Текст книги "Adultery"

Автор книги: Paulo Coelho

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

After three years of marriage, a person already knows exactly what the other wants and thinks. At dinner parties we are obliged to listen to the same stories we’ve heard time and time again, always feigning surprise and, occasionally, having to confirm them. Sex goes from being a passion to a duty, and that’s why it becomes increasingly sporadic. Before long it happens only once a week—if that. Women hang out and brag of their husbands’ insatiable fire, which is nothing but an outright lie. Everyone knows this, but no one wants to be left behind.

Then comes the time for the extramarital affairs. Women talk—do they ever!—about their lovers and their insatiable fire. There’s an element of truth in this, because more often than not it’s happening in the enchanted world of masturbation—just as real as that of the women who let themselves be wooed by the first man who appeared, regardless of his attributes. They buy expensive clothes and pretend to be modest, even though they’re exhibiting more sensuality than a sixteen-year-old girl—the only difference being that the girl knows the power she holds.

Finally, the time comes to resign ourselves to the monotony. The husband spends hours away from home, wrapped up in work, and the wife dedicates more time than necessary to taking care of the children. We are at this stage, and I am willing to do anything to change it.

Love alone is not enough. I need to fall in love with my husband.

Love isn’t just a feeling; it’s an art. And like any art, it takes not only inspiration, but also a lot of work.

Why is the angel turning away and leaving the woman alone in the bed?

“It’s not an angel. It’s Eros, the Greek god of love. The girl in the bed with him is Psyche.”

I open a bottle of wine and fill our glasses. He puts the painting above the unlit fireplace—often just a decorative feature in homes with central heating. Then he begins:

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who was admired by all, but no one dared to ask for her hand in marriage. In despair, the king consulted the god Apollo. He told him that Psyche should be dressed in mourning and left alone on top of a mountain. Before daybreak, a serpent would come to meet and marry her. The king obeyed, and all night the princess waited for her husband to appear, deathly afraid and freezing cold. Finally, she slept. When she awoke, she found herself crowned a queen in a beautiful palace. Every night her husband came to her and they made love, but he had imposed one condition: Psyche could have all she desired, but she had to trust him completely and could never see his face.”

How awful, I think, but I don’t dare interrupt him.

“The young woman lived happily for a long time. She had comfort, affection, joy, and she was in love with the man who visited her every night. However, occasionally she was afraid that she was married to a hideous serpent. Early one morning, while her husband slept, she lit a lantern and saw Eros, a man of incredible beauty, lying by her side. The light woke him, and seeing that the woman he loved was unable to fulfill his one request, Eros vanished. Desperate to get her lover back, Psyche submitted to a series of tasks given to her by Aphrodite, Eros’s mother. Needless to say, her mother-in-law was incredibly jealous of Psyche’s beauty and she did everything she could to thwart the couple’s reconciliation. In one of the tasks, Psyche opened a box that makes her fall into a deep sleep.”

I grow anxious to find out how the story will end.

“Eros was also in love and regretted not having been more lenient toward his wife. He managed to enter the castle and wake her with the tip of his arrow. ‘You nearly died because of your curiosity,’ he told her. ‘You sought security in knowledge and destroyed our relationship.’ But in love, nothing is destroyed forever. Imbued with this conviction, they go to Zeus, the god of gods, and beg that their union never be undone. Zeus passionately pleaded the cause of the lovers with strong arguments and threats until he gained Aphrodite’s support. From that day on, Psyche (our unconscious, but logical, side) and Eros (love) were together forever.”

I pour another glass of wine. I rest my head on his shoulder.

“Those who cannot accept this, and who always try to find an explanation for magical and mysterious human relationships, will miss the best part of life.”

Today I feel like Psyche on the cliff, cold and afraid. But if I can overcome this night and give in to the mystery and faith in life, I will awake in a palace. All I need is time.

THE BIG day finally arrives when both couples will be together at a reception given by an important local TV presenter. We talked about it yesterday in bed at the hotel while Jacob smoked his customary cigarette before getting dressed and leaving.

I couldn’t turn down the invitation because I’d already sent my RSVP. So had he, and changing his mind now would be terrible for his career.

I arrive with my husband at the TV station, and we are told the party is on the top floor. My phone rings before we get in the elevator, and I am forced to leave the queue and stay in the lobby, talking with my boss, while others arrive, smiling at me and my husband and nodding discreetly. Apparently, I know almost everyone.

My boss says my articles with the Cuban shaman—the second of which was published yesterday despite having been written more than a month ago—are a big hit. I have to write one more to complete the series. I explain that the man doesn’t want to speak with me anymore. He asks me to find someone else “in the industry,” because there is nothing less interesting than conventional opinions (psychologists, sociologists, et cetera). I don’t know anyone “in the industry,” but as I need to hang up, I promise to think about it.

Jacob and Mme König walk by and greet us with a nod. My boss was just about to hang up, but I decide to continue the conversation. God forbid we have to go up in the same elevator! “How about we put a cattle herder and a Protestant minister together?” I suggest. “Wouldn’t it be interesting to record their conversation about how they deal with stress or boredom?” The boss says it’s a great idea, but it would be even better to find someone “in the industry.” Right, I’ll try. The doors have closed and the elevator is gone. I can hang up without fear.

I explain to my boss that I don’t want to be the last one to arrive at the reception. I’m two minutes late. We live in Switzerland, where the clocks are always right.

Yes, I have behaved strangely over the last few months, but one thing hasn’t changed: I hate going to parties. I can’t understand why people enjoy them.

Yes, people enjoy them. Even when it comes to something professional like tonight’s cocktail hour—that’s right, a cocktail hour, not party—they get dressed up, put on makeup, and tell their friends, not without a certain air of ennui, that unfortunately they’ll be busy Tuesday because of the reception celebrating ten years of Pardonnez-moias presented by the handsome, intelligent, and photogenic Darius Rochebin. Everyone who’s “anyone” will be there, and the rest will have to settle for the photos that will be published in the only celebrity magazine for the entire population of French-speaking Switzerland.

Going to parties like this gives status and visibility. Occasionally our newspaper covers this type of event, and the day after we’ll receive phone calls from aides to important people, asking if the photos where they appear might be published and saying they would be extremely grateful. The next best thing to being invited is seeing your presence garner the spotlight it deserved. And there is nothing that better proves this than appearing in the newspaper wearing an outfit specially made for the occasion (although this is never admitted) and the same smile from all the other parties and receptions. Good thing I’m not the editor of the social column; in my current state as Victor Frankenstein’s monster, I would have already been fired.

The elevator doors open. There are two or three photographers in the lobby. We proceed to the main hall, which has a 360-degree view of the city. It looks like the eternal cloud decided to cooperate with Darius and lifted its gray cloak; we can see the sea of lights below.

I don’t want to stay long, I tell my husband. And I start chattering to ease the tension.

“We’ll leave whenever you want,” he interrupts.

The next moment we are busy greeting an infinite number of people who treat me as if I were a close friend. I reciprocate even though I don’t know their names. If the conversation drags on, I have a foolproof trick: I introduce my husband and say nothing. He introduces himself and asks the other person’s name. I listen to the answer and repeat, loud and clear: “Honey, don’t you remember so-and-so?”

So cynical!

I finish greeting them, and we go to a corner where I complain: Why do people have a habit of asking whether we remember them? There’s nothing more embarrassing. They all consider themselves important enough to be etched in my memory, even though I meet new people every day because of my job.

“Be more forgiving. People are having fun.”

My husband doesn’t know what he’s talking about. People are just pretending to have fun. What they’re really looking for is visibility, attention, and—every now and then—the opportunity to meet someone and close a business deal. The fate of people who think they’re so beautiful and powerful as they walk down the red carpet lies in the hands of an underpaid guy from the news department. The paginator receives the photos via e-mail and decides who should or shouldn’t appear in our small world of traditions and conventions. He is the one who places images of people of interest in the paper, leaving a small space for the famous photo with an overview of the party (or cocktail hour, or dinner, or reception). There, with a little luck, one or another might be recognized among the anonymous people who consider themselves very important.

Darius takes the stage and begins to share his experiences with all the important people he interviewed during his program’s ten-year span. I’m able to relax a bit and go to one of the windows with my husband. My internal radar already detected Jacob and Mme König. I want distance, and I imagine Jacob does, too.

“Is there something wrong?”

I knew it. Are you Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde today? Victor Frankenstein or his monster?

No, darling. I’m just avoiding the man I went to bed with yesterday. I suspect that everyone in this room knows it, and that the word “lovers” is written on our foreheads.

I smile and say something he’s tired of hearing, that I’m too old to go to parties. I would love to be home right now, taking care of our children instead of having left them with a babysitter. I’m not much of a drinker—I already get confused with all these people saying hello to me and making conversation. I have to feign interest in what they’re saying and respond with a question before I can finally put the hors d’oeuvre in my mouth and finish chewing without seeming rude.

A screen is lowered and a video clip starts, featuring the most important guests who’ve been on the program. I’ve worked with some of them, but most of them are foreigners visiting Geneva. As we all know, there’s always someone important in this city, and going on the show is obligatory.

“Let’s leave, then. He already saw you. We’ve done our social duty. Let’s rent a movie and enjoy the rest of the night together.”

No. We’ll stay a little longer, because Jacob and Mme König are here. It might seem suspicious to leave the party before the ceremony ends. Darius starts calling some of his show’s guests to the stage, and they make a short statement about the experience. I nearly die of boredom. Unaccompanied men start looking around, discreetly seeking single women. The women, in turn, look at one another: how they’re dressed, what makeup they’re wearing, if they’re here with husbands or lovers.

I look out at the city, lost in absent thoughts, just waiting for time to pass so we can leave quietly without arousing suspicion.

“It’s you!”

Me?

“Darling, he’s calling your name!”

Darius just invited me to the stage and I hadn’t heard. Yes, I had been on his show with the ex-president of Switzerland to talk about human rights. But I’m not that important. I never imagined this; it hadn’t been arranged, and I didn’t prepare anything to say.

But Darius gestures to me. The people all look my way, smiling. I walk toward him. I’ve regained my composure and am secretly happy, because Marianne wasn’t called, nor will she be. Jacob wasn’t called up, either, because the idea is for the evening to be enjoyable, not filled with political speeches.

I climb the makeshift stage—it’s a staircase linking the two areas of the hall at the top of the TV tower—give Darius a kiss, and start telling an uninteresting story about when I went on the show. The men continue their hunt, and the women continue looking at one another. Those nearest the stage pretend to be interested in what I’m saying. I keep my eyes on my husband; everyone who speaks in public has to choose someone to serve as support.

In the middle of my impromptu speech, I see something that absolutely should not happen: Jacob and Marianne König are standing next to my husband. All this had to have happened in the less than two minutes it took me to get to the stage and start the speech that, at this point, is already making the waiters circulate and most of the guests look away from the stage in search of something more attractive.

I say thank you as quickly as possible. The guests applaud. Darius gives me a kiss. I try to get to my husband and the Königs, but am waylaid by people who praise me for things I didn’t say and claim I was wonderful. They’re delighted with the series of articles on shamanism and suggest topics, hand me business cards, and discreetly offer themselves as “sources” on something that could be “very interesting.” All this takes about ten minutes. When I finally approach my destination, the three are smiling. They congratulate me, say I’m a great public speaker, and deliver the bad news:

“I explained to them that you’re tired and that our children are with the babysitter,” my husband says, “but Mme König insists on having dinner together.”

“I do. I suppose no one here has had dinner?” says Marianne.

Jacob has a fake smile on his face and agrees like a lamb to the slaughter.

In a split second, two hundred thousand excuses run through my head. But why? I have a fair amount of cocaine ready to be used at any moment, and what better than this “opportunity” to see if I’ll carry out my plan.

Besides, I have a morbid curiosity to see how this dinner goes.

It would be our pleasure, Mme König.

Marianne chooses the restaurant at Hotel Les Armures, which shows a certain lack of originality, as that’s where everyone usually takes their foreign visitors. The fondue is excellent, the staff strives to speak every language possible, and it’s located in the heart of the old city …  butfor someone who lives in Geneva, it is definitely nothing new.

We arrive after the Königs. Jacob is outside, enduring the cold in the name of his nicotine addiction. Marianne has already gone in. I suggest my husband also go in and keep her company while I wait for Mr. König to finish smoking. He says that the reverse would be better, but I insist—it wouldn’t be polite to leave two women alone at the table, even if just for a few minutes.

“The invitation caught me off guard, too,” says Jacob, as soon as my husband is gone.

I try to act as though nothing is wrong. Are you feeling guilty? Worried about a potential end to your unhappy marriage (with that stone-cold bitch, I’d like to add)?

“It’s not about that. It’s that—”

We’re interrupted by the bitch. A devilish grin on her lips, she greets me (again!) with the three customary pecks on the cheek and ordersher husband to put out his cigarette and come inside. I read between the lines: I’m suspicious of you two and think you must be planning something, but look, I’m clever, much more intelligent than you think.

We order the usual: fondue and raclette. My husband says he’s tired of eating cheese and picks something different: a sausage that is on the visitor menu. We also order wine, but Jacob doesn’t sniff, swirl, taste, and nod—that was just a dumb way of impressing me on the first day. While we wait for the food and make small talk, we finish the first bottle, which is soon replaced by a second. I ask my husband not to drink anymore, or we’ll have to leave the car again, and we’re much farther away from home than we were the previous time.

The food arrives. We open a third bottle of wine. The small talk continues; Jacob’s new routine as a member of the Council of States, congratulations for my two articles on stress (“a rather unusual approach”), and if it’s true the price of real estate will fall now that banking secrecy is disappearing and if the thousands of bankers will go with it. They are moving to Singapore or Dubai, where we spend the holiday season.

I keep waiting for the bull to enter the arena. But it doesn’t, and I lower my guard. I drink a bit more than I should and start to feel relaxed and cheerful. Then the doors swing wide open.

“The other day I was talking with some friends about the stupid feeling of jealousy,” says Marianne König. “What do you think about it?”

What do we think about a topic that no one talks about at dinner? The bitch knows how to choose her words well. She must have spent the whole day thinking about it. She called jealousy a “stupid feeling,” intending to leave me more exposed and vulnerable.

“I grew up witnessing terrible displays of jealousy at home,” says my husband.

What? He’s talking about his private life? To a stranger?

“So I promised myself I would never let that happen to me if I ever got married. It was hard at first, because our instinct is to control everything, even the uncontrollable, like love and fidelity. But I did it. And my wife, who meets with other people every day and sometimes comes home later than usual, has never heard a criticism or an insinuation from me.”

I’ve never heard this explanation. I didn’t know he’d grown up with jealousy all around him. The bitch manages to make everyone obey her command: let’s have dinner, put out your cigarette, talk about the topic I picked.

There are two reasons for what my husband just said. The first is that he is suspicious of her invitation and is trying to protect me. The second: he is telling me, in front of everyone, how important I am to him. I reach out my hand and touch his. I never imagined this. I thought he simply wasn’t interested in what I did.

“And what about you, Linda? Don’t you get jealous of your husband?”

Me?

Of course not. I trust him completely. I think jealousy is for sick, insecure people with no self-esteem, people who feel inferior and believe anyone can threaten their relationship. And you?

Marianne is caught in her own trap.

“Like I said, I think it’s a stupid feeling.”

Yes, you already said that. But if you found out your husband was cheating, what would you do?

Jacob goes pale. He restrains himself from drinking the entire contents of his wineglass.

“I believe my husband meets insecure people every day who must be dying of boredom in their own marriage and are destined to have a mediocre and repetitive life. I imagine there are some people like that in your line of work, too, who will go from junior reporter straight to retirement …”

“Many,” I reply with zero emotion in my voice. I help myself to more fondue. She stares me right in the eyes. I knowyou’re talking about me, but I don’t want my husband to suspect anything. I don’t care one bit about her and Jacob, who must have confessed everything, unable to stand the pressure.

My cool surprises me. Maybe it’s the wine or the monster having fun with all this. Maybe it’s the immense pleasure of being able to confront a woman who thinks she knows everything. “Go on,” I say, as I dunk the piece of bread in the melted cheese.

“As you all know, these unloved women aren’t a threat to me. Unlike you, I don’t have complete trust in Jacob. I know he’s already cheated on me a few times. The flesh is weak …”

Jacob laughs nervously and has another sip of wine. The bottle’s empty; Marianne motions to the waiter to bring another.

“… but I try to see it as part of a normal relationship. If my man wasn’t desired and pursued by these sluts, then he must be completely uninteresting. Instead of jealousy, you know what I feel? Horniness. I often take off my clothes, approach him naked, spread my legs, and ask him to do to me exactly what he did with them. Sometimes I ask him to tell me how it was, and this makes me come many times.”

“That’s all in Marianne’s fantasies,” says Jacob, rather unconvincingly. “She makes these things up. The other day she asked if I would like to go to a swingers club in Lausanne.”

He’s not joking, of course, but everyone laughs, including her.

To my horror, I discover that Jacob is enjoying being labeled the “unfaithful male.” My husband seems very interested in Marianne’s reply and asks her to talk a bit more about the arousal she gets from knowing about the extramarital affairs. He asks for the address of the swingers club and gazes at me, his eyes shining. He says it’s about time we tried something different. I don’t know if he’s trying to manage the almost unbearable atmosphere at the table or if he is actually interested in trying. Marianne says she doesn’t know the address, but if he gives her his phone number, she’ll send it to him by text.

Time to spring into action. I say that, in general, jealous people will try to show exactly the opposite in public. They love to make insinuations and see if they can get some information about their partner’s behavior, but are naïve to think they’ll succeed. I, for example, could be having an affair with your husband and you would never know, because I’m not stupid enough to fall for that trap.

My tone changes slightly. My husband looks at me, surprised at my answer.

“Darling, don’t you think that’s going a little far?”

No, I don’t. I’m not the one who started this conversation, and I don’t know what Mme König is driving at. But ever since we got here she hasn’t stopped insinuating things, and I’m sick of it. By the way, have you noticed how she’s been staring at me the whole time we’ve been talking about something that’s of no interest to anyone at this table but her?

Marianne looks at me, stunned. I think she didn’t expect a reaction because she’s used to controlling everything.

I say that I’ve met a lot of people who are driven by obsessive jealousy, and not because they think their husband or wife is committing adultery, but because they would like to be the center of attention all the time, and they’re not. Jacob calls the waiter and asks for the bill. Great. After all, they were the ones who invited us and who should bear the expense.

I look at my watch and pretend to be greatly surprised; it’s already past the time we gave the babysitter! I get up, thank them for dinner, and go to the cloakroom to get my coat. The conversation has already shifted to children and the responsibilities they bring.

“Do you think she really thought I was talking about her?” I hear Marianne asking my husband.

“Of course not. There would be no reason for that.”

We go out into the cold air, not saying much. I’m angry, anxious, and I volunteer without being prompted that yes, she was talking about me, and that that woman is so neurotic that on election day she also made several insinuations. She’s always wanting to show off—she must be dying of jealousy over the jerk whose “proper behavior” she controls with an iron fist so he has some future in politics, even though she’s really the one who’d like to be campaigning for what is right or wrong.

My husband says that I’ve had too much to drink and should calm down.

We walk in front of a cathedral. Mist covers the city again and makes everything look like we’re in a horror movie. I imagine Marianne waiting for me in a corner with a dagger, like in the days Geneva was a medieval city and in constant battle with the French.

Neither the cold nor the walk calms me down. We get the car, and when we arrive home I go directly to the bedroom and swallow two Valiums while my husband pays the babysitter and puts the kids to bed.

I sleep for ten hours straight. The next day, when I get up for the usual morning routine, I start to think my husband is a little less affectionate. It’s almost imperceptible, but still something yesterday made him uncomfortable. I’m not sure what to do—I’ve never taken two tranquilizers at once, and am experiencing a lethargy that’s nothing like the one loneliness and unhappiness caused.

I leave for work and automatically check my phone. There’s a text from Jacob. I’m hesitant to open it, but curiosity is greater than hate.

It was sent this morning, very early.

“You blew it. She had no idea that there was something between us, but now she’s sure. You fell into a trap she didn’t set.”

I HAVE to stop by the damn supermarket to buy groceries, feeling frustrated and unloved. Marianne is right; I’m nothing more than a sexual hobby for the stupid dog sleeping in her bed. I drive dangerously because I can’t stop crying, the tears keeping me from seeing the other cars clearly. I hear honking and complaints. I try to slow down; I hear more honking and more complaints.

If it was stupid to let Marianne suspect something, it was even more stupid to risk everything I have—my husband, my family, my job.

Driving under the delayed effects of two tranquilizers and with frazzled nerves, I realize that I am also putting my life at risk. I park on a side street and cry. My sobs are so loud that someone approaches and asks if I need help. I say no and the person walks away. But the truth is I do need help—a lot. I’m plunging deeper into my inner self, into its sea of mud, and I can’t swim.

I’m blinded by hatred. I imagine that Jacob has already recovered from yesterday’s dinner and will never want to see me again. It’s my fault for wanting to go beyond my limits, for always thinking that my behavior is suspicious, that everyone knows what I am doing. Maybe it’s a good idea to call and apologize, but I know he won’t answer. Maybe it’s better to call my husband and see if he’s okay? I know his voice. I know when he’s angry and tense, even though he’s a master at self-control. But I don’t want to know. I’m really scared. My stomach is churning, and my hands clench around the steering wheel. I allow myself to cry as loud as I can, to shout and make a scene in the only safe place on earth: my car. The person who approached me is now eyeing me from afar, afraid I’ll do something stupid. No, I won’t do anything. I just want to cry. Is that too much to ask?

I feel like I inflicted this abuse on myself. I want to go back in time, only that’s impossible. I need to make a plan to regain lost ground, but I can’t think straight. All I can do is cry, feeling ashamed and hateful.

How could I have been so naïve? Thinking that Marianne was looking at me and saying what I already knew? Because I felt guilty, like a criminal. I wanted to humiliate her, to destroy her in front of her husband so she wouldn’t see me as just a pastime. I know I don’t love him, but he has slowly been giving me back some of the joy I’d lost, keeping me from the pit of loneliness I had been drowning in up to my neck. And now I am realizing that those days are gone forever. I have to come back to reality, to the supermarket, to the days that are all alike, and to the safety of my home—something that was once so important to me, but had started feeling like a prison. I need to pick up the pieces that are still left. Perhaps confess everything that happened to my husband.

I know he’ll understand. He’s a good, intelligent man who always puts family first. But what if he doesn’t understand? What if he decides that he’s had enough, that we’ve reached our limit and he’s tired of living with a woman who started off complaining of depression and now laments being left by her lover?

My sobbing wanes and I start to think. Work awaits, and I can’t spend the whole day sitting in this street filled with the homes of happy couples who have Christmas decorations on their doors, with people coming and going without noticing I’m there. I can’t watch my world collapse and not do anything about it.

I need to reflect. I have to draw up a list of priorities. In the coming days, months, and years, will I be able to pretend I’m a devoted wife instead of a wounded animal? Discipline has never been my strong suit, but I can’t behave like I’m unstable.

I dry my tears and look straight ahead. Time to start the car? Not yet. I wait a bit longer. If there is one reason to be happy about what happened, it’s that I was tired of living a lie. How long before my husband suspected something? Can men tell when their wives fake an orgasm? It’s possible, but I have no way of knowing.

I get out of the car and pay for more parking time than necessary. That way I can walk around aimlessly. I call in to work and give a lame excuse: one of the kids had diarrhea and I need to take him to the doctor. My boss believes it; after all, the Swiss don’t lie.

But I do lie. I’ve been lying every day. I’ve lost my self-respect and I don’t know where I’m headed anymore. The Swiss live in the real world. I live in a fantasy one. The Swiss know how to solve their problems. Incapable of solving my own, I created a situation where I had the ideal family and the perfect lover.

I walk through this city that I love, looking at its shops and businesses that—with the exception of places for tourists—seem to have frozen in the fifties and don’t have the slightest intention of modernizing. It’s cold, but not windy, thank God, which makes the temperature bearable. Trying to distract myself and calm down, I stop in a bookstore, a butcher shop, and a clothing store. Each time I go back out into the street, I feel like the low temperatures are helping put out the bonfire I’ve become.