Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Just once, I reply.

He doesn’t believe me. He changes the subject. We talk a bit about the conflicts we’re all forced to deal with on a daily basis, and then he returns to the drugs.

“You need to trust me. No one uses drugs just once. We’re protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. I’ll lose my medical license if I mention anything about this. It’s better if we speak openly, before making your next appointment. Not only do you have to accept me as your doctor, but I also have to accept you as my patient. That’s the way it works.”

No, I insist. I don’t use drugs. I know the laws and I didn’t come here to lie. I just want to resolve this problem quickly, before I do any harm to people I love or who are close to me.

His pensive face is bearded and handsome. He nods before replying:

“You’ve spent years accumulating these tensions and now you want to get rid of them overnight. That does not exist in psychiatry or psychoanalysis. We’re not shamans who magically drive out evil spirits.”

Of course, he is being ironic, but he has just given me an excellent idea. My days of seeking psychiatric help are over.

POST Tenebras Lux. After darkness, light.

I am standing in front of the old city wall, a monument one hundred meters wide with towering statues of four men who are flanked by two smaller statues. One stands out from the rest. His head is covered, he has a long beard, and he holds in his hands what, in his time, was more powerful than a machine gun: the Bible.

While I wait, I think: If that man in the middle had been born today, everyone—especially Catholics, in France and around the world—would call him a terrorist. His tactics for implementing what he believed to be the ultimate truth remind me of the perverted mind of Osama bin Laden. Both men had the same goal: to install a theocratic state in which all who disobeyed what was understood to be the law of God should be punished.

And neither of the two hesitated to use terror to achieve their goals.

His name is John Calvin, and Geneva was his field of operations. Hundreds of people were sentenced to death and executed not far from here. Not only Catholics who dared to keep their faith, but also scientists who, in search of truth and the cures for diseases, challenged the literal interpretation of the Bible. The most famous case was that of Michael Servetus, who discovered pulmonary blood circulation and died at the stake because of it.

Whoever maintains that wrong is done to heretics and blasphemers in punishing them makes himself an accomplice in their crime and as guilty as they. There is no question here of man’s authority; it is God who speaks […]. Wherefore does he demand of us a so extreme severity, if not to show us that due honor is not paid him, so long as we set not his service above every human consideration, so that we spare not kin, nor blood of any, and forget all humanity when the matter is to combat for His glory.

The death and destruction were not limited to Geneva; Calvin’s apostles, likely represented by the monument’s smaller statues, spread his word and his intolerance throughout Europe. In 1566 several churches in the Netherlands were destroyed and “rebels”—in other words, people of a different faith—were murdered. An enormous amount of artwork was thrown in the fire on the pretext of “idolatry.” Part of the world’s historical and cultural heritage was destroyed and lost forever.

And today my children study Calvin at school as if he were a great Illuminist, a man with new ideas who “freed” us from the yoke of Catholicism. A revolutionary who deserves to be revered by future generations.

After the darkness, light.

What went on in that man’s head? I wonder. Did he lie awake at night knowing that families were being wiped out, that children were being separated from their parents, or that blood flooded the pavement? Or was he so convinced of his mission that there was no room for doubt?

Did he think everything he did could be justified in the name of love? Because that is what I doubt, and the crux of my current problems.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. People who knew him said that, in private, Calvin was a good man, capable of following the words of Jesus and making amazing gestures of humility. He was feared, but also loved—and could ignite crowds with that love.

As history is written by the victors, no one today remembers his atrocities. Now he is seen as the physician of souls, the great reformer, the one who saved us from Catholic heresy, with its angels, saints, virgins, gold, silver, indulgences, and corruption.

The man I’m waiting for arrives, interrupting my thoughts. He is a Cuban shaman. I explain that I convinced my editor to do a story on alternative ways of combating stress. The business world is full of people who behave with extreme generosity one moment and then take out their anger on those weaker. People are increasingly unpredictable.

Psychiatrists and psychoanalysts are booked solid and can no longer see every patient. And no one can wait months or years to treat depression.

The Cuban man listens to me without saying a word. I ask if we can continue our conversation in a café, since we’re standing outside and the temperature has dropped significantly.

“It’s the cloud,” he says, accepting my invitation.

The famous cloud hangs in the city skies until February or March and is driven away only occasionally by the mistral, which clears the sky but makes the temperature drop even more.

“How did you find me?”

A security guard from the newspaper told me about you. The editor-in-chief wanted me to interview psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists, but that’s been done a hundred times.

I need something original, and he might be just the right person.

“You can’t publish my name. What I do isn’t covered by national insurance.”

I suppose that what he is really trying to say is: “What I do is illegal.”

I talk for nearly twenty minutes, trying to put him at ease, but the Cuban man spends the whole time studying me. He has tanned skin and gray hair, and he’s short and wears a suit and tie. I never imagined a shaman dressed like that.

I explain that everything he tells me will be kept secret. We’re just interested in knowing if many people seek his services. From what I hear, he has healing powers.

“That’s not true. I can’t heal people. Only God can do that.”

Okay, we agree. But every day we meet someone whose behavior suddenly changes from one moment to the next. And we wonder: What happened to this person I thought I knew? Why is he acting so aggressively? Is it stress at work?

And then the next day the person is normal again. You’re relieved, but soon after the rug is pulled out from under you when you least expect it. And this time, instead of asking what’s wrong with this person, you wonder what you did wrong.

The shaman says nothing. He still doesn’t trust me.

Is it curable?

“There’s a cure, but it belongs to God.”

Yes, I know, but how does God cure it?

“It varies. Look into my eyes.”

I obey and fall into some sort of trance, unable to control where I’m going.

“In the name of the forces that guide my work, by the power given to me, I ask the spirits who protect me to destroy your life and that of your family if you decide to turn me over to the police or report me to the immigration authorities.”

He waves his hand a few times around my head. It feels like the most surreal thing in the world, and I want to get up and leave. But when I come to, he’s already back to normal—neither friendly nor aloof.

“You may ask. I trust you now.”

I’m a little frightened. But it really isn’t my intention to harm this man. I order another cup of tea and explain exactly what I want. The doctors I “interviewed” say that healing takes a long time. The security guard suggested that—I weigh my words carefully—God was able to use the shaman as a channel to end a serious depression problem.

“We are the ones who create the messes in our heads. It does not come from outside. All you have to do is ask the aid of the guardian spirit who enters your soul and helps tidy the house. But no one believes in guardian spirits anymore. They are there watching us, dying to help, but no one calls on them. My job is to bring them closer to those in need and wait for them to do their work. That’s all.”

Let’s say, hypothetically, that during one of these moments of aggression, a person devises a Machiavellian plan to destroy another person. Like slandering someone at work, for example.

“It happens every day.”

I know, but when this aggression passes, when the person returns to normal, won’t they be consumed by guilt?

“Sure. And over the years, this merely worsens their condition.”

So Calvin’s motto—after the darkness, light—is wrong.

“What?”

Nothing. I was rambling on about the monument in the park.

“Yes, there is light at the end of the tunnel, if that’s what you mean. But sometimes, when the person crosses through the darkness and reaches the other side, he leaves an enormous path of destruction behind him.”

Perfect, back to the subject of your method.

“It’s not my method. It has been used for many years against stress, depression, irritability, suicide attempts, and the numerous other ways mankind has found to harm himself.” My God, I’ve found the right person. I need to keep my cool.

We could call it a …

“… self-induced trance. Self-hypnosis. Meditation. Every culture has a name for it. But remember that the Medical Society of Switzerland doesn’t look kindly upon these things.”

I explain that I do yoga and that I still can’t manage to reach the state where problems are sorted out and solved.

“Are we talking about you or a story for the newspaper?”

Both. I let down my guard because I know I have no secrets with this man. I was sure of it the moment he asked me to look into his eyes. I explain that his concern with anonymity is absolutely ridiculous—a lot of people know that he sees people at his house in Veyrier. And many people, including prison security guards, use his services. That’s what the guy at the paper explained to me.

“Your problem is with the night,” he says.

Yes, that’s my problem. Why?

“At night, simply because it is night, we are able to revive our childhood terrors: the fear of being alone, the fear of the unknown. But if we can defeat these ghosts, we will easily defeat the ones that appear during the day. We will not fear the darkness because we are partners of the light.”

I feel like I’m sitting with a schoolteacher who is explaining the obvious. Could I go to your house to do a …

“… an exorcism?”

That hadn’t occurred to me, but it is exactly what I need.

“There is no need. I see a lot of darkness in you, but also a lot of light. And in this case, I’m sure that in the end the light will overcome.”

I’m on the verge of tears. The man is actually delving into my soul, and I can’t explain exactly how.

“Let yourself get carried away by the night from time to time. Look up at the stars and try to get drunk on the sense of infinity. The night, with all its charms, is also a path to enlightenment. Just as a dark well has thirst-quenching water at its bottom, the night, whose mystery brings us closer to the mystery of God, has a flame capable of enkindling our soul hidden in its shadows.”

We talk for almost two hours. He insists I need nothing more than to let myself be carried away—and that even my greatest fears are unfounded. I explain my desire for revenge. He listens without commenting or judging a single word. The longer we speak, the better I begin to feel.

He suggests we leave and walk through the park. At one of its gates are huge plastic chess pieces and several black and white squares painted on the ground. Some people are playing, despite the cold weather.

He hardly says anything more; I keep on talking nonstop, sometimes thankful and sometimes cursing the life I lead. We stop in front of one of the giant chessboards. He seems more attentive to the game than to my words. I stop whining and also start following the game, though it doesn’t interest me one bit.

“Go all the way,” he says.

Go all the way? Cheat on my husband, put the cocaine in my rival’s purse, and call the police?

He laughs.

“Do you see these players? They always have to make the next move. They can’t stop in the middle, because that means accepting defeat. There comes a time when defeat is inevitable, but at least they fought until the end. We already have everything we need. There is nothing to improve. Thinking we are good or bad, fair or unfair, all that is nonsense. We know that today Geneva is covered by a cloud that might take months to go away, but sooner or later, it will leave. So go ahead and let yourself go.”

Not one word to stop me from doing something I shouldn’t?

“No. By doing what you shouldn’t, you will realize it yourself. As I said in the restaurant, the light in your soul is greater than the darkness. But for this you must go all the way to the end of the game.”

In my whole life, I don’t think that I’ve ever heard such a preposterous piece of advice. I thank him for his time, ask if I owe him anything. He says no.

Back at the newspaper, the editor asks what took me so long. I explain that because it’s a rather unorthodox topic, it took me a long time to get what I needed.

“And since it’s not all that orthodox, might we be encouraging any unlawful activity?”

Are we encouraging unlawful activity when we bombard young people with incentives for excessive consumption? Are we encouraging accidents when we advertise that new cars can reach speeds of up to 250 kilometers per hour? Are we encouraging depression and suicidal tendencies when we publish articles on successful people without explaining how they got there and make everyone else convince themselves they’re worthless?

The editor-in-chief doesn’t want to discuss this. It could be interesting for the newspaper, whose headline piece of the day was “Chain of Happiness Raises 8 Million Francs for Asian Country.” I write a six-hundred-word article—the most space they would give me—and it’s all taken from Internet searches. I wasn’t able to use anything from my conversation with the shaman that had turned into a treatment session.

JACOB! He’s just risen from the dead and sends me a message inviting me for coffee—as if there weren’t so many other interesting things to do in life. Where is the sophisticated wine taster? Where is the man who now holds power, the greatest aphrodisiac in the world?

But most of all, where is the teenage boyfriend I met back when anything was possible?

He married, changed, and sends a message inviting me for coffee. Couldn’t he be more creative and suggest a nudist run in Chamonix? Maybe then I’d be more interested.

I have no intention of answering. I was given the cold shoulder and humiliated by his silence for weeks on end. Does he think I’ll come running just because he gave me the honor of an invitation?

After I go to bed, I listen with headphones to one of the tapes I recorded of the Cuban shaman. When I was still pretending that I was just a journalist—and not a woman frightened by herself—I had asked if self-hypnosis (or his preferred term, “meditation”) could make someone forget about another person. I broached the subject in a way that would allow him to understand “love” as “trauma by verbal attack,” which was exactly what we were talking about at that moment.

“That is a somewhat murky area,” he replied. “Yes, we can induce relative amnesia, but since this person is associated with other facts and events, it would be practically impossible to eliminate someone completely. What’s more, forgetting is the wrong approach. You should face things head-on.”

I listen to the whole tape, and then try to distract myself, making pledges and jotting down a few more things in my calendar, but nothing works. Before I go to sleep, I send a message to Jacob accepting his invitation.

I can’t control myself, that’s my problem.

I WON’T tell you I missed you because you won’t believe me. I won’t tell you I didn’t reply to your messages because I’m afraid of falling in love again.”

I really don’t believe any of that. But I let him continue to try to explain the unexplainable. Here we are in a regular café, nothing special, in Collonges-sous-Salève, a village on our border with France that’s located fifteen minutes from my work. The small handful of other patrons are truck drivers and workers from a nearby quarry.

I’m the only woman, except for the one working the bar, who walks from one end of it to the other, overly made-up and engaging the customers in witty banter.

“It’s been a living hell since you showed up in my life. Ever since that day in my office when you came to interview me and we exchanged intimacies.”

“Exchanged intimacies” is a figure of speech. I gave him oral sex. He did nothing to me.

“I can’t say I’m unhappy, but I’m increasingly lonely, though no one knows. Even when I’m among friends, and the atmosphere and drinks are great, the conversation is lively and I’m smiling, all of a sudden, for no reason, I can’t pay attention to the conversation. I say I have an important commitment and I leave. I know what I’m missing: you.”

It’s time to get my revenge: You don’t think you might need some marriage counseling?

“I do. But I would have to go with Marianne, and I can’t convince her. For her, philosophy explains everything. She’s noticed I’m different, but attributes it to the elections.”

The shaman was right when he said we must take things all the way. At this moment, Jacob has just saved his wife from a serious drug-trafficking charge.

“I’ve taken on too many responsibilities and I’m not yet accustomed to it. According to her, I’ll be used to everything soon. What about you?”

What about me? What exactly do you want to know?

All my efforts to resist fell apart the moment I saw him sitting alone at a table in the corner with a Campari and soda in front of him, and he smiled as soon as he saw me enter. We’re like teenagers again, only this time we can drink alcohol without breaking any laws. I hold his icy hands—icy from cold or fear, I don’t know.

I’m fine, I say. I suggest that next time we meet earlier—daylight savings time is over and it’s getting dark fast.

He agrees and gives me a discreet kiss on the lips, anxious not to draw attention from the men around us.

“For me, one of the worst things are the beautiful sunny days this autumn. I open the curtains in my office and see people out there, some walking and holding hands without having to worry about the consequences. And I can’t show my love.”

Love? Did that Cuban shaman feel sorry for me and ask for some help from mysterious spirits?

I expected almost anything from this meeting, except a man opening his soul to me like he is doing now. My heart beats stronger and stronger—from joy, surprise. I won’t ask why this is happening.

“See, it’s not that I’m jealous of others. I just don’t understand why they can be happy and I can’t.”

He pays the bill in euros, we cross the border on foot and walk toward our cars, which are parked on the other side of the street—i.e., Switzerland.

There is no more time for displays of affection. We say good-bye with three kisses on the cheek and each one heads toward his or her destiny.

Just like what happened at the golf club, I am unable to drive when I reach my car. I put on a cowl scarf to protect me from the cold and start to walk aimlessly around the hamlet. I pass a post office and a hairdresser. I see an open bar, but would rather walk to unwind. I have no interest in understanding what is happening. I just want it to happen.

“I open the curtains in my office and see people out there, some walking and holding hands without having to worry about the consequences. And I can’t show my love,”he’d said.

And when I felt like no one, absolutely no one, was capable of understanding what was going on inside me—not a shaman, not a psychoanalyst, not even my husband—you materialized to explain it to me …

It’s loneliness. Even though I’m surrounded by loved ones who care about me and want only the best, it’s possible they try to help only because they feel the same thing—loneliness—and why, in a gesture of solidarity, you’ll find the phrase “I am useful, even if alone” carved in stone.

Though the brain says all is well, the soul is lost, confused, doesn’t know why life is being unfair to it. But we still wake up in the morning and take care of our children, our husband, our lover, our boss, our employees, our students, those dozens of people who make an ordinary day come to life.

And we often have a smile on our face and a word of encouragement, because no one can explain their loneliness to others, especially when we are always in good company. But this loneliness exists and eats away at the best parts of us because we must use all our energy to appear happy, even though we will never be able to deceive ourselves. But we insist, every morning, on showing only the rose that blooms, and keep the thorny stem that hurts us and makes us bleed hidden within.

Even knowing that everyone, at some point, has felt completely and utterly alone, it is humiliating to say, “I’m lonely, I need company. I need to kill this monster that everyone thinks is as imaginary as a fairy-tale dragon, but isn’t.” But it isn’t. I wait for a pure and virtuous knight, in all his glory, to come defeat it and push it into the abyss for good, but that knight never comes.

Yet we cannot lose hope. We start doing things we don’t usually do, daring to go beyond what is fair and necessary. The thorns inside us will grow larger and more overwhelming, yet we cannot give up halfway. Everyone is looking to see the final outcome, as though life were a huge game of chess. We pretend it doesn’t matter whether we win or lose, the important thing is to compete. We root for our true feelings to stay opaque and hidden, but then …

… instead of looking for companionship, we isolate ourselves even more in order to lick our wounds in silence. Or we go out for dinner or lunch with people who have nothing to do with our lives and spend the whole time talking about things that are of no importance. We even manage to distract ourselves for a while with drink and celebration, but the dragon lives on until the people who are close to us see that something is wrong and begin to blame themselves for not making us happy. They ask what the problem is. We say that everything is fine, but it’s not …

Everything is awful. Please, leave me alone, because I have no more tears to cry or heart left to suffer. All I have is insomnia, emptiness, and apathy, and, if you just ask yourselves, you’re feeling the same thing. But they insist that this is just a rough patch or depression because they are afraid to use the real and damning word: loneliness.

Meanwhile, we continue to relentlessly pursue the only thing that would make us happy: the knight in shining armor who will slay the dragon, pick the rose, and clip the thorns. Many claim that life is unfair. Others are happy because they believe that this is exactly what we deserve: loneliness, unhappiness. Because we have everything and they don’t.

But one day those who are blind begin to see. Those who are sad are comforted. Those who suffer are saved. The knight arrives to rescue us, and life is vindicated once again.

Still, you have to lie and cheat, because this time the circumstances are different. Who hasn’t felt the urge to drop everything and go in search of their dream? A dream is always risky, for there is a price to pay. That price is death by stoning in some countries, and in others it could be social ostracism or indifference. But there is always a price to pay. You keep lying and people pretend they still believe, but secretly they are jealous, make comments behind your back, say you’re the very worst, most threatening thing there is. You are not an adulterous man, tolerated and often even admired, but an adulterous woman, one who is sleeping with someone else and deceiving her husband, her poor husband, always so understanding and loving …

But only you know that this husband is unable to keep the loneliness at bay. Because something has been missing that even you don’t know how to pinpoint, because you love him and don’t want to lose him. But a shining knight promising adventure in distant lands is a much stronger lure than your desire for everything to remain as it is, even if at parties people stare at you and whisper among themselves that it would be better to tie a millstone around your neck and toss you overboard than let you be a terrible example.

And to make matters worse, your husband quietly puts up with everything. He doesn’t complain or make a scene. He believes it will pass. You also know it will pass, but now it’s stronger than you.

That’s the way things go for a month, two months, a year … and everyone quietly puts up with it.

But it’s not about asking permission. You look back and see that you also used to think like these people who have become your accusers. You also used to condemn those you knew were adulterers and imagined that if you lived somewhere else, the punishment would be stoning. Until the day it happens to you. Then you come up with a million excuses for your behavior and say you have the right to be happy, even for a little while, because dragon-slaying knights exist only in fairy tales. The real dragons never die, but you still have the right, just once in your life, to live out an adult fairy tale.

Then comes the moment you tried to avoid at all costs, one that you had been putting off for so long: the moment you must decide to stay together or to separate forever.

Along with this moment, however, comes the fear of making a mistake, no matter what decision you choose. And you hope someone will make the choice for you, throw you out of the house or bed, because it is impossible to go on like this. After all, we are no longer one person, we have become two or many, each completely different. And since you’ve never been through this before, you don’t know where it will end. The fact is that now you are facing a situation that will make one person suffer, or two, or many.

But mostly it will destroy you, whatever your choice.

TRAFFIC is at a standstill. Today of all days!

Geneva, with fewer than two hundred thousand inhabitants, behaves as if it were the center of the world. And there are people who believe this and fly all the way from their own countries to host what they call “summits.” These meetings usually take place on the outskirts of town, and traffic is rarely affected. At most, we catch sight of a few helicopters flying over the city.

I don’t know what happened today, but they closed one of our main roads. I read today’s papers, but not the city sections with the local news. I know that major world powers send their representatives here to discuss the threat of nuclear-weapons proliferation, “on neutral ground.” And does this affect my life?

A lot. I can’t afford to be late. I should have used public transportation instead of taking this stupid car.

Every year, Europe spends approximately 74 million Swiss francs (more than 80 million U.S. dollars) on hiring private detectives who specialize in following, photographing, and providing evidence that a client’s spouse is cheating on them. While the rest of the continent is in crisis and companies are going bankrupt and laying off workers, the infidelity market has seen tremendous growth.

And it’s not only the detectives who profit. Developers have created smartphone apps like SOS Alibi. The way it works is simple: at a set time it sends your partner a sweet message as though you were still at your office. So while you’re between the sheets drinking glasses of champagne, a text pops up on the partner’s phone letting them know you’ll be late leaving work because of an unexpected meeting. Another app, Excuse Machine, offers a series of excuses in French, German, and Italian—and you can choose whichever is most convenient that day.

But besides detectives and programmers, hotels have really come out the winner. With the one in seven Swiss adults who are having an extramarital affair, according to official statistics, and considering the number of married people in the country, we’re talking about four hundred fifty thousand individuals looking for a discreet room where they can meet. To attract customers, the manager of one luxury hotel once said, “We have a system that enables credit-card charges to appear as lunch in our restaurant.” The establishment has become a favorite among those willing to cough up 600 Swiss francs for one afternoon. That is precisely where I’m headed.

After a stressful half an hour, I leave my car with the valet and run up to the room. Thanks to their e-mail service, I know exactly where to go without asking anything at the front desk.

From the café on the French border to where I am now, nothing more was needed—no explanations, no vows of love, not even another meeting—for us to be sure that this was what we really wanted. We were both afraid to think too much and back down, so the decision was made without questions or answers.

IT IS no longer autumn, it is spring. I am sixteen again, and he’s fifteen. I’ve mysteriously regained my soul’s virginity (since my body’s is lost forever). We kiss. My God, I’d forgotten what this is like, I think. I’ve just been living in search of what I wanted—what and how to do it, when to stop—and accepting the same from my husband. It was all wrong. We were no longer completely surrendering to each other.

Maybe he’ll stop now. We hardly ever went beyond kissing before. They were long and delicious, exchanged in a hidden corner of the school, although I wanted everyone to see and envy me.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue tastes bitter, like a mixture of cigarettes and vodka. I’m embarrassed and tense; I need to smoke a cigarette and have a vodka for us to be on equal footing, I think. I push him away gently, go to the minibar, and down a small bottle of gin in one gulp. The alcohol burns my throat. I ask for a cigarette.