Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

He gives me one, but not before reminding me it’s a nonsmoking room. It feels so lovely to break the rules, even stupid ones like that! I take a drag and feel ill. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the smoking, but I go to the bathroom and toss the cigarette into the toilet, to be safe. He comes after me, grabs me from behind, and kisses the nape of my neck and my ears. His body is pressed against mine, and I feel his erection on my back.

Where are my morals? What will happen after I leave here and resume my normal life?

He pulls me back into the room. I turn around and kiss his mouth and tongue that taste like tobacco, saliva, and vodka. I bite his lips and he touches my breasts for the first time since high school. I take off my dress and throw it in the corner. For a split second, I feel a little ashamed of my body—I’m no longer the girl from that spring at school. We remain standing. The curtains are open and Lake Léman is the only barrier between us and the people in the buildings on the far shore.

I imagine someone sees us, and this arouses me even more than him kissing my breasts. I’m a slut, a whore hired by an executive to screw at a hotel, up for absolutely anything.

But this feeling doesn’t last long. Once again I am sixteen, when I masturbated several times a day to the thought of him. I pull his head to my chest and ask him to bite my nipple, hard, and I cry out a little from pain and pleasure.

He is still dressed, and I am completely naked. I push his head and ask him to go down on me. Instead, he throws me on the bed, takes off his clothes, and gets on top. His hands search for something on the nightstand. This makes us lose our balance and we fall to the ground. A sure sign of a beginner—but we are beginners and we aren’t ashamed of it.

He finds what he was looking for: a condom. He asks me to put it on with my mouth. I do, inexperienced and rather awkward. I don’t understand the need for it. I can’t believe that he thinks that I go around sleeping with everyone and might have something. But I respect his wish. I can still taste the unpleasant flavor of the lubricant covering the latex, but I’m determined to learn how to do it. I don’t let it come across that it’s the first time I’ve ever used one of those things.

When I finish, he flips me over and asks me to get on all fours. My God, it’s happening! And I’m happy.

But he starts to take me in the behind instead of my vagina. It frightens me. I ask what he’s doing, but he doesn’t answer, just takes something else from the nightstand and puts it on my anus. I believe it’s Vaseline, or something similar. Then he asks me to masturbate and, very slowly, he enters me.

I follow his instructions, again feeling like a teenager for whom sex is taboo. It hurts. Oh my God, it hurts a lot. I’m unable to masturbate—I just grab on to the sheets and bite my lips to keep from screaming in pain.

“Tell me it hurts. Say you’ve never done this. Scream,” he orders.

Once again I obey him. It’s almost the truth—I’ve done it four or five times and never liked it.

His movements increase with intensity. He moans with pleasure. Me, with pain. He grabs me by the hair like an animal, a mare, and his pace grows faster. He withdraws in a single motion, rips off the condom, turns me over, and comes on my face.

He tries to contain the moans, but they are stronger than his self-control. He slowly lowers himself on top of me. I’m frightened and also fascinated by it all. He goes to the bathroom, throws the condom in the trash, and returns.

Lying down beside me, he lights another cigarette and uses the vodka glass as an ashtray, resting it on my belly. We spend a long time staring at the ceiling, saying nothing. He caresses me. He is no longer the violent man from a few moments ago, but the young romantic who used to talk to me about galaxies and astrology in school.

“We can’t leave any smell.”

His words are a brutal return to reality. Apparently, it’s not his first time. That explains the condom and the particulars that make sure everything stays as it was before we entered the room. I silently insult him and hate him, but I disguise it with a smile and ask if he has any tips for eliminating odors.

He says to take a shower when I get home before hugging my husband. He also suggests that I throw away these panties, because the Vaseline will leave a mark.

“If he’s home, run in and say you’re dying to go to the bathroom.”

I feel disgusted. I waited so long to act like a tigress and ended up being used like a mare. But that’s life; reality never comes close to our teenage romantic fantasies.

Perfect, I’ll do that.

“I’d like to see you again.”

Right. All it took was this simple phrase to transform what seemed like hell, a mistake, a misstep, back into heaven. Yes, I would also like to see you again. I was nervous and shy, but next time will be better.

“Actually, it was great.”

Yes, it was great. I just now realize that. We know this story is doomed to end, but it doesn’t matter now.

I don’t say anything more. I just enjoy this moment by his side and wait for him to finish his cigarette before getting dressed and going downstairs ahead of him.

I’ll leave by the same door through which I entered.

I’ll take the same car and I’ll drive to the same place I return to every night. I’ll run in, saying I have indigestion and need to go to the bathroom. I’ll take a bath, removing what little of him remains on me.

And only then will I kiss my husband and my children.

WE DID not have the same intentions in that hotel room.

I was after a lost romance; he was driven by a hunter’s instinct.

I was looking for the boy from my adolescence; he wanted the attractive and bold woman who had gone to interview him before the elections.

I believed my life could take another direction; he just thought that afternoon would mean something other than the boring and endless discussions at the Council of States.

For him it was just a simple, but dangerous, distraction. For me it was something unforgivable and cruel, a display of narcissism mixed with selfishness.

Men cheat because it’s in their genetic code. A woman does it because she doesn’t have enough dignity; in addition to handing over her body, she always ends up handing over a bit of her heart. A true crime. A theft. It’s worse than robbing a bank, because if one day she is discovered (and she always is), she will cause irreparable damage to her family.

For men it is just a “stupid mistake.” For women, it feels like a spiritual crime against all those who surround her with affection and support her as a mother and wife.

As I’m lying next to my husband, I imagine Jacob lying next to Marianne. He has other worries on his mind: political meetings tomorrow, tasks to complete, his busy schedule. While I, the idiot, am staring at the ceiling and remembering each second I spent in that hotel, watching the same porn movie over and over, in which I had the leading role.

I remember the moment I looked out the window and wished someone were watching us with binoculars—perhaps even masturbating while watching me be submissive, humiliated, taken from behind. Just the idea turned me on! It drove me crazy and led me to discover a side of myself of which I was altogether unaware.

I’m in my thirties. I’m not a child, and I thought there was nothing new about me left to discover. But there is. I am a mystery to myself; I opened the floodgates and I want to go further, try everything that I know exists—masochism, group sex, fetishes, everything.

I’m unable to say that I don’t want any more, that I don’t love him, or that it was just a fantasy created by my loneliness.

Maybe I don’t actually love him. But I love what he has awakened inside me. He treated me with zero respect, left me stripped of my dignity. Undeterred, he did exactly what he wanted, while I strived, once again, to try to please someone.

My mind travels to a secret and unfamiliar place. This time I’m the dominatrix. He’s naked, but now I’m the one giving orders. I tie up his hands and feet, and I sit on his face and force him to kiss my vagina until I can’t take any more orgasms. Then I turn him over and penetrate him with my fingers: first one, then two, three. He moans with pain and pleasure while I masturbate him with my free hand, feeling the hot liquid run down my fingers. I bring them up to my mouth and lick, one at a time, before wiping them on his face. He begs for more. I say that’s enough. I’m the one in charge!

Before I go to sleep, I masturbate and have two orgasms, one after the other.

IT’S THE same scene today as it is every morning: my husband reads the daily news on his iPad; the children sit ready for school; the sun streams through the window; and I pretend to be worried when I’m actually scared to death one of them suspects something.

“You seem happier today.”

I seem happier, and I am, but I shouldn’t be. My experience yesterday was a risk for everyone, especially for me. Is there some underlying suspicion in his comment? I doubt it. He believes everything I tell him. Not because he’s a fool—far from it—but because he trusts me.

And that just makes me more upset. I’m not trustworthy.

Actually, yes, I am. I was led to that hotel on false pretenses. Is that a good excuse? No. It’s awful, because no one forced me to go there. I can always claim that I was feeling lonely and wasn’t getting the attention I needed, just understanding and tolerance. I can tell myself that I need to be defied, confronted, and questioned about what I do. I can claim that this happens to everyone, even if only in their dreams.

But deep down, what happened is very simple: I went to bed with a man because I was dying to do it. Nothing more. No intellectual or psychological justification. I wanted to screw. End of story.

I know people who married for security, status, and money. Love was the last thing on the list. But I married for love.

So why did I do what I did?

Because I feel lonely. Why?

“It’s so nice to see you happy,” he says.

I say that yes, I really am happy. The autumn morning is beautiful, the house is tidy, and I’m with the man I love.

He gets up and gives me a kiss. The children, even without quite understanding our conversation, smile.

“And I’m with the woman I love. But why are you telling me this now?”

Why not now?

“It’s the morning. I want you to tell me that again tonight, when we’re in bed together.”

My God, who am I?! Why am I saying these things? So he won’t suspect anything? Why don’t I just behave like I do every morning and play the efficient wife tending to her family’s well-being? What are these displays of affection? If I start to be too affectionate, it may raise suspicions.

“I can’t live without you,” he says, returning to his place at the table.

I’m lost. But, strangely, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about what happened yesterday.

WHEN I get to work, the editor-in-chief commends me. The article I suggested was published this morning.

“We’ve received a lot of e-mails for the newsroom, praising the story with the mysterious Cuban man. People want to know who he is. If he allows us to print his address, he’ll have work for quite a while.”

The Cuban shaman! If he reads the newspaper he’ll see he never told me any of what is in the article. I took everything from blogs on shamanism. Apparently, my crises aren’t limited to marital problems; now I’m starting to slip professionally.

I explain to the editor-in-chief about the moment the shaman looked in my eyes and threatened me if I revealed who he was. He says I shouldn’t believe in that sort of thing and asks if I can give his address to just one person: his wife.

“She’s been pretty stressed.”

Everyone’s pretty stressed, including the shaman. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to him.

He asks me to call right now.I do it, and I’m surprised by the Cuban man’s reaction. He thanks me for being honest and for keeping his identity a secret and praises my knowledge on the subject. I thank him, tell him about the reaction to the article, and ask if we can arrange another meeting.

“But we talked for two hours! The material you have must be more than enough!”

That’s not the way journalism works, I explain. What was published used very little from those two hours. Most of it I had to research. Now I need to approach the subject in a different way.

My boss is still standing next to me, listening to my side of the conversation and gesturing. Finally, when the shaman is almost ready to hang up, I insist that the article was lacking. I need to explore the female role in this “spiritual” quest, and my boss’s wife would like to meet him. He laughs. I will never break the deal I made with him, but I insist that everyone knows where he lives and the days he works.

Please, take it or leave it. If you don’t want to take the conversation further, I will find someone who will. There is no shortage of people claiming to be experts in treating patients on the verge of nervous breakdown. Your method is different, but you aren’t the only spiritual healer in the city. Many others, mostly Africans, have contacted us this morning looking to bring visibility to their work, earn money, and meet important people who could protect them in the event of a possible deportation case.

The Cuban is reluctant at first, but his vanity and fear of competition finally speak louder. We arrange to meet at his house in the village of Veyrier. I’m eager to see how he lives—it will liven up the article.

We are in the small living room converted into an office in his home. On the wall are diagrams that look imported from India: the locations of energy centers, the soles of the feet with their meridians. Several crystals rest on top of a piece of furniture.

We’ve already had a very interesting conversation about the role of women in shamanist rituals. He explains to me that at birth we all have moments of revelation, and this is even more common with women. As any scholar can see, the goddesses of agriculture are always female, and medicinal herbs were introduced to cave-dwelling tribes by the hands of women. They are much more sensitive to the spiritual and emotional world, and this makes them prone to crises that doctors used to call “hysteria” and today are called “bipolar”—the tendency to go from absolute euphoria to profound sadness several times a day. For the Cuban man, the spirits are much more inclined to speak with women than with men, because they better understand a language that is not expressed in words.

I try to speak his language: Because of this oversensitivity, might there be the possibility of, say, an evil spirit driving women to do things we don’t want?

He doesn’t understand my question. I rephrase it. If women are unstable enough to go from happiness to sadness …

“Did I use the word ‘unstable’? I didn’t. Quite the contrary. Despite their heightened sensitivity, women are more steadfast than men.”

Like in love, for example. He agrees. I tell him everything that happened to me, and I begin to sob. He is unmoved. But his heart is not made of stone.

“When it comes to adultery, meditation helps little or not at all. In this case, the person is happy with what is occurring. They are maintaining the security of their relationship at the same time they experience adventure. It’s the ideal situation.”

What leads people to commit adultery?

“That’s not my area. I have a very personal view of the subject, but that shouldn’t be published.”

Please help me.

He lights some incense, asks me to sit in front of him with my legs crossed, and then settles into the same position. Previously severe, he now seems like a kind wise man, who is trying to help me.

“If married people, for whatever reason, decide to look for another partner, this does not necessarily mean that the couple’s relationship is not doing well. Nor do I believe that sex is the primary motive. It has more to do with boredom, with a lack of passion for life, with a shortage of challenges. It’s a combination of factors.”

And why does this happen?

“Because, ever since we’ve moved away from God, we live a fragmented existence. We try to find oneness, but we don’t know the way back; thus, we are in a state of constant dissatisfaction. Society prohibits and creates laws, but this does not solve the problem.”

I feel lighter, as if I’ve already acquired a different outlook. I can see it in his eyes: he knows what he’s saying because he’s already been through it.

“I met a man who was impotent when he was with his lover. Yet he loved being by her side, and she also felt good next to him.”

I can’t control myself. I ask if this man is him.

“Yes. My wife left me because of it. Which is no reason for such a drastic decision.”

And how did you react?

“I could have summoned spiritual assistance, but I would have paid for this in my next life. But I needed to understand why she had acted as she did. In order to resist the temptation to bring her back using magic, I started to study the subject.”

Grudgingly, the Cuban man takes on a professorial air.

“Researchers from the University of Texas in Austin tried to answer the question so many people pose: Why do men cheat more than women when they know that this behavior is self-destructive and will cause the people they love to suffer? The conclusion was that men and women have exactly the same desire to cheat as their partner. It just happens that women have more self-control.”

He looks at his watch. I ask that he please continue—perhaps he is glad to open up his soul.

“Brief encounters without any emotional involvement on the part of the man, and with the sole aim of satisfying sexual urges, enable the preservation and proliferation of the species. Intelligent women should not blame men for this. They try to resist, but they are biologically inclined to do it. Am I being too technical?”

No.

“Have you noticed how human beings are more frightened by spiders and snakes than by automobiles despite the fact that deaths from traffic accidents are much more frequent? This occurs because our minds are still living in caveman times, when snakes and spiders were lethal. The same thing happens with a man’s need to have multiple women. In those times he went hunting, and nature taught him that preservation of the species is a priority; you must get as many women pregnant as possible.”

And didn’t the women also think about preserving the species?

“Of course they did. But while man’s commitment to the species lasts, at most, eleven minutes, for the woman, each child means at least nine months of pregnancy. Not to mention having to take care of the offspring, feed it, and protect it from danger like spiders and snakes. So your instincts were developed differently. Affection and self-control became more important.”

He is talking about himself. He is trying to justify what he did. I look around at those Indian maps, the crystals, the incense. Deep down we’re all the same. We make the same mistakes and walk around with the same unanswered questions.

The Cuban man looks at his watch again and says our time is up. Another client will be arriving, and he tries to keep his patients from crossing paths in the waiting room. He gets up and walks me to the door.

“I don’t want to be rude, but please, don’t look me up again. I already told you everything I had to say.”

IT’S IN the Bible:

It happened, late one afternoon, when David arose from his couch and was walking on the roof of the king’s house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful. And David sent and inquired about the woman.

And one said, “Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?” So David sent messengers and took her, and she came to him, and he lay with her. Then she returned to her house. And the woman conceived, and she sent and told David, “I am pregnant.”

Then David ordered that Uriah, a warrior faithful to him, be sent to the battlefront on a dangerous mission. He was killed and Bathsheba went to live with the king in his palace.

David—the great example, the idol for generations, the fearless warrior—not only committed adultery, he also ordered the murder of his rival, betraying his loyalty and goodwill.

I don’t need biblical justification for adultery or murder. But I remember this story from my school days—the same school where Jacob and I kissed in the spring.

Those kisses had to wait many years to be repeated, and when it finally happened, it was exactly as I hadn’timagined. It seemed sordid, selfish, sinister. But I loved it anyway and wanted it to happen again, as soon as possible.

Jacob and I meet four times in two weeks. The nervousness gradually disappears. We have both normal and unconventional intercourse. I’m still not able to live out my fantasy of tying him up and making him kiss me down below until I can’t bear the pleasure, but I’ll get there.

LITTLE by little, Marianne loses her importance. Yesterday, I was with her husband again, and that shows just how insignificant she is in all this. I no longer want Mme König to find out or even think of divorce, because this way I can have the pleasure of a lover without having to give up everything I’ve accomplished with hard work and self-control: my children, my husband, my job, and this house.

What will I do with the cocaine I’ve hidden, the cocaine that could be found at any moment? I spent a lot of money on it. I can’t try to resell it; I would be one step away from the Vandoeuvres prison. I vowed to never use it again. I could give it as a gift to the people I know who like it, but my reputation could be affected, or, worse, they might ask if I can get them more.

Achieving my dream of getting Jacob in bed took me to great heights and then brought me back down to reality. I discovered that although I thought it was love, what I am feeling is merely a crush, destined to end at any moment. And I’m not the least bit concerned with maintaining it: I already got the adventure, the pleasure of the transgression, the new sexual experiences, the joy. All without feeling a drop of remorse. I am giving myself the present that I deserve after behaving for so many years.

I am at peace. At least I was until today.

After so many days of sleeping well, I feel like the dragon has again emerged from the abyss from where it had been exiled.

AM I the problem or is it the coming of Christmas? This is the time of year that depresses me the most—and I’m not referring to a hormonal disorder or the absence of certain chemicals in the body. I am glad that things aren’t as over-the-top in Geneva as they are in other countries. I spent the holidays in New York once. Everywhere there were lights, tinsel, carolers, decorated windows, reindeer, bells, fake snowflakes, trees with ornaments in every size and color, smiles glued on everyone’s faces … And me, absolutely sure that I was a freak and the only one to feel completely alien. Although I’ve never taken LSD, I imagine you would need a triple dose of it to see all those colors.

The most we see here is a hint of decoration on the main street, most likely for the tourists. (Buy! Take something from Switzerland to your children!) But I still haven’t been by there yet, so this strange feeling can’t be Christmas. There isn’t a single Santa Claus hanging from a chimney, reminding us we should be happy the whole month of December.

I toss and turn in bed, as usual. My husband sleeps, as usual. Tonight we made love. This has become more frequent, I don’t know if it’s to cover up my affair or because my libido has been heightened. The fact is that I’ve been more sexually excited by him. He doesn’t ask me questions when I get home late, and he doesn’t show that he’s jealous. Except for the first time, when I had to rush straight to the bathroom, I follow Jacob’s instructions to eliminate all traces of odors and stained clothing. Now I always bring an extra pair of panties, take a shower at the hotel, and enter the elevator with flawless makeup. I don’t show any nervousness or raise suspicions. Twice I ran into people I know, and I made sure to say hello and leave them asking: “Is she meeting someone?” It’s good for the ego and absolutely safe. After all, if they’re in the elevator of a hotel in the same city where they live, they’re just as guilty as I am.

I fall asleep and then awake again a few minutes later. Victor Frankenstein created his monster, and Dr. Jekyll allowed his to come to the surface. This still doesn’t frighten me, but perhaps I need to go ahead and lay down a few rules for my behavior.

I have a side that is honest, kind, caring, professional, and capable of keeping my cool at difficult moments, especially during interviews, when some subjects prove aggressive or evade my questions.

But I am discovering a more spontaneous, impatient, wild side, one that is not confined to the hotel room where I meet with Jacob and one that is beginning to affect my daily routine. I am more easily irritated when a salesperson chats with a customer even though there’s a line. Now I go to the supermarket only out of necessity, and I’ve already stopped looking at prices and expiration dates. When someone says something I don’t agree with, I make a point of responding. I discuss politics. I defend movies everyone hates and criticize those everyone loves. I love surprising people with ridiculous and out-of-place opinions. In short, I’ve stopped being the reserved woman I always was.

People have started to notice. “You’re different!” they say. It’s one step away from “You’re hiding something,” which soon turns into “You only need to hide if you’re doing something you shouldn’t.”

I may just be paranoid, of course. But today I feel like two different people.

All David needed to do was order his men to bring him that woman. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation. And when trouble arose, he sent her husband to the battlefront. It’s different in my case. As discreet as the Swiss are, there are two situations when they become unrecognizable.

The first is in traffic. If someone lingers a fraction of a second to start his car after the light turns green, we immediately start to honk. If someone changes lanes, even with a turn signal flashing, he will always get a dirty look in the rearview mirror.

The second concerns the dangerous event of change, whether it’s our house, job, or behavior. Here, everything is stable, everyone behaves as expected. Please don’t try to be different or suddenly reinvent yourself, because you’ll be threatening our whole society. This country worked hard to reach its “finished” state; we don’t want to go back to being “under renovation.”

MY ENTIRE family and I are at the place where William, Victor Frankenstein’s brother, was murdered. For centuries, this was a swamp. After Calvin’s ruthless hands turned Geneva into a respectable city, the sick were brought here, usually to die of hunger and exposure, and thus keeping the city from being infected by any epidemics.

Plainpalais is huge, the only spot in the city center with virtually no greenery. In winter, the wind is bone-chilling. In summer, the sun makes us drip with sweat. It’s ridiculous. But since when have things needed a good reason to exist?

It’s Saturday and there are antiques vendors with stalls scattered all around. This market has become a tourist attraction and even appears in travel guides as a “good thing to do.” Sixteenth-century relics intermingle with VCRs. Antique bronze sculptures from the remote corners of Asia are displayed alongside horrible furniture from the eighties. The place is swarming with people. A few connoisseurs patiently examine a piece and talk at length with the vendors. The majority, tourists and onlookers, find things they will never need but end up buying because they’re so cheap. They return home, use them once, and then put them in the garage, thinking: “It’s completely useless, but it was a bargain.”

I have to keep the children under control the entire time; they want to touch everything, from valuable crystal vases to fancy toys from the turn of the nineteenth century. But at least they’re learning that intelligent life exists beyond video games.

One of them asks me if we can buy a metal clown with a movable mouth and limbs. My husband knows their interest in the toy will last only until we get home. He says it’s “old” and that we can buy something new on the way back. At the same time, their attention is diverted by some boxes of marbles, which children used to play with in the backyard.

My eyes fixate on a small painting; it’s of a nude woman, lying in bed, and an angel in the process of turning away. I ask the vendor how much it costs. Before telling me the price (a pittance), he explains that it’s a reproduction done by a local unknown painter. My husband observes us without saying a word and, before I can thank the man for the information and move on, he’s already paid for it.

Why did you do that?

“It represents an ancient myth. When we get back home I’ll tell you the story.”

I want to fall in love with him again. I never stopped loving him—I’ve always loved him and always will—but our life together is verging on monotony. Love can withstand this, but for lust, it’s fatal.

I am going through an extremely tough time. I know my relationship with Jacob has no future and I’ve turned my back on the man with whom I’ve built a life.

Whoever says “love is enough” is lying. It isn’t and it never has been. The big problem is that people believe what they see in books and movies—the couple that strolls along the beach holding hands, gazes at the sunset, and makes passionate love every day in nice hotels overlooking the Alps. My husband and I have done all that, but the magic lasts only one or two years, at most.

Then comes marriage. Choosing and decorating the house, planning the nursery for the children to come, kisses, dreams, a champagne toast in the empty living room that will soon be exactly as we imagined—everything in its place. Two years after the first child is born, the house has no more room and, if we add something, we risk looking like we live to impress others and will spend the rest of our lives buying and cleaning antiques (which will later be sold for a song by our heirs and eventually wind up at the Plainpalais market).