Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

But now, after only a few weeks, I’ve noticed he’s changed again. He’s no longer foolish enough to leave his phone lying around, so there’s no way to find out if they’re back together. But I suspect they are. And the woman—that blond, independent executive, irresistibly charming and powerful—is taking what’s most important in my life: love. Does he know what love is?

“I understand what you want, but it’s really dangerous.”

How can he understand if I haven’t finished explaining?

“You want to set a trap for this woman, but we don’t have the kind of merchandise you’re asking for. To carry out your plan, you would need at least thirty grams of cocaine.”

He grabs his smartphone, pulls up something, and shows it to me. It’s a page from CNN’s Money site detailing the price of drugs. I’m surprised, but discover it’s a recent report on the difficulties facing the major cartels.

“As you can see, you’ll need to spend five thousand Swiss francs. Is it worth it? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to go over to this woman’s house and make a fuss? Besides, from what I understand, she might not be guilty of anything.”

He had gone from pastor to marriage counselor. And now, from marriage counselor, he’s turned into a financial adviser, trying to keep me from needlessly spending my money.

I say I accept the risk. I know I’m right. But why thirty grams and not ten?

“It’s the minimum amount to frame a person as a drug dealer. The penalty is much heavier than the one for users. Are you sure you want to do this? Because you could be arrested on the way to your house, or to that woman’s house, and you’d have no way of explaining why the drugs are in your possession.”

Are all drug dealers like this, or did I just fall into the hands of someone special? I’d love to spend hours chatting with this man. He’s so experienced and knowledgeable. But apparently, he’s very busy. He asks me to return in half an hour with the money in cash. I go to an ATM, surprised at my own naïveté. Of course drug dealers don’t carry large quantities. Otherwise they’d be considered drug dealers!

I return and he is waiting. I hand over the money discreetly and he points to a trash can.

“Please don’t leave the goods somewhere where the woman can find it, because she might get confused and wind up ingesting it. That would be a disaster.”

This man is one of a kind; he thinks of everything. If he were the CEO of a multinational, he’d be earning a fortune in shareholder bonuses.

I think about continuing the conversation, but he’s already walked away. I look back at the trash can. What if there’s nothing there? But no, these men have a reputation to uphold and wouldn’t do something like that.

Looking around, I walk over and grab the manila envelope inside, putting it in my bag and immediately taking a taxi to the newspaper offices. I’m going to be late again.

I paid a fortune for something that weighs almost nothing.

But how do I know that man didn’t trick me? I need to find out for myself.

I rent two or three movies whose main characters are addicts. My husband is surprised by my new interest.

“You’re not thinking of doing that, are you?”

Of course not! It’s just research for the newspaper. By the way, I’ll be home late tomorrow. I’ve decided to write an article about Lord Byron’s castle and I need to stop by there. You needn’t worry.

“I’m not worried. I think things have improved a lot since we spent that day in Nyon. We need to travel more, maybe at New Year’s Eve. Next time we’ll leave the children with my mother. I’ve been talking with people who understand this kind of thing.”

The “thing” must be what he considers my depression. Who exactly have you been talking to? Some friend who will spill the beans the first time he has a little too much to drink?

“No, not at all. A marriage counselor.”

How awful! Marriage counseling was the last thing I heard that terrible afternoon at the golf club. Have the two of them been talking behind my back?

“Maybe I caused your problem. I don’t give you the attention you deserve. I’m always talking about work, or things we need to do. We’ve lost the romance needed to maintain a happy family. Caring about the children isn’t enough. We need more than that while we’re still young. Who knows, maybe we can revisit Interlaken, the first trip we took together after we met? We can climb part of the Jungfrau and enjoy the scenery from above.”

A marriage counselor! That’s all I need.

The conversation with my husband reminds me of an old saying: there is none so blind as the one who does not want to see.

How could he think he’d forsaken me? Where did he get such a crazy idea? It’s not as if I’m welcoming him to bed with open arms and legs.

It has been a while since we had an intense sexual relationship. In a healthy relationship, this is even more important for a couple’s stability than making plans for the future or talking about the children. Interlaken takes me back to a time when we strolled around the city in the late afternoon—because the rest of the time we were locked up in the hotel, making love and drinking cheap wine.

When we love someone, we’re not satisfied with knowing only the person’s soul—we also want to understand the person’s body. Is it necessary? I don’t know, but instinct encourages us. There is no set time for it to take place, no rules to follow. Nothing beats that moment of revelation when shyness loses ground to boldness, and quiet moans turn into squeals and swearing. Yes, swearing—I have an overwhelming need to hear forbidden and “dirty” things when I’ve got a man inside me.

In these moments, the same old questions arise: “Am I squeezing too hard?” “Should I go faster or slower?” These questions might seem out of place or bothersome, but they are part of this act of initiation, understanding, and mutual respect. It is very important to talk while building a perfect intimacy. The opposite would mean silent and dishonest frustration.

Then comes marriage. We try to maintain the same behaviors, and sometimes we succeed—in my case, it lasted until I got pregnant the first time, which happened quickly. Until suddenly we realize that things have changed.

Sex, from now on, is only at night and preferably just before bedtime. As if it were an obligation, both parties accept without questioning whether the other is in the mood. If sex is skipped, suspicions arise, so it’s best to stick to the ritual.

If it wasn’t good, don’t say anything, because tomorrow may be better. After all, we’re married. We have our whole lives ahead of us.

There is nothing else to discover, and we try to get as much pleasure as possible from the same things. This is like eating chocolate every day, without changing brands or trying new flavors: it’s not a sacrifice, but isn’t there anything else?

Of course there is: little toys you can buy at sex shops, swinger clubs, inviting a third person to join, or taking adventurous chances at parties hosted by unconventional friends.

To me, this is all very risky. We don’t know what the consequences will be—it’s better to leave things alone.

And so the days go by. We discover by talking with friends that the so-called simultaneous orgasm—where a couple becomes aroused at the same time, caressing the same parts and moaning in unison—is a myth. How can I have pleasure if I have to be paying attention to what I’m doing? Touch my body, drive me wild, and then I’ll do the same to you—that would be more natural.

But most of the time that’s not how it is. The communion has to be “perfect,” or, in other words, nonexistent.

And careful with the moaning, so as not to wake the children.

Ah, I’m glad that’s over, I was so tired and don’t know how I managed. You’re the best! Good night.

Until the day when one of the two realizes they need a break from the routine. But instead of going to swinger clubs, or sex shops full of gadgets we can’t even figure out how to work properly, or to the home of wild friends who keep discovering new things, we decide to … spend some time without the children.

Plan a romantic getaway. With no surprises. Where everything will be absolutely, utterly planned and organized.

And we think this a great idea.

I create a fake e-mail account. I have the drugs, duly tested (followed by my vow never to do that again,because it felt great).

I know how to enter the university without being seen and plant the evidence in Marianne’s desk. All I have to do is determine which drawer she won’t be opening anytime soon, which is the riskiest part of my plan. But that’s what the drug dealer suggested, and I should listen to the voice of experience.

I can’t ask a student for help. I’ll have to do it on my own. But other than this, I’ve got nothing else to do but nurture my husband’s “romantic dream” and bombard Jacob’s phone with my messages of love and hope.

The conversation with the drug dealer gave me an idea, which I put into practice: every day I send text messages of love and encouragement. This can work in two ways. The first is that Jacob will realize he has my support and that I’m not the least bit upset about our meeting at the golf club. The second, should the first fail, is if Mme König one day goes to the trouble of rummaging through her husband’s phone.

I go online, copy something that seems intelligent, and press “send.”

Since the election, nothing important has happened in Geneva. Jacob is no longer quoted in the press, and I have no idea what is happening with him. Only one thing has mobilized public opinion lately: whether or not the city should cancel the New Year’s Eve party.

According to some deputies, the expense is “exorbitant.” I was in charge of finding out exactly what that meant. I went to city hall and uncovered the amount: 115,000 Swiss francs, or what two people—me, and the colleague who works beside me, for example—pay in taxes.

In other words, with the tax money from two citizens who earn a reasonable but not extraordinary salary, they could make thousands of people happy. But no. We must save our money, because no one knows what the future has in store. Meanwhile, the city’s coffers fill. We might run out of salt to dump on the streets this winter to keep the snow from turning into ice and causing accidents, or the sidewalks are always in need of repair. Everywhere you look there is roadwork and construction that no one can explain.

Happiness can wait. What’s important is “keeping up appearances,” which really means “don’t let anyone realize that we are extremely wealthy.”

I have to wake up early tomorrow and get to work. The fact that Jacob has ignored my messages has brought me closer to my husband. Yet I still intend to exact some revenge.

True, I have almost no desire to go through with it now, but I hate to abandon my plans halfway. Living is making decisions and dealing with the consequences. I haven’t done that in a long time, and perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m lying here in the middle of the night and staring at the ceiling again.

Sending messages to a man who rejects me is a waste of time and money. I no longer care about his happiness. Actually, I want him to be really unhappy, because I offered him the best part of me and he suggested I try marriage counseling.

And because of that, I must put that witch in jail, even if my soul lingers in purgatory for centuries.

I must? Where did that come from? I’m tired, so tired, and I can’t sleep.

“Married Women More Likely to Suffer from Depression than Single Women,” claimed an article published in today’s newspaper.

I didn’t read it. But this year is turning out to be very, very strange.

When I was a teenager, everything in my life went exactly as I planned. I was happy … but now something has happened.

It’s like a virus has infected the computer. The destruction has begun, slow but relentless. Everything is slowing down. Some large programs now require a lot of memory to open. Certain files—photos, documents—have disappeared without a trace.

We looked for the reason but found nothing. We asked friends who know more about these things, but they are unable to detect the problem, either. The computer is becoming empty, sluggish, and it is no longer ours. The undetectable virus now owns it. Sure, we can always switch to a new machine, but what about the things stored there, the things that took so many years to put in order? Are they lost forever?

It’s not fair.

I don’t have the slightest control over what is happening. My absurd infatuation with a man who, by now, must think he’s being harassed. My marriage to a man who seems close, but who never shows his weaknesses and vulnerabilities. The desire to destroy someone I met only once, on the pretext that it will do away with my inner ghosts.

A lot of people say time heals all wounds, but that isn’t true.

Apparently, time heals only the good things that we wish to hold on to forever. Time tells us, “Don’t be fooled, this is reality.” That’s why the things I read to lift my spirits don’t stay with me for very long. There is a hole in my soul that drains me of all positive energy, leaving behind only emptiness. I know the hole well—I have lived with it for months—but I don’t know how to escape its hold over me.

Jacob thinks I need marriage counseling. My boss considers me an excellent journalist. My children notice a change in my behavior, but ask nothing. My husband understood what I was feeling only after we went to a restaurant and I tried to open my soul to him.

I take the iPad from the nightstand. I multiply 365 by 70. The answer is 25,550. That’s the average number of days a normal person lives. How many have I already wasted?

People around me always complain about everything. “I work eight hours a day, and if I get promoted, I’ll be working twelve.” “Ever since I got married, I don’t have any time for myself.” “I searched for God and now I have to go to church services, Mass, and religious ceremonies.”

Everything we seek so enthusiastically before we reach adulthood—love, work, faith—turns into a burden too heavy to bear.

There is only one way to escape this: love. To love is to transform slavery into freedom.

But right now, I can’t love. I just feel hate.

And as absurd as this might sound, it gives meaning to my days.

I ARRIVE at the building where Marianne teaches her philosophy classes—an annex that, to my surprise, is located on one of the University Hospital of Geneva’s campuses. Then I begin to wonder: Could this prized course on her CV be nothing more than an extracurricular with absolutely no academic weight?

Having parked the car at a supermarket, I walked about half a mile to get to this jumble of low buildings that sit in a beautiful green field with a little lake in the middle. Arrows indicate directions. Over there are institutions that, seemingly disconnected, are complementary if you stop to think about it: the hospital ward for the elderly and a mental hospital. The latter is in a beautiful building from the early twentieth century where psychiatrists, nurses, psychologists, and psychotherapists from all over Europe graduate.

I walk by something that, strangely, looks like the beacons one finds at the end of an airport runway. I have to read the sign beside it to figure out what it is. It’s a sculpture called Passage 2000, a “visual song” comprising ten bars from railway crossings, all equipped with red lights. I wonder if the person who made it was one of the patients, but I discover when I keep reading that the work is by a famous sculptor. Let’s respect art, but don’t give me this about artists being normal.

It’s my lunch hour—my only free time during the day, and when the most interesting things in my life always seem to happen—like meetings with friends, politicians, sources, and drug dealers.

The classrooms should be empty. I can’t go to the campus restaurant, where Marianne—or Mme König—is probably casually flipping her blond hair to the side while the boys who study there imagine how they could seduce such an interesting woman and the girls gaze at her as a model of elegance, intelligence, and good behavior.

I go to the reception desk and ask for directions to Mme König’s classroom. I am told that it is lunchtime (something there is no way I couldn’t already know). I say that I don’t want to interrupt her during her break, so I will wait for her outside her classroom door.

I am dressed normally, like a person you look at and immediately forget. The only suspicious thing is that I am wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. I let the receptionist catch a glimpse of the bandages I put under the lenses. She will certainly conclude that I have recently had plastic surgery.

I walk toward the room where Marianne teaches, surprised by my composure. I imagined that I would be afraid, that I would give up halfway, but no. I’m here and I feel quite at ease. If I ever have to write about myself, I will do it for the same reason as Mary Shelley and her Victor Frankenstein: I just wanted to get out of a rut, find a better reason for my boring, unchallenging life. Her result was a monster capable of implicating the innocent and saving the guilty.

Everyone has a dark side. Everyone wants a taste of absolute power. I read stories of torture and war and see that those who inflict suffering are driven by an unknown monster when they are able to exert power, but turn into docile fathers, servants of the homeland, and excellent husbands when they return home.

I remember when I was young a boyfriend asked me to take care of his poodle. I hated that dog. I had to share the attention of the man I loved with it. I wanted allhis love.

One day I decided to take revenge on that irrational animal, an animal that in no way contributed to the growth of humanity, but whose helplessness aroused love and affection. I began attacking him in a way that would leave no trace by prodding him with a pin stuck on the end of a broomstick. The dog whined and barked, but I didn’t stop until I got tired.

When my boyfriend arrived, he hugged and kissed me like always. He thanked me for taking care of his poodle. We made love, and life continued as before. Dogs can’t talk.

I think of this as I make my way to Marianne’s office. How could I have ever been capable of that? Because everyone is. I’ve seen men madly in love with their wives lose their heads and beat them, only to beg and sob for forgiveness immediately after.

We are incomprehensible animals.

But why do this to Marianne, when all she did was snub me at a party? Why come up with a plan and take the risk of buying drugs and planting them in her desk?

Because she’s attained what I cannot: Jacob’s love and attention.

Is that a good enough answer? If it were, 99.9 percent of people would be conspiring to destroy one another right now.

Maybe it’s because I am tired of complaining. Because these sleepless nights are driving me mad. Because I feel comfortable in my madness. Because I won’t get caught. Because I want to stop obsessing about this. Because I am seriously ill. Because I am not the only one. Frankensteinhas never gone out of print, because everyone sees a bit of themselves in both the scientist and the monster.

I stop. I’m seriously ill.It’s a real possibility. Maybe I should get out of here right now and find a doctor. I need to finish the task I’ve set out to do, but I will, even if the doctor then tells the police—he’ll protect me with patient confidentiality, but at the same time expose an injustice.

I arrive at the classroom door, reflecting on the “whys” I’ve listed along the way. I go in anyway, without hesitation.

I find a cheap desk with no drawers. Just a wooden tabletop on turned legs. Something for laying down a few books, a bag, and nothing more.

I should have guessed. I’m frustrated and relieved at the same time.

The halls, previously silent, begin to show signs of life; people are returning to class. I leave without looking back, walking in the direction from where they came. There is a door at the end of the hall. I open it and exit at the top of a small hill across from the hospital for the elderly with its massive walls and—I’m sure—the heating running smoothly. I walk over and, at the reception desk, I ask for someone who doesn’t exist. I am told the person must be somewhere else—Geneva must have more nursing homes per square meter than any other city. The nurse offers to look around for me. I say there’s no need, but she insists:

“It’s no trouble.”

To avoid further suspicion, I agree to let her search. While she sits busily at her computer, I pick a book off the counter and leaf through it.

“They’re children’s stories,” says the nurse, without taking her eyes off the screen. “The patients love them.”

It makes sense. I open to a page at random:

A mouse was always depressed because he was afraid of cats. A great wizard took pity on him and turned him into a cat. Then he started to be afraid of dogs, and so the wizard turned him into a dog. Then he began to fear tigers. The wizard, who was very patient, used his powers to turn him into a tiger. Then he was afraid of hunters. Finally, the wizard gave up and turned him back into a mouse, saying:

“Nothing I do will help you, because you never understood your growth. You are better being what you always were.”

The nurse is unable to find the imaginary patient. She apologizes. I thank her and prepare to leave, but apparently she is happy to have someone to talk to.

“Do you think plastic surgery helps?”

Plastic surgery? Ah, right. I remember the small pieces of adhesive tape under my sunglasses.

“Most patients here have had plastic surgery. If I were you, I would stay away. It creates an imbalance between the mind and body.” I didn’t ask her opinion, but she seems overcome with humanitarian duty and continues: “The aging process is more traumatic for those who think they can control the passage of time.”

I ask her nationality: Hungarian. Of course. Swiss people never give their opinion without being asked.

I thank her for her trouble and leave, taking off the sunglasses and bandages. The disguise worked, but the plan did not. The campus is empty again. Now everyone is busy learning how to care, how to think, and how to make others think.

I take the long way back to my car. From a distance, I can see the psychiatric hospital. Should I be in there?

ARE WE all like this? I ask my husband after the kids have fallen asleep and we are getting ready for bed.

“Like what?”

Like me, who either feels great or feels awful.

“I think so. We’re always practicing self-control, trying to keep the monster from coming out of his hiding place.”

It’s true.

“We aren’t who we want to be. We are what society demands. We are what our parents choose. We don’t want to disappoint anyone; we have a great need to be loved. So we smother the best in us. Gradually, the light of our dreams turns into the monster of our nightmares. They become things not done, possibilities not lived.”

As I understand it, psychiatry used to call it “manic-depressive psychosis,” but now they call it “bipolar disorder” to be more politically correct. Where did they get that name? Is there something different between the north and south poles? It must be a minority …

“Of course people who express those dualities are a minority. But I bet almost every person has that monster inside of them.”

On one side, I’m a villain who goes to a campus to incriminate an innocent person without understanding the motive behind my hatred. On the other, I’m a mother who takes loving care of her family, working hard so that my loved ones want for nothing, but still without understanding where I get the strength to keep these feelings strong.

“Do you remember Jekyll and Hyde?”

Apparently, Frankensteinisn’t the only book that has stayed in print since it was first published: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,which Robert Louis Stevenson wrote in three days, follows suit. The story is set in London in the nineteenth century. Physician and researcher Henry Jekyll believes that good and evil coexist in all people. He is determined to prove his theory, which was ridiculed by almost everyone he knows, including the father of his fiancée, Beatrix. After working tirelessly in his laboratory, he manages to develop a formula. Not wanting to endanger anyone’s life, he uses himself as a guinea pig.

As a result, his demonic side—whom he calls Mr. Hyde—is revealed. Jekyll believes he can control Hyde’s comings and goings, but soon realizes that he is sorely mistaken; when we release our dark side, it will completely overshadow the best in us.

The same is true for all individuals. That is how dictators are born. In the beginning they generally have excellent intentions, but little by little, in order to do what they think is for the “good” of their people, they make use of the very worst in human nature: terror.

I’m confused and scared. Can this happen to anyone?

“No. Only a minority lack a clear notion of right or wrong.”

I don’t know if this minority is all that small; something similar happened to me in school. I had a teacher who was the best person in the world, but suddenly he changed and left me completely bewildered. All the students lived in fear, because it was impossible to predict how he would be from day to day. But no one dared complain. Teachers are always right, after all. Besides, everyone thought he had some problem at home, and that it would soon be resolved. Until one day, this Mr. Hyde lost control and attacked one of my classmates. The case went to the school board and he was removed.

Since that time, I’ve become afraid of people who seem excessively sensitive.

“Like the tricoteuses.”

Yes, like those hardworking women who wanted justice and bread for the poor, and who fought to free France from the excesses committed by Louis XVI. When the reign of terror began, they would go down to the guillotine square bright and early, guarding their front-row seats and knitting as they waited on those who had been condemned to die. Possible mothers, who spent the rest of their day looking after their children and husbands.

Knitting to pass the time between one severed head and the next.

“You’re stronger than me. I always envied that. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve never shown my feelings—so I won’t seem weak.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying. But the conversation has already ended. He rolls over and goes to sleep.

And I’m left alone with my “strength,” staring at the ceiling.

ONE week later, I do what I promised myself I would never do: see a psychiatrist.

I make three appointments with different doctors. Their schedules are packed—a sign there are more unbalanced people in Geneva than imagined. I say it’s urgent, but the secretaries contend that everything is urgent, thank me for my interest and apologize, but they can’t cancel other patients’ appointments.

I resort to the trump card that never fails: I say where I work. The magic word “journalist,” followed by the name of a major newspaper, can open as many doors as it closes. In this case, I already knew the outcome would be favorable. The appointments are made.

I don’t tell anyone—not my husband, not my boss. I visit the first one—a strange sort of man with a British accent, who is adamant that he does not accept national health insurance. I suspect he is working in Switzerland illegally.

I explain, with all the patience in the world, what is happening to me. I use the examples of Frankenstein and his monster, of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I beg him to help me control the monster that is rising up and threatening to escape my control. He asks me what that meant. I don’t want to provide details that might put me in a compromising situation, such as my attempt to have a certain woman wrongfully arrested for drug trafficking.

I decide to tell a lie: I explain that I am having murderous thoughts, thinking about killing my husband in his sleep. He asks if one of us has a lover, and I say no. He understands completely and thinks it is normal. One year of treatment, three sessions per week, will reduce this drive by fifty percent. I am shocked! And what if I kill my husband before then? He replies that what is happening is a “transference,” a “fantasy,” and that real murderers never seek help.

Before I leave, he charges me 250 Swiss francs and asks the secretary to make regular appointments for me starting the following week. I thank him, say I need to check my schedule, and shut the door, never to return.

The second appointment is with a woman. She takes insurance and is more open to hearing what I have to say. I repeat the same story about wanting to kill my husband.

“Well, sometimes I also think about killing mine,” she tells me with a smile. “But we both know that if every woman went through with her secret wishes, nearly all children would be fatherless. This is a normal impulse.”

Normal?

After a long conversation, during which she explains that I am being “bullied” in my marriage, that without a doubt “I have no room to grow,” and that my sexuality “is causing hormonal disturbances widely addressed in medical literature,” she takes her prescription pad and writes down the name of a known antidepressant. She adds that until the medication takes effect, I will still be facing one month of hell, but soon all of this will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

As long as I continued taking the pills, of course. For how long?

“It really varies. But I believe that in three years you’ll be able to reduce the dosage.”

The big problem with using insurance is that the bill is sent to the patient’s home. I pay in cash, close the door, and swear never to return to that place, either.

Finally, I go to the third appointment, another man in an office that must have cost a fortune to decorate. Unlike the first two, he listens to me attentively and seems to agree with me. I do indeed run the risk of killing my husband. I am a potential killer. I am losing control of a monster that I can’t put back into its cage.

Finally, with great care, he asks if I use drugs.