Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

“What do you want?”

Closure. As much as that breaks my heart and leaves me emotionally in shambles, I need to end it. To look in your eyes and say it’s over. Never again.

The suffering I endured this past week was almost unbearable. I cried tears I didn’t have and became lost in thoughts of being carried away to the campus where your wife works and committed to the university asylum. I thought I’d failed at everything, except at work and as a mother. I was one step away from life and death at every minute, dreaming about everything we could have had if we were still two teenagers looking into the future together, like the first time. But there came a moment when I understood that I had reached the limits of despair and couldn’t go any deeper, and when I looked up there was a single outstretched hand: my husband’s.

He must have known, too, but his love was stronger. I tried to be honest and tell him everything to lift that weight off my shoulders, but I didn’t need to. He made me see that regardless of the choices I made in life, he would always be by my side and so my burden was light.

I realized I was blaming myself and beating myself up over things he wasn’t condemning or even blaming me for. I told myself: “I’m not worthy of this man, he doesn’t know who I am.”

But he does know. And that’s what allows me to get back my self-respect and regain my self-esteem. Because if a man like him wants to stay by my side, a man who would have no difficulty at all finding a new partner the day after separating, it’s because I’m worth something; I’m worth a lot.

I discovered I could go back to sleeping by his side without feeling like I was dirty or think I was cheating on him. I felt loved and that I deserved this love.

I get up, gather my clothes, and go to his private bathroom. He knows it’s the last time he’ll see me naked.

There is a long healing process ahead, I say, when I return. I guess you are feeling the same thing, but I’m sure that all Marianne wants is for this fling to end so she can hug you again with the same love and the same security as before.

“Yes, but she won’t tell me anything. She knew what was going on and she closed herself off even more. She was never affectionate, and now she’s like a robot, more devoted to her work than ever. It’s her way of running away.”

I adjust my skirt, put on my shoes, take a bundle out of my bag, and leave it on his desk.

“What’s that?”

Cocaine.

“I didn’t know you …”

He doesn’t need to know anything, I think. He doesn’t need to know how far I was willing to go to fight for him, the man I was madly in love with. The passion is still there, but the flame weakens each day. I know it will eventually die out completely. Any breakup is painful, and I can feel this pain in every fiber of my body. It’s the last time I will see him alone. We will meet again at galas and cocktail parties, at elections and press conferences, but we will never again be the way we were today. It was great to have made love like that and end as we began, both of us completely surrendered to the other. I knew it was the last time; he didn’t, but I couldn’t say anything.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

Throw it away. It cost me a small fortune, but throw it away. Then you’ll set me free from my addiction.

I don’t explain exactly what addiction I’m talking about. It has a name: Jacob König.

I see his expression of surprise and smile. I say good-bye with three kisses on the cheek and leave. In the vestibule, I turn to his aide and wave. He looks away, pretending to focus on a stack of papers, and just mumbles a good-bye.

When I make it to the sidewalk, I call my husband and tell him I would rather spend New Year’s Eve at home, with the children. If he wants to travel, let’s do it at Christmas.

LET’S take a walk before dinner?”

I nod yes, but I don’t move. I stare at the park across from the hotel and, beyond that, the Jungfrau, perpetually snowcapped and illuminated by the afternoon sun.

The human brain is fascinating; we will forget a scent until we smell it again, we will erase a voice from our memory until we hear it again, and even emotions that seemed buried forever will be awakened when we return to the same place.

I think back to when we were at Interlaken the first time. Back then we stayed at a cheap hotel and hiked from one lake to another, each time like we were discovering a new path. My husband was going to run that crazy marathon that has most of its route in the mountains. I was proud of his adventurous spirit, his desire to conquer the impossible and always demand more and more of his body.

He wasn’t the only person crazy enough to do it; people came from all over the world, filling the hotels and socializing in the many bars and restaurants of this small town of five thousand inhabitants. I have no idea how Interlaken is in the winter, but from my window it now seems more empty, more removed.

This time we’re staying in a better hotel. We have a beautiful suite. The manager’s card is on the table, greeting us and offering us the bottle of champagne that we’ve already emptied.

He calls my name. I come back to reality and we go downstairs to take a walk through the streets before nightfall.

If he asks me whether or not everything is fine, I’ll lie, because I don’t want to spoil his happiness. But the truth is that the wounds in my heart are taking a long time to heal. He points out the bench where we sat to have coffee one morning and were approached by a couple of neo-hippie foreigners asking for money. We pass in front of one of the churches as the bells ring, he kisses me and I kiss him back, doing all I can to hide what I feel.

We walk holding hands because of the cold—I hate wearing gloves. We stop at a nice bar and drink a little. We go to the train station. He buys the same souvenir he bought last time—a lighter with the symbol of the city. Back then he smoked and ran marathons.

Today he doesn’t smoke and he thinks he gets more and more out of breath each day. He is always panting when we walk quickly and, though he tries to hide it, I’ve noticed he was more tired than usual when we took that run by the lake in Nyon.

My phone is vibrating. It takes me ages to find it in my purse. When I finally find it, the person has already hung up. The screen shows it was my friend, the one who was depressed and, thanks to medication, is a happy person again today.

“If you want to call her back, I don’t mind.”

I ask why I should call back. Is he unhappy with my company? Does he want to be interrupted by people who will spend hours on the phone engaged in irrelevant chatter?

He gets irritated with me, too. Maybe it’s just the effect of the bottle of champagne, coupled with the two glasses of aquavit. His irritation calms me and puts me more at ease; I am walking alongside a human being, with emotions and feelings.

Interlaken sure is strange without the marathon, I say. It looks like a ghost town.

“There are no ski slopes here.”

Nor could there be. We are in the middle of a valley, with very high mountains to either side and lakes at each end.

He orders two glasses of gin. I suggest we change bars, but he is determined to combat the cold with alcohol. We haven’t done this in a long time.

“I know it’s only been ten years, but when we were here the first time, I was young. I had ambitions, I liked the open air, and I wouldn’t let myself be intimidated by the unknown. Have I changed that much?”

You’re only in your thirties. Are you really an old man?

He doesn’t answer. He downs his drink in one gulp and stares into space. He is no longer the perfect husband and, oddly enough, this makes me happy.

We leave the bar and walk back to the hotel. Along the way we find a beautiful and charming restaurant, but we’ve already made reservations elsewhere. It’s still early—the sign says dinner service doesn’t start until seven p.m.

“Let’s have another gin.”

Who is this man next to me? Has Interlaken awakened forgotten memories and opened up Pandora’s box?

I say nothing. And I begin to be afraid.

I ask if we should cancel our reservation at the Italian restaurant and have dinner here instead.

“It doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t matter? Is he suddenly feeling everything I went through when he thought I was depressed?

For me it doesmatter. I want to go to the restaurant we booked. The same one where we exchanged vows of love.

“This trip was a terrible idea. I’d rather go back tomorrow. I had good intentions: I wanted to relive the early days of our relationship. But is that even possible? Of course not. We’re mature. We’re living under pressures that didn’t exist before. We need to maintain basic needs like education, healthcare, food. We try to have fun on the weekends because that’s what everybody does, and when we don’t feel like leaving the house, we think there’s something wrong with us.”

I never want to. I’d rather do nothing.

“Me, too. But what about our children? They want something else. We can’t leave them locked up with their computers. They’re too young for that. So we force ourselves to take them somewhere and do the same things our parents did with us, the same thing our grandparents did with our parents. An ordinary life. We’re an emotionally well-structured family. If one of us needs help, the other is always ready to do anything.”

I understand. Like taking a trip to a place filled with memories, for example.

Another glass of gin. He sits in silence for a while before replying.

“That’s right. But do you think memories can fill the present? Not at all. In fact, they’re suffocating me. I’m discovering I’m no longer the same person. Until we got here and had that bottle of champagne, everything was fine. Now I realize just how far I am from living the life I dreamed of when I visited Interlaken the first time.”

What did you dream?

“It was silly. But it was still my dream. And I could have made it come true.”

But what was it?

“Sell everything I had, buy a boat, and travel the world with you. My father would have been furious that I didn’t follow in his footsteps, but it wouldn’t have mattered. We’d stop off at ports, do odd jobs until we earned enough to move on, and as soon as we had enough money, we’d set sail again. Be with people we’d never seen before and discover places not listed in the guidebooks. Adventure. My only wish was adventure.”

He orders another glass of gin and drinks it at unprecedented speed. I stop drinking because I’m already feeling nauseated; we haven’t had anything to eat. I’d like to say that I would have been the happiest woman in the world if he’d gotten his wish. But I had better keep quiet or he’ll feel worse.

“Then came the first child.”

So? There must be millions of couples with children doing exactly what he suggested.

He reflects a bit.

“I wouldn’t say millions. Maybe thousands.”

His eyes change; they no longer show aggression, but sadness.

“There are times when we should stop to take a look at the whole picture: our past and our present. What we have learned and the mistakes we made. I was always afraid of those moments. I trick myself, telling myself that I made the best choices and had to make a few small sacrifices. Nothing major.”

I suggest we walk a bit. His eyes are starting to get weird, dull.

He slams his fist on the table. The waitress looks frightened, and I order another glass of gin for me. She refuses. It’s time to close the bar because dinner will begin soon. And she brings the bill.

I wonder how my husband will react. But he just gets out his wallet and throws some money on the counter. He takes my hand and we go out in the cold.

“I’m afraid that if I think too much about everything that could have been, and never was, I’ll fall into a dark hole …”

I know that feeling. We talked about this at the restaurant, when I opened up to you.

He doesn’t seem to hear.

“… deep down there’s a voice telling me: none of this makes sense. The universe has existed for billions of years, and it will continue to exist after you die. We live in a microscopic part of a gigantic mystery, and we still have no answers to our childhood questions: Is there life on another planet? If God is good, why does He allow suffering and the pain of others? And what’s worse: time continues to pass. Often, for no apparent reason, I feel an immense dread. Sometimes it’s when I’m at work, sometimes in the car, and sometimes when I put the kids to bed. I look at them lovingly, afraid: What will happen to them? They live in a country that gives us peace and security, but what about the future?”

Yes, I understand what you’re saying. I imagine we’re not the only ones to think that way.

“Then I see you making breakfast or dinner and occasionally I think that fifty years from now, or maybe even less, one of us will be sleeping alone, crying every night because once we were happy. The children will be all grown up and far away. The surviving one of us will be sick, always needing help from strangers.”

He stops talking, and we walk in silence. We pass by a sign announcing a New Year’s Eve party. He kicks it violently. Two or three passersby look at us.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to say all that. I brought you here to make you feel better without all the daily pressures. Blame it on the booze.”

I’m stunned.

We pass by a group of young men and women who are talking animatedly among the beer cans scattered everywhere. My husband, usually shy and serious, approaches them and invites them to have another drink.

The young people look frightened. I apologize, hinting that we’re both drunk and one drop more of alcohol might lead to catastrophe. I grab his arm and we carry on.

How long has it been since I’ve done that? He was always the protector, the helper, the problem solver. Now I’m the one trying to keep him from skidding and falling. His mood has changed again, and now he’s singing a song I’ve never heard—perhaps a traditional song of that region.

When we approach the church, the bells ring again.

That’s a good sign, I say.

“I listen to the bells. They speak of God. But is God listening to us? We’re in our thirties, and life isn’t fun anymore. If not for our children, what would be the point of all this?”

I prepare myself to say something. But I have no answer. We arrive at the restaurant where we exchanged our first words of love and have a depressing candlelight dinner in one of the most beautiful and most expensive cities in Switzerland.

WHEN I awake, there’s already daylight outside. I had a dreamless sleep and didn’t wake up in the middle of the night. I look at the clock: nine a.m.

My husband is still sleeping. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and order breakfast for the two of us. I put on a robe and go to the window to pass the time while I wait for the room service to arrive.

At this point, I notice something: the sky is full of paragliders! They land in the park opposite the hotel. Most are not alone, and have an instructor behind them steering. First-timers.

How can they do such a crazy thing? Have we reached the point where risking our life is the only thing that frees us from boredom?

Another paraglider lands. And another. Friends film everything, smiling cheerfully. I wonder what the view must be like up there, because the mountains surrounding us are very, very high.

Although I envy every one of those people, I would never have the courage to jump.

The doorbell rings. The waiter enters with a silver tray, a vase with a rose, coffee (for my husband), tea (for me), croissants, hot toast, rye bread, jams of various flavors, eggs, orange juice, the local newspaper, and everything else that makes us happy.

I wake him up with a kiss. I don’t remember the last time I did that. He is startled, but then smiles. We sit at the table and savor the treats in front of us. We talk a bit about our drinking spree last night.

“I think I needed that. But don’t take what I said too seriously. When a balloon bursts, it startles everyone, but it’s nothing more than that: a bursting balloon. Harmless.”

I want to say it felt great to discover all his weaknesses, but I just smile and keep eating my croissant.

He also notices the paragliders. His eyes light up. We get dressed and go downstairs to enjoy the morning.

We go straight to the front desk. He says we’ll be leaving today, asks them to bring down our suitcases, and pays the bill.

Are you sure? Can’t we stay until tomorrow morning?

“I’m sure. Last night was enough for me to understand that it’s impossible to go back in time.”

We head to the door crossing the long, glass-ceilinged lobby. I read in one of the brochures that there used to be a street here; now they’ve joined the two buildings that stood on either side. Tourism is apparently thriving, even without ski slopes.

But instead of going out the door, my husband turns left and approaches the concierge.

“How can we go paragliding?”

We? I don’t have the slightest intention of doing that.

The concierge hands him a brochure. It’s all there.

“And how do we get up top?”

The concierge explains that we don’t have to go all the way up. The road is very treacherous. All we have to do is set a time and they’ll pick us up from the hotel.

Isn’t it very dangerous? Jumping into the nothing between two mountain ranges without ever having done it before? Who is in charge? Are there any government controls on the instructors and their equipment?

“Madam, I’ve been working here for ten years. I paraglide at least once a year. I’ve never seen a single accident.”

He is smiling. He must have repeated those words thousands of times over those ten years.

“Shall we?”

What? Why don’t you go alone?

“Sure, I can go by myself. You can wait for me down here with the camera. But I need and want to have this experience in life. It’s always terrified me. Just yesterday we talked about when everything gets stuck in a rut and how we no longer test our limits. It was a very sad night for me.”

I know. He asks the concierge to set a time.

“Now, this morning, or in the afternoon, when you can see the sunset reflected on the surrounding snow?”

Now, I reply.

“So, will it be one person or two?”

Two, if we do it now. If I don’t have a chance to think about what I’m doing. If I don’t have time to open the box and let the demons out—fear of heights, of the unknown, of death, of life, of extreme feelings. Now or never.

“We have the option of twenty-minute, half-hour, and one-hour flights.”

Are there ten-minute flights?

No.

“Would you like to jump from one thousand three hundred and fifty or one thousand eight hundred meters?”

I’m already starting to back down. I didn’t need all this information. Of course I want the lowest possible jump.

“Darling, that makes no sense. I’m sure nothing will happen, but if it did, the danger is the same. Falling from twenty-one meters, or the equivalent of the seventh floor of a building, would have just the same consequences.”

The concierge laughs. I laugh to hide my feelings. How could I have been so naïve to think that a measly five hundred meters would make any difference?

The concierge picks up the phone and talks to someone.

“There is only space available for jumps at one thousand three hundred and fifty meters.”

More absurd than my earlier fear is the relief I feel now. Oh, good!

The car will be at the hotel doorstep in ten minutes.

I STAND before the chasm with my husband and five or six other people, waiting for my turn. On the way up I thought about my children and the possibility of losing their parents … Then I realized we wouldn’t be jumping together.

We put on special thermal outfits and helmets. Why the helmet? So my skull will still be intact if I hit a rock and skip three thousand feet to the ground?

The helmet is mandatory.

Perfect. I put on the helmet—just like the ones worn by cyclists on the streets of Geneva. Completely stupid, but I won’t argue.

I look ahead; between us and the chasm is a snow-covered slope. I can stop the flight in the first second by landing there and walking back up. I don’t have to go all the way to the end.

I’ve never been afraid of flying. It’s always been a part of my life. But the thing is, when we’re in a plane, it doesn’t occur to us that it’s exactly the same as going paragliding. The only difference is that the metal cocoon feels like a shield and gives us the feeling that we’re protected. That’s it.

That’s it? In my meager understanding of the laws of aerodynamics, I suppose so.

I need to convince myself. I need a better argument.

This is a better argument; the airplane is made of metal. It’s extremely heavy. And it carries luggage, people, equipment, and tons of explosive fuel. The paraglider, in turn, is light, descends with the wind, and obeys the laws of nature like a leaf falling from a tree. It makes much more sense.

“Do you want to go first?”

Yes, I do. Because if something happens to me, you’ll know and can take care of our children. And you’ll feel guilty for the rest of your life for having this insane idea. I will be remembered as a companion for all seasons, one who always stood by her husband’s side, in sorrow and in joy, adventure and routine.

“We’re ready, madam.”

Are you the instructor? Aren’t you too young for this? I’d rather go with your boss. It’s my first time, after all.

“I’ve been jumping since I reached the age minimum of sixteen. I’ve been jumping for five years, not just here, but many different places around the world. Don’t worry, madam.”

His condescending tone annoys me. Old people and their fears should be respected. Besides, he must tell everybody that.

“Remember the instructions. And when we start to run, don’t stop. Let me take care of the rest.”

Instructions. As if we were now familiar with all of this, when the most they had the patience to explain was that the risk lies exactly in wanting to stop in the middle. And that, when we reach the ground, we should keep walking until we feel our feet firmly fixed.

My dream: feet on the ground. I go to my husband and ask him to go last, then he’ll have time to see what happens to me.

“Want to bring the camera?” asks the instructor.

The camera can be attached to an aluminum rod approximately two feet long. No, I do not. For starters, I’m not doing this to show other people. And even if I can overcome my panic, I’d be more worried about filming than admiring the scenery. I learned that with my dad when I was a teenager: we hiked the Matterhorn and I stopped every minute to take pictures until he fumed: “Do you think all this beauty and grandeur can fit in a little square of film? Record things in your heart. It’s more important than trying to show people what you’re experiencing.”

My flight partner, in all his wisdom of twenty-one years, begins attaching ropes to my body with big aluminum clips. The chair is attached to the glider; I will go in front, he in the back. I can still give up, but that’s no longer me. I am completely unresponsive.

The twenty-one-year-old veteran and the ringleader trade opinions about the wind as we get into position.

He also fastens himself to the chair. I can feel his breath on the back of my head. I look behind me and I don’t like what I see: a row of colored pieces of fabric stretches across the white snowy ground, each with a person tied to it. At the end of the row is my husband, also wearing a bicycle helmet. I guess he had no choice and will jump two or three minutes after me.

“We’re ready. Start running.”

I don’t move.

“Let’s go. Start running.”

I explain that I don’t want to keep twirling around in the sky. Let’s go down gently. Five minutes of flight is good for me.

“You can let me know while we’re flying. But, please, there’s a line. We have to jump now.”

As I no longer have free will, I follow orders. I start running toward the void.

“Faster.”

I go faster, my boots kicking snow in all directions. Actually, it’s not me who is running, but a robot who obeys voice commands. I start to scream—not from fear or excitement, but from instinct. I’ve gone back to being a cave woman, like the Cuban shaman said. We’re afraid of spiders and insects, and we scream in situations like this. We’ve always screamed.

Suddenly my feet lift off the ground, and I hold on to the belts securing me to the chair with all my might. I stop screaming. The instructor keeps running for a few more seconds and then immediately we’re no longer going in a straight line. The wind is controlling our lives.

I don’t open my eyes that first minute—I don’t want a concept of height, the mountains, the danger. I try to imagine that I’m at home in the kitchen, telling the kids a story about something that happened during our trip; maybe about the town, or maybe about the hotel room. I can’t tell them their father drank so much he fell down when we were headed back to the hotel. I can’t say I took a risk and went flying, because they’ll want to do it, too. Or, worse, they might try to fly alone and throw themselves from the top floor of our house.

Then I realize I’m being stupid; why be here with my eyes closed? No one made me jump. “I’ve been here for ten years and have never seen a single accident,”said the concierge.

I open my eyes.

And what I see, what I feel, is something I will never be able to accurately describe. Down below is the valley linking the two lakes, and the town between them. I’m flying, free in space and silence as we follow the wind, sailing in circles. The mountains surrounding us no longer seem so high or threatening, but friendly, dressed in white, with the sun glistening all around.

My hands relax, I let go of the straps, and I open my arms like a bird. The man behind me must have realized that I’m a different person. Instead of continuing down, he starts to rise, using invisible currents of warm air in what once seemed like a homogeneous atmosphere.

Ahead of us is an eagle, sailing the same ocean and effortlessly using its wings to control its mysterious flight. Where does it want to go? Is it just having fun, enjoying life and the beauty all around it?

It feels like I’m communicating with the eagle by telepathy. The flight instructor follows it, our guide. Show us where we need to go to climb increasingly skyward—to fly forever. I feel the same thing I felt that day in Nyon when I imagined running until my body couldn’t run anymore.

And the eagle tells me: “Come. You are heaven and earth, the wind and the clouds, the snow and the lakes.”

It seems like I am in my mother’s womb, completely safe and protected and experiencing things for the first time. Soon I will be born, and I will turn back into a human being who walks with two feet on the face of the Earth. At the moment, though, all I am doing is existing in this womb, putting up no resistance and letting myself go wherever I’m taken.

I’m free.

Yes, I’m free. And the eagle is right: I am the mountains and the lakes. I have no past, present, or future. I am getting to know what people call “Eternity.”

For a split second I wonder: Does everyone who jumps have this same feeling? But what does that matter? I don’t want to think about others. I’m floating in Eternity. Nature speaks to me as if I were its beloved daughter. The mountain tells me: “You have my strength.” The lakes tell me: “You have my peace and my calm.” The sun tells me: “Shine like me, go beyond yourself. Listen.”

I start to hear the voices that have been stifled inside for so long, stifled by haunting thoughts, by loneliness, by night terrors, the fear of change, and the fear that everything will stay the same. The higher we go, the further I distance myself from me.

I’m in another world where things fall perfectly into place. Far from that life full of chores to do, impossible desires, suffering, and pleasure. I have nothing and I am everything.

The eagle begins to turn toward the valley. With open arms I mimic the movement of its wings. If anyone could see me right now, they wouldn’t know who I am, because I am light, space, and time. I’m in another world.

And the eagle tells me: “This is Eternity.”

In Eternity, we don’t exist; we are just an instrument of the Hand that created the mountains, the snow, the lakes, and the sun. I go back in time and space to the moment when everything is created and the stars walk backward. I want to serve this Hand.

Several ideas appear and disappear without changing the way I feel. My mind has left my body and blended with nature. Oh, what a pity the eagle and I must land at the park across from the hotel down below. But what does it matter what will happen in the future? I am here, in this womb made of nothing and everything.

My heart fills every corner of the universe. I try to explain this to myself in words, try to find a way to remember what I feel right now, but soon these thoughts disappear and emptiness returns to fill everything once again.

My heart!

Before I saw a gigantic universe around me; and now the universe seems like a little dot within my heart that has infinitely expanded, like space. An instrument. A blessing. My mind struggles to maintain control and explain at least something that I’m feeling, but the power is stronger.

Power. The feeling of Eternity gives me a mysterious feeling of power. I can do anything, even end world suffering. I am flying and talking with the angels, hearing voices and revelations that will soon be forgotten, but that, at this moment, are as real as the eagle before me. I will never be capable of explaining what I feel, not even to myself, but what does it matter? It’s the future, and I’m not there yet. I’m in the present.

The rational mind disappears again and I am grateful. I bow to my gigantic heart filled with light and power, which can encompass everything that has already happened and what will happen from now until the end of time.

For the first time I hear something: dogs barking. We are nearing the ground and reality begins to return. In a moment I will be stepping on the planet where I live, but in my heart I have experienced all the planets and all the suns, which was greater than anything.