in stone, their innocence lost forever during the hours and days they were forced to pose for an artist whose name history has also stamped out.

With very few exceptions, in the end a city’s landmarks aren’t its statues, but unexpected things. When Eiffel built a steel tower for the World’s Fair, he never even dreamed it would wind up becoming the symbol of Paris—over the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, and its magnificent gardens. An apple represents New York. A not-so-crowded bridge is the symbol of San Francisco. Another bridge, this one over the Tagus, dominates the picture postcards of Lisbon. Barcelona has an unfinished cathedral as its most emblematic monument.

And so it is with Geneva. Lake Léman meets the Rhône River at precisely this point, creating a very strong current. A hydroelectric power station was built here to take advantage of the hydraulic power (we’re masters at taking advantage of things), but when the workers returned home and closed the valves, the pressure was too great and the turbines ended up bursting.

Until an engineer had the idea to put a fountain in place, allowing the excess water to run off.

Over time, engineers solved the problem and the fountain became unnecessary. But the city’s residents voted in a referendum to keep it. The city already had many fountains, and this one was in the middle of a lake. How could they make it more visible?

That was how the mutant monument was born. Powerful pumps were installed and now an extremely forceful jet shoots out five hundred liters of water per second, at two hundred kilometers per hour. They say, and I’ve confirmed it, that it can be seen from an airplane at thirty thousand feet. It doesn’t have a special name; it’s just called Jet d’Eau (jet of water), the city’s landmark in spite of all the sculptures of men on horses, heroic women, lonely children.

I once asked Denise, a Swiss scientist, what she thought of the Jet d’Eau.

“Our body is made almost entirely of water, through which electrical discharges pass, communicating information. One such piece of information is called love, and it can interfere with the entire organism. Love is always changing. I think that the Jet d’Eau is the most beautiful monument to love conceived by the art of man, because it is also never the same.”

I TAKE my phone and call Jacob’s office. Sure, I could dial his personal number, but no. I speak with his assistant and let her know I’m going to meet him.

His assistant knows me. She asks me to hold the line while she confirms. One minute later she returns and says she’s sorry, but his schedule is fully booked. Perhaps in the new year? I say no, I need to meet with him right away; it’s urgent.

“It’s urgent” doesn’t always open many doors, but in this case I’m sure my chances are good. This time the assistant takes two minutes. She asks if it could be early next week. I let her know I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

I say thank you and hang up.

JACOB asks me to get dressed quickly—after all, his office is a public place, paid for by government money. If someone were to find out, he could go to jail. I carefully study the walls covered with carved wood panels and beautiful frescoes on the ceiling. I’m still lying on the worn leather sofa, completely naked.

He is growing nervous. He’s in a suit and tie, looking anxiously at his watch. The lunch hour is over. His personal secretary is already back; she knocked quietly on the door, heard “I’m in a meeting,” and didn’t insist. Forty minutes have passed since then—along with a few hearings and appointments that have likely been canceled.

When I arrived, Jacob greeted me with three pecks on the cheek and pointed formally to the chair in front of his desk. I didn’t need my female intuition to figure out he was scared. What was the reason for this meeting? Don’t I understand he has a tight schedule? The parliamentary recess will start soon, and he needs to resolve several important issues. Did I not read the message he sent, saying how his wife is convinced there is something between us? We need to wait a while and let things cool off before we go back to meeting.

“Of course I denied everything. I pretended I was deeply shocked by her insinuations. I said my dignity had been offended. That I was sick of her distrust and that she could ask anyone about my behavior. Wasn’t she the one who said jealousy was a sign of inferiority? I did what I could, and she merely replied: ‘Stop being silly. I’m not complaining about anything, I’m just saying I found out why you’ve been so kind and polite lately.’ It was—”

I didn’t let him finish his sentence. I got up and grabbed him by the collar. He thought I was going to assault him. But instead I gave him a long kiss. Jacob was completely unresponsive, as he’d been imagining I had come there to do something melodramatic. But I continued kissing his mouth and neck as I undid his tie.

He pushed me away. I slapped him across the face.

“I just need to lock the door first. I’ve also missed you.”

He walked across his office, tastefully decorated with nineteenth-century furniture, and turned the key. When he returned I was already nearly naked, wearing just my panties.

As I ripped off his clothes, he started sucking on my breasts. I moaned with pleasure; he covered my mouth with his hand, but I shook my head and continued moaning quietly.

The whole time, I stopped only once to say: My reputation is at stake, as you can imagine. Don’t worry.

I got down on my knees and began to give him oral sex. Again, he held my head, setting the pace—faster and faster. But I didn’t want him to come in my mouth. I pushed him away and went to the leather sofa, where I leaned back with my legs spread. He kneeled and started to go down on me. When I had the first orgasm, I bit my hand to keep from screaming. The wave of pleasure felt like it would never end. I continued biting my hand.

Then I called his name, telling him I wanted him inside me and to do anything he wanted. He penetrated me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me like a savage. He pushed my legs up so he could go deeper. The pace increased, but I ordered him not to come yet. I needed more and more and more.

He put me on the floor on all fours, like a dog, hit me, and penetrated me again as I wildly moved my waist. From his stifled groans, I knew that he was ready to come, that he could no longer control himself. I made him withdraw, turned over, and asked him to enter me again while looking into my eyes and saying the dirty things we loved to tell each other whenever we made love. I said the nastiest things a woman can say to a man. He called my name softly, begging me to tell him I loved him. But I just spoke profanities and demanded he treat me like a prostitute, like a stranger, that he use me like a slave, someone who didn’t deserve respect.

My entire body was covered in goose bumps. The pleasure came in waves. I came again and again as he controlled himself to prolong it as long as possible. Our bodies collided violently, creating rumblings that he must no longer care if anyone heard through the door.

My eyes locked on him, listening to him repeat my name with each movement; I realized he wasn’t wearing a condom and was going to come. Once again I shifted, making him withdraw. I asked him to come on my face, in my mouth, and tell me he loved me.

Jacob did exactly as I said, while I masturbated and came, too. Then he embraced me, put my head on his shoulder, and wiped the corners of my mouth with his hands. He said again, many times, that he loved me and that he had really missed me.

But now he’s asking me to get dressed, and I don’t budge. He’s gone back to being the well-behaved boy who the voters admire. He senses something is wrong, but doesn’t know what it is. He begins to realize that I’m not just there because he is an amazing lover.