Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

In the middle of the afternoon.

Because at that hour, the restaurant will be empty and we’ll have more privacy. I need to come up with a good excuse for my boss, but that’s not a problem. After all, the article I wrote about the elections was picked up by lots of other newspapers.

A discreet place, that’s what he must have had in mind. But in my usual mania for believing whatever I want, I think of it as romantic. Autumn has already painted the trees many shades of gold; perhaps I’ll invite Jacob to go for a walk. I think better when I’m moving, especially when I run, as proven in Nyon, but I doubt very much that we’ll do any running.

Ha, ha, ha.

Tonight for dinner we had a cheese fondue that we Swiss call raclette, accompanied by thin slices of raw bison meat and traditional rösti potatoes with cream. My family asked if we were celebrating something special, and I said that we were: the fact that we were together and could enjoy a quiet dinner in one another’s company. Then I took my second shower of the day and allowed the water to wash away my anxiety. Afterward, I slathered on plenty of moisturizer and went to the children’s bedroom to read them a story. I found them glued to their tablets, which I think should be forbidden for anyone under fifteen.

I told them to turn their electronics off, and they reluctantly obeyed. I picked up a book of traditional stories, opened it at random, and began to read.

During the ice age, many animals died of cold, so the porcupines decided to band together to provide one another with warmth and protection. But their spines or quills kept sticking into their surrounding companions, precisely those who provided the most warmth. And so they drifted apart again.

And again many of them died of cold.

They had to make a choice: either risk extinction or accept their fellow porcupines’ spines.

Very wisely, they decided to huddle together again. They learned to live with the minor wounds inflicted by their relatives, because the most important thing to their survival was that shared warmth.

The children want to know if they can see a real porcupine.

“Are there any at the zoo?”

I don’t know.

“What’s the ice age?”

A time when it was very, very cold.

“Like winter?”

Yes, but a winter that never ended.

“But why didn’t they remove their prickly spines before they snuggled up together?”

Oh, dear, I should have chosen another story. I turn out the light and decide to sing them to sleep with a traditional song from a village in the Alps, stroking their hair as I do so. They soon fall asleep.

My husband brings me some Valium. I’ve always refused to take any medicine because I’m afraid of becoming dependent, but I need to be in top form tomorrow.

I take a ten-milligram pill and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. I don’t wake up all night.

I GET there early, and go straight to the clubhouse and out into the garden. I walk to the trees at the far end, determined to enjoy this lovely afternoon to the full.

Melancholy. That is always the first word that comes into my head when autumn arrives, because I know the summer is over. The days will grow shorter, and we don’t live in the charmed world of those ice-age porcupines; we can’t bear to be wounded by the sharp spines of others, even slightly.

We already hear about people in other countries dying of the cold, traffic jams on snowbound highways, airports closed. Fires are lit and blankets are brought out of cupboards. But that happens only in the world we humans create.

In nature, the landscape looks magnificent. The trees, which seemed so similar before, take on their own personalities and paint the forests in a thousand different shades. One part of the cycle of life is coming to an end. Everything will rest for a while and come back to life in the spring, in the form of flowers.

There is no better time than the autumn to begin forgetting the things that trouble us, allowing them to fall away like dried leaves. There is no better time to dance again, to make the most of every crumb of sunlight and warm body and soul with its rays before it falls asleep and becomes only a dim lightbulb in the skies.

I see him arrive. He looks for me in the restaurant and on the terrace, finally going over to the waiter at the bar, who points in my direction. Jacob has seen me now and waves. Slowly, I begin to walk back to the clubhouse. I want him to appreciate my dress, my shoes, my fashionable lightweight jacket, the way I walk. My heart may be pounding furiously, but I must keep cool.

I’m thinking about what words to use. What mysterious reason did I give for meeting again? Why hold back now when we know there’s something between us? Are we afraid of stumbling and falling, like we have before?

As I walk, I feel as if I were entering a tunnel I’ve never traveled before, one that leads from cynicism to passion, from irony to surrender.

What is he thinking as he watches me? Do I need to explain that we shouldn’t be frightened and that “if Evil exists, it’s to be found in our fears”?

Melancholy. The word is transforming me into a romantic and rejuvenating me with each step I take.

I keep thinking about what I should say when I reach his side. No, best not to think and just let the words flow naturally. They are inside me. I may not recognize or accept them, but they are more powerful than my need to control everything.

Why don’t I want to hear my own words before I say them to him?

Could it be fear? But what could be worse than living a sad, gray life, in which every day is the same? What could be worse than the fear that everything will disappear, including my own soul, and leave me completely alone in this world when I once had everything I needed to be happy?

I see the leaves falling, their shapes silhouetted against the sun. The same thing is happening inside me: with every step I take, another barrier falls, another defense is destroyed, another wall collapses, and my heart, hidden behind it all, is beginning to see and enjoy the autumn light.

What shall we talk about? About the music I heard in the car on the way here? About the wind rustling the trees? About the human condition with all its contradictions, both dark and redemptive?

We will talk about melancholy, and he’ll say that it’s a sad word. I’ll say, no, it’s nostalgic, it describes something forgotten and fragile, as we all are when we pretend we can’t see the path to which life has led us without asking our permission. When we deny our destiny because it’s leading us toward happiness, and all we want is security.

A few more steps, a few more fallen barriers. More light floods into my heart. It doesn’t even occur to me to try to control anything, only to experience this afternoon that will never be repeated. I don’t need to convince him of anything. If he doesn’t understand now, he will understand later. It’s simply a matter of time.

Despite the cold, we’ll sit out on the terrace so he can smoke. At first, he’ll be on the defensive, wanting to know about that photo taken in the park.

We will talk about the possibility of life on other planets and the presence of God, so often forgotten in the lives we lead. We will talk about faith, miracles, and meetings that were planned even before we were born.

We will discuss the eternal struggle between science and religion. We will talk about love, and how it’s always seen as both desirable and threatening. He will insist that my definition of melancholy is incorrect, but I will simply sip my tea in silence, watching the sun set behind the Jura Mountains and feeling happy to be alive.

Ah, yes, we will also talk about flowers, even if the only ones we can see are those decorating the bar inside, the ones that came from some vast greenhouse where they’re produced en masse. But it’s good to talk about flowers in the autumn. That gives us hope for the spring.

Only a few more feet. The walls have all fallen. I have just been reborn.

I reach his side, and we greet each other with the usual three kisses—right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, as demanded by Swiss tradition (although whenever I travel abroad, people are always surprised by that third kiss). I sense how nervous he is and suggest we stay out on the terrace; we’ll have more privacy there and he can smoke. The waiter knows him. Jacob orders a Campari and tonic, and I order tea, as planned.

To put him at his ease, I start talking about nature, about trees, and about how lovely it is to realize that everything is constantly changing. Why are we always trying to repeat the same pattern? It’s not possible. It’s unnatural. Wouldn’t it be better to see challenges as a source of knowledge, and not as our enemies?

He still seems nervous. He responds automatically, as if he wants to bring the conversation to a close, but I won’t let him. This is a unique day in my life and should be respected. I continue talking about the various thoughts that occurred to me while I was walking, the words for which I had no control. I’m astonished to see them emerge now with such precision.

I talk about pets and ask if he understands why people like them so much. Jacob gives a conventional answer and then I move on to the next subject: Why is it so difficult to accept that people are different? Why are there so many laws trying to create new tribes instead of simply accepting that cultural differences can make our lives richer and more interesting? But he says that he’s tired of talking about politics.

Then I tell him about the aquarium I saw at the school when I dropped my kids off that morning. Inside it was a fish, swimming round and round, and I said to myself: He can’t remember where he began, and he will never reach the end. That’s why we like fish in aquariums; they remind us of ourselves, well fed but incapable of moving beyond the glass walls.

He lights another cigarette. I see that there are already two cigarette butts in the ashtray. Then I realize that I’ve been talking for a very long time in a trance of light and peace without giving him a chance to express his feelings. What would he like to talk about?

“About that photo you mentioned,” he says cautiously, because he’s noticed that I’m in a particularly sensitive mood.

Ah, the photo. Of course it exists. It’s engraved on my heart and will be erased only when God chooses. But come in and see with your own eyes, because the barriers protecting my heart fell away as I was walking toward you.

Now, don’t tell me you don’t know the way, because you’ve entered several times before, in the past and the present. Yes, I found it hard to accept at first, too, and I understand that you might be reluctant. We’re the same, you and I. Don’t worry, I’ll lead you there.

After I have said all this, he delicately takes my hand, smiles, and then sticks in a knife:

“We’re not teenagers anymore. You’re a wonderful person and, as I understand, have a lovely family. Have you considered marriage counseling?”

For a moment, I feel disoriented. Then I get up and walk straight to my car. No tears. No good-byes. No looking back.

I FEEL nothing. I think nothing. I get straight into my car and drive, not knowing exactly where I should go. No one is waiting for me at the end of the journey. Melancholy has become apathy. I need to drag myself onward.

Five minutes later, I’m outside a castle. I know what happened here; someone breathed life into a monster that remains famous to this day, although few people know the name of the woman who created him.

The gate into the garden is closed, but so what? I can climb through the hedge. I sit on the cold bench and imagine what happened in 1817. I need to distract myself, to forget everything from before and concentrate on something different.

I imagine that year, when the castle’s tenant, the English poet Lord Byron, decided to live here in exile. He was hated in his own country, and also in Geneva, where he was accused of holding orgies and getting drunk in public. He must have been dying of boredom. Or melancholy. Or rage.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that one day in 1817, two guests arrived from England: another poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and his nineteen-year-old wife, Mary. (A fourth guest joined them, but I can’t remember his name right now.)

They doubtless talked about literature. They doubtless complained about the weather, the rain, the cold, the inhabitants of Geneva, their English compatriots, the lack of tea and whiskey. Perhaps they read poems to one another and praised one another’s work.

They thought they were so special and so important that they decided to make a bet: they would return to that same place within a year, each with a book he had written describing the human condition.

Obviously, after the initial enthusiasm and conversation about how the human being is a complete aberration, they forgot about the bet.

Mary was present during that conversation. She wasn’t invited to participate, first, because she was a woman, and, even worse, because she was very young. And yet that conversation must have marked her deeply. Why did she not just write something to pass the time? She had a subject, she simply needed to develop it and keep the book to herself when she had finished it.

However, when they returned to England, Shelley read the manuscript and encouraged her to publish it. Further, since he was already famous, he decided to submit it to a publisher and write the preface himself. Mary resisted, but in the end agreed, with one condition: her name should not appear on the cover.

The initial print run of five hundred copies quickly sold out. Mary thought it must be because of Shelley’s preface, but, on the second edition, she agreed to allow her name to appear as author. Ever since, the book has remained a constant presence in bookshops around the world. It has inspired writers, theater directors, film directors, Halloween partiers, and those at masked balls. It was recently described by one well-known critic as “the most creative work of Romanticism and possibly of the last two hundred years.”

No one can explain why. Most people have never read it, but almost everyone has heard of it.

It tells the story of Victor, a Swiss scientist, born in Geneva and brought up by his parents to understand the world through science. While still a child, he sees a lightning bolt strike a tree and wonders if that is the source of life. Could man create another human being?

And like a modern version of Prometheus, the mythological figure who stole fire from the gods in order to help mankind (the author used The Modern Prometheusas her subtitle, but few remember this), he begins to work to try and replicate God’s greatest deed. Needless to say, despite all the care he takes, the experiment slides out of his control.

The title of the book: Frankenstein.

Dear God, of whom I think very little but in whom I trust in times of affliction, did I come here purely by chance? Or was it Your invisible and implacable hand that led me to this castle and reminded me of that story?

Mary met Shelley when she was fifteen. He was already married, but, undeterred by social conventions, she followed the man she considered the love of her life.

Fifteen! And she already knew exactly what she wanted. And knew how to get it, too. I’m in my thirties and wish for a different things every hour, but am incapable of fulfilling them … although I’m perfectly capable of walking through a romantic, melancholy autumn afternoon, thinking about what to say when the moment arrives.

I am not Mary Shelley. I’m Victor Frankenstein and his monster.

I tried to breathe life into something inanimate, and the result will be the same as in the book: spreading terror and destruction.

No more tears. No more despair. I feel as though my heart has given up beating. My body reacts accordingly, because I can’t move. It’s autumn, and the evening comes on quickly, the lovely sunset soon replaced by twilight. I’m still sitting here when night comes, looking at the castle and seeing its tenants scandalizing the bourgeoisie of Geneva at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

Where is the lightning bolt that brought the monster to life?

No bolt from out of the blue. The traffic, which isn’t very heavy in this area, anyway, grows still thinner. My children will be waiting for their dinner, and my husband—who knows the state I’m in—will soon start to worry. But it’s as if I have a ball and chain around my feet. I still can’t move.

I’m a loser.

SHOULD someone beg forgiveness for harboring an impossible Love?

No, certainly not.

Because God’s Love for us is also impossible. It’s never requited at the time, and yet He continues to love us. He loved us so much that He sent His only son to explain how Love is the force that moves the sun and all the stars. In one of his letters to the Corinthians (which we were made to learn by heart at school), Paul says:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

And we all know why. We often hear what seem to be great ideas to transform the world, but they are words spoken without feeling, empty of Love. However logical and intelligent they might be, they do not touch us.

Paul compares Love with Prophecy, with knowledge of the Mysteries, and with Faith and Charity.

Why is Love more important than Faith?

Because Faith is merely the road that leads us to the Greater Love.

Why is Love more important than Charity?

Because Charity is only one of the manifestations of Love. And the whole is always more important than the part. And Charity is also only one of the many roads that Love uses to bring man closer to his fellow man.

And we all know that there is a lot of Charity out there without Love. Every week, a “charity ball” is held. People pay a fortune to buy a table, take part, and have fun in their jewels and their expensive clothes. We leave thinking that the world is a better place because of the amount of money collected for the homeless in Somalia, the refugees from Yemen, or the starving in Ethiopia. We stop feeling guilty about the cruel display of poverty, but we never ask ourselves where that money is going.

Those without the right contacts to go to a charity ball or those who can’t afford such extravagance will pass by a beggar and give him a coin. Fine. What could be easier than tossing a coin at a beggar in the street? It’s usually easier than not doing so.

What a sense of relief, and for just one coin! It’s cheap and solves the beggar’s problem.

However, if we really loved him, we would do a lot more for him.

Or we would do nothing. We wouldn’t give him that coin and—who knows?—our sense of guilt at such poverty might awaken real Love in us.

Paul then goes on to compare Love with sacrifice and martyrdom.

I understand his words better today. Even if I were the most successful woman in the world, even if I were more admired and more desired than Marianne König, it would be worth nothing if I had no Love in my heart. Nothing.

Whenever I interview artists or politicians, social workers or doctors, students or civil servants, I always ask: “What is your objective, your goal?” Some say: to start a family. Others say: to get on in my career. But when I probe deeper and ask again, the automatic response is: to make the world a better place.

I feel like going to the Mont Blanc Bridge in Geneva with a manifesto printed in letters of gold and handing it to every passing person and car. On it will be written:

I ask all those who hope to one day work for the good of humanity: never forget that even if you deliver up your body to be burned, you gain nothing if you have not Love. Nothing!

There is nothing more important we can give than the Love reflected in our own lives. That is the one universal language that allows us to speak Chinese or the dialects of India. When I was young, I traveled a lot—it was part of every student’s rite of passage. I visited countries both rich and poor. I did not usually speak the local language, but everywhere the silent eloquence of Love helped me make myself understood.

The message of Love is in the way I live my life, and not in my words or my deeds.

In the letter to the Corinthians, Paul tells us, in three short lines, that Love is made of many elements, like light. We learn at school that if we pick up a prism and allow a ray of light to pass through, that ray will divide into seven colors, those of the rainbow.

Paul shows us the rainbow of Love just as a prism reveals to us the rainbow of light.

And what are those elements? They are virtues we hear about every day and that we can practice in every moment.

Patience: Love is patient …

Kindness:… and kind.

Generosity: Love does not envy …

Humility:… or boast; it is not arrogant …

Courtesy:… or rude.

Unselfishness: It does not insist on its own way.

Good temper: It is not irritable … or resentful.

Guilelessness: or resentful.

Sincerity: It does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.

All these gifts concern us, our daily lives, and today and tomorrow, not with Eternity.

The problem is that people tend to relate these traits to the Love of God, but how does God’s Love manifest itself? Through the Love of man.

To find Peace in the heavens, we must find love on Earth. Without it, we are worthless.

I love and no one can take that away from me. I love my husband, who always supports me. I think I also love another man, whom I met in my youth. And while I was walking toward him, one lovely autumn afternoon, I dropped all my defenses and cannot rebuild them. I’m vulnerable, but I don’t regret that.

This morning, when I was drinking a cup of coffee, I looked at the gentle light outside and remembered that walk, asking myself for the last time: Am I trying to create a real problem to drive away my imaginary ones? Am I really in love or have I simply transformed all the last month’s unpleasant feelings into a fantasy?

No. God would never be so unfair as to allow me to fall in love like that if there were not some possibility for that love being requited.

But sometimes Love demands that you fight for it. And that’s just what I will do. In the pursuit of justice, I have to ward off evil without exasperation or impatience. When Marianne is long gone and he is with me, Jacob will thank me for the rest of our lives.

Or he will leave again, but I will be left with the feeling that I fought as hard as I could.

I’m a new woman. I am pursuing something that won’t come to me of its own free will. He is married and believes any false move might compromise his career.

So what do I need to concentrate on? On undoing his marriage without him realizing it.

I AM going to meet my first drug dealer!

I live in a country that has decided to happily shut itself off from the world. When you decide to visit the villages around Geneva, one thing becomes immediately clear: there is nowhere to park, unless you can use an acquaintance’s garage.

The message is: don’t come here, outsiders, because the view of the lake below, the majestic Alps on the horizon, the wildflowers in the springtime, and the golden hue of the vineyards in autumn, all are the legacy of our ancestors who lived here completely undisturbed. And we want to keep it that way, outsiders, so don’t come here. Even if you were born and raised in the next city over, we are not interested in what you have to say. If you want to park your car, look for a big city, full of spaces for just that.

We are so isolated from the world that we still believe in the threat of major nuclear war. All Swiss buildings are required to have fallout shelters. A deputy recently tried to annul this law, but Parliament stood against it: Yes, there may never be a nuclear war, but what about the threat of chemical weapons? We must protect our citizens. So the costly fallout shelters continue to be built, and are used as wine cellars and storage spaces while we wait for the Apocalypse.

There are some things, however, that despite all our efforts to remain an island of peace, we cannot keep from crossing our borders.

Drugs, for example.

National governments attempt to control the suppliers and close their eyes to the buyers. We may live in paradise, but aren’t we all stressed by traffic, responsibilities, deadlines, and boredom? Drugs stimulate productivity (cocaine) and relieve tension (hashish). So, not wanting to give a bad example to the world, we both prohibit and tolerate them at the same time.

But whenever the problem begins to take on noticeable proportions, some celebrity or public figure gets arrested with narcotics by “coincidence.” The case winds up in the media as an example to discourage young people and show the public that the government has everything under control. Woe to those who refuse to comply with the law!

This happens, at most, once a year. But I don’t believe that it’s only once a year that someone important decides to break with routine and go to the underpass at Mont Blanc Bridge to buy something from the dealers who appear like clockwork every day. If that were the case, the dealers would be long gone for lack of clientele.

I arrive at the underpass. Families come and go while the suspicious characters stay put, not bothering one another or reacting, except when a young couple chatting in a foreign language strolls by, or when an executive in a suit walks through the underpass and turns back around immediately to look directly in their eyes.

The first time I walk through and reach the other side, where I take a sip of mineral water and complain about the cold to a person I’ve never seen before. She doesn’t reply, immersed in her own world. I return and the same men are there. We make eye contact, but for once, there are a lot of people passing by. It’s lunchtime and people should be at the overpriced restaurants that dot the neighborhood, trying to make an important business deal or wine and dine the tourist who came to the city in search of work.

I wait a bit and walk by a third time. I make eye contact again, and one man asks me to follow him with a simple nod. Never in my life did I imagine I would be doing this, but this year has been so unusual that I no longer find my behavior strange.

I feign an air of nonchalance and go after him.

We walk two or three minutes to the Jardin Anglais. We pass tourists taking photos in front of the flower clock, one of the city’s landmarks. We cross by the station of the small train that runs around the lake, as though we were in Disneyland. Finally, we arrive at the jetty and look at the water like we’re a couple gazing at the Jet d’Eau, the gigantic fountain that reaches up to one hundred forty meters high and has long been the symbol of Geneva.

He waits for me to say something, but I worry that my voice will shake in spite of my self-confident pose. I sit quietly and force him to break the silence:

“Ganja, crystal, acid, or blow?”

Okay, I’m lost. I don’t know what to answer, and the man can tell he’s dealing with a novice. I’ve been tested and I didn’t pass.

He laughs. I ask if he thinks I’m with the police.

“Of course not. The police would know immediately what I’m talking about.”

I explain that it’s my first time doing this.

“You can tell. A woman dressed like you would never bother coming down here. You could ask your nephew or a work colleague for leftovers from their personal stash. That’s why I brought you to the edge of the lake. We could have done the deal as we walked, and then I wouldn’t be wasting so much of my time. But I want to know exactly what you’re looking for, and if you need advice.”

He wasn’t wasting his time; he must have been dying of boredom just standing around in that underpass. In the three times I walked past, there hadn’t been a single interested customer.

“All right, I’ll repeat in terms you might understand: hashish, amphetamines, LSD, or cocaine?”

I ask if he has crack or heroin. He says those drugs are banned. I want to tell him that the ones he mentioned are also banned, but I bite my tongue.

It’s not for me, I explain. It’s for an enemy.

“You mean revenge? You want to kill someone with an overdose? Please, lady, find somebody else.”

He begins to walk away, but I stop him and plead for him to listen to me. I note that desperation has likely already doubled the price.

As far as I know, the person in question doesn’t do drugs, I explain. But she has seriously harmed my romantic relationship. I just want to set a trap for her.

“That’s going against the ethics of God.”

Will you look at that? Someone who sells addictive and possibly deadly products is trying to put me on the right path!

I tell him my story. I’ve been married for ten years, I have two wonderful children. My husband and I have the same kind of smartphone, and two months ago I grabbed his by accident.

“You don’t use a security code?”

Of course not. We trust each other. Or maybe his has one, but it was deactivated at that moment. What’s important is I found around four hundred texts and several photos of an attractive blond woman who is well-off, by the looks of it. I did what I shouldn’t have. I made a scene. I asked him who she was, and he didn’t deny it—he said she was the woman he loved. He was glad that I had found out before he had to tell me.

“That happens very often.”

The dealer has gone from pastor to marriage counselor! But I keep going—because I am getting excited about the story I’m telling as I invent it. I asked him to move out. He agreed, and the next day he left me with our two children to go live with the love of his life. But she didn’t take very kindly to this plan, as she thought it much more fun to be in a relationship with a married man than to live with a husband she didn’t choose.

“Women! It’s impossible to understand you!”

I think so, too. I continue my story: She said she wasn’t ready to live with him and broke it off. As I imagine often happens, he came home begging for forgiveness. I forgave him. I actually wanted him to return. I’m a romantic woman, and I wouldn’t know how to live without the person I love.