Adultery (20 page)

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.

Can you train yourself to love the right man? Of course
you can. The problem is forgetting about the wrong man, the one passing by who came in a door that was left open without asking permission.

What exactly did I want from Jacob? I knew from the beginning that our relationship was doomed, although I never imagined it would end in such a humiliating way. Maybe I just wanted what I got: adventure and joy. Or maybe I wanted more—to live with him, to help him grow his career, and to give him the support he no longer seemed to get from his wife and the affection he complained he lacked at one of our first meetings. To pluck him from his home, the way you pluck a flower from someone else’s garden, and plant him on my land, even though I know flowers can’t survive being treated that way.

I’m hit with a wave of jealousy, but this time there are no tears, just anger. I stop walking and sit on a bench at a random bus stop. I watch the people coming and going, all so busy in their own worlds, tiny enough to fit on the screen of the smartphones from which they are unable to unglue their eyes and ears.

Buses come and go. People get off and walk quickly, maybe because of the cold. Others board slowly, not wanting to get home, to work, or to school. But no one shows any anger or enthusiasm; they’re not happy or sad, just poor souls mechanically carrying out the mission that the universe assigned on the day they were born.

After a while I manage to relax a little. I’ve figured out a few pieces of my inner puzzle. One of them is the reason why this hatred comes and goes, like the buses at this stop. I may have lost the thing that’s most important to me in life: my family. I’ve been defeated in the battle to find happiness, and this not only humiliates me, it keeps me from seeing the way forward.

And my husband? I need to have a frank conversation with him tonight and confess everything. I feel like this will set me free, even if I have to suffer the consequences. I’m tired of lying—to him, to my boss, to myself.

I just don’t want to think about this now. More than anything else, it’s jealousy that eats away at my thoughts. I can’t get up from this bus stop because it’s as though there are chains attached to my body. They are heavy and difficult to haul around.

You mean she likes hearing stories about his infidelities while she’s in bed with her husband and doing the same things he did with me? I should have realized he had other women when he took the condom from the nightstand. I should have known I was just one more by the way he took me. Many times I left that damn hotel feeling that way, telling myself I wouldn’t see him again—all the while aware that this was just another one of my lies and that if he called, I would always be ready, whenever and wherever he wanted.

Yes, I knew all that. And yet I tried to convince myself I was only looking for sex and some adventure. But it wasn’t true. Today I realize that yes, I was in love, despite having denied it on all my sleepless nights and empty days. Madly in love.

I don’t know what to do. I guess—in fact, I’m sure—that all married people always have a secret crush. It’s forbidden, and flirting with the forbidden is what makes life interesting. But few people take it further; only one in seven, according to the article I read in the newspaper. And I think only one in a hundred is capable of getting confused enough to be carried away by the fantasy, like I did. For most, it’s nothing more than a fling, something you know from the beginning won’t last long. A little thrill to make sex more erotic and hear “I love you” shouted out at the moment of orgasm. Nothing more.

And what if it had been my husband who’d found a mistress?
How would I have reacted? It would have been extreme. I would have said that life is unfair, that I’m worthless, and I’m getting old. I’d have screamed bloody murder, I’d have cried nonstop from jealousy, which would have actually been envy—he can, and I can’t. I’d have left, slamming the door behind me, and taken the children to my parents’ house. Two or three months later I would have regretted it and tried to find some excuse to go back, imagining he would want the same. After four months, I would be terrified by the possibility of having to start all over again. After five months, I would have found a way to ask to come back “for the children,” but it would be too late: he would be living with his mistress, a much younger woman, pretty and full of energy, who had begun to make his life fun again.

The phone rings. My boss asks after my son. I say I’m at a bus stop and can’t hear well, but that everything’s fine and soon I’ll be at the paper.

A terrified person can never see reality, preferring to hide in their fantasies. I can’t go on like this for more than an hour. I have to pull myself together. My job is waiting, and it might help me.

I leave the bus stop and start walking back to my car. I look at the dead leaves on the ground. In Paris, they’d have already been swept up, I think. But we’re in Geneva, a much wealthier city, and they’re still there.

These leaves were once part of a tree, a tree that has now gone to ground to prepare for a season of rest. Did the tree have any consideration for the green cloak that covered it, fed it, and enabled it to breathe? No. Did it think of the insects who lived there and helped pollinate its flowers and keep nature alive? No. The tree just thought about itself; some things, like leaves and insects, are discarded as needed.

I’m like one of those leaves on the city ground, who lived thinking it would be everlasting and died without knowing exactly why; who loved the sun and the moon and who watched those buses and rattling streetcars go by for a long time, and yet no one ever had the courtesy to let her know that winter existed. They lived it up, until one day they began to turn yellow and the tree bid them farewell.

It didn’t say “see you later” but “good-bye,” knowing the leaves would never be back. And it asked the wind for help loosening them from their branches and carrying them far away. The tree knows it can grow only if it rests. And if it grows, it will be respected. And can produce even more beautiful flowers.

Enough. Work is the best therapy now that I’ve cried all the tears and thought about everything I needed to think about. But I still can’t shake anything.

I get to the street where I parked on autopilot and find a guard in a red and blue uniform scanning my car’s license plate with a machine.