Adultery Read online

  That's what I need to do: relax a little and enjoy life more. I can't keep thinking about Jacob. I am replacing my missing joy with something more concrete--a man--but that's not the point. If I went to a psychiatrist, he'd tell me that this isn't my problem at all; instead, it's a lack of lithium, low levels of serotonin, and so on. This didn't begin with Jacob's appearance on the scene, and it won't end with his departure.

  But I can't forget him. My mind repeats the moment of that kiss over and over.

  And I realize that my unconscious is transforming an imaginary problem into a real one. That's what always happens. That's how illnesses come about.

  I never want to see that man again. He's been sent by the devil to destabilize something that was already fragile. How could I fall in love so quickly with someone I don't even know? And who says I'm in love? I've been having problems since the spring. If things were perfectly fine before that, I see no reason why they shouldn't be again.

  I repeat what I said before: It's just a phase.

  I need to stay focused and hold negativity at bay. Wasn't that my advice to Jacob?

  I must stand firm and wait for the crisis to pass. Otherwise, I run the risk of really falling in love, and of feeling permanently what I felt for only a fraction of a second when we had lunch together that first time. And if that happens, things won't just happen inside me. No, the suffering and pain will spread everywhere.

  I lie tossing and turning in bed for what feels like ages before I fall asleep. After what seems only a second, my husband wakes me up. It's a bright day, the sky is blue, and the mistral is still blowing.

  IT'S breakfast time," my husband says. "I'd better go and get the kids up."

  Why don't we swap roles for once? I suggest. You go to the kitchen and I'll get the kids ready for school.

  "Is that a challenge?" he asks. "If it is, you're going to have the best breakfast you've had in years."

  No, it isn't a challenge, I just want to change things around a bit. So, you don't think the breakfast I make is good enough?

  "Listen, it's far too early for arguments. Last night we both had a bit too much to drink, and nightclubs really aren't meant for people our age," he says. "Anyway, okay, you go and get the children ready."

  He leaves before I can respond. I pick up my smartphone and check what things I have to do today.

  I look down the list of commitments that can't be put off. The longer the list, the more productive I consider my day to be. Many of the tasks are things I promised to do the day before or during the week, but which I haven't yet done. That's why the list keeps growing, until it makes me so nervous that I decide to scrap the whole thing and start again. And then I realize that nothing on the list is actually very important.

  There's something that isn't on the list, though, something I'm definitely not going to forget: finding out where Jacob Konig lives and taking a moment to drive past his house.

  When I go downstairs, the table is perfectly set with fruit salad, olive oil, cheese, whole-grain bread, yogurt, and plums. A copy of the newspaper I work for is placed discreetly to the left. My husband has long since given up reading print media and is consulting his iPad. Our oldest son asks what "blackmail" means. I can't understand why he wants to know until I see the front page. There is a large photo of Jacob, one of many he must have sent to the press. He looks thoughtful, reflective. Next to the photo is the headline: "Deputy Reports Blackmail Attempt."

  I didn't write the article. In fact, while I was at my meeting with Jacob, the editor-in-chief rang to say that I could cancel because they had received a communique from the Ministry of Finance and were working on the case. I explained that the meeting had already taken place, that it had happened more quickly than I'd expected and without any need for the "usual tactics." I was then dispatched to a nearby neighborhood (which considers itself a "city" and even has a prefecture) whose grocery store was caught selling food that's past its sell-by date. I talked to the owner of the store, to neighbors and friends of neighbors, something I'm sure our readers found made for a more interesting article than some political scandal. It also made the front page, but without the banner headlines. "Grocery Store Fined, No Reports of Food Poisoning."

  Seeing that photo of Jacob right there on our breakfast table troubles me deeply.

  I tell my husband that we need to have a talk--tonight.

  "We can leave the children with my mother and go to dinner somewhere, just the two of us," he says. "I need to spend a bit of time with you as well, alone and without any terrible music blaring in our ears. How can people possibly like that?"

  IT WAS a spring morning.

  I was sitting in a corner of the playground that was usually deserted and studying the tiles on the school wall. I knew there was something wrong with me.

  The other children all thought I acted "better than them," and I never made any attempt to deny this. On the contrary. I made my mother keep buying me expensive clothes and taking me to school in her pricey foreign car.

  But that day in the playground, I realized that I was alone, and might remain alone for the rest of my life. Even though I was only eight years old, it seemed like it was already too late to change and to prove to the other children that I was just like them.

  Now, summer.

  I was at secondary school, and the boys were always hitting on me, no matter how hard I tried to fend them off. The other girls were green with envy, but pretended not to be and were always hanging around and cozying up to me, hoping to pick up any rejects.

  And I rejected almost everyone, because I knew that if anyone ever managed to enter my world, they would find nothing of interest. It was best to maintain an air of mystery with a hint of unattainable pleasures.

  On my way home, I noticed a few mushrooms that had sprung up after the rain. They were perfect and intact because everyone knew they were poisonous. For a fraction of a second, I considered eating them. I wasn't feeling particularly sad or particularly happy; I just wanted to get my parents' attention.

  I didn't eat the mushrooms.

  Now it's the first day of autumn, the loveliest season of the year. Soon the leaves will change color and each tree will be different from all the others. On the way to the car park, I decide to take a slightly different route.

  I stop in front of the school where I studied. The tile wall is still there. Nothing has changed, except for the fact that I'm no longer alone. In my mind are two men; one will never be mine, but I'll have dinner tonight with the other one in some special, carefully chosen spot.

  A bird flies across the sky, playing with the wind. It flies back and forth, rises and falls, its movements obeying some logic I cannot understand. Perhaps the only logic is that of having fun.

  I am not a bird. I can't spend my life playing like many of our friends, who have less money but who seem to spend their whole lives traveling or going to restaurants. I've tried to be like that, but I can't. Thanks to my husband's influence, I got the job I have now. I work, I fill my time, I feel useful and able to justify my existence. One day, my children will be proud of their mother, and my childhood friends will be more frustrated than ever, because I have managed to build something tangible while they have devoted themselves to looking after the house, the children, and their husband.

  Perhaps they don't have this need to impress other people. I do, and I can't reject it, because it's been a good influence on my life, driving me on. As long as I don't take any unnecessary risks, of course. As long as I manage to preserve my world exactly as it is today.

  As soon as I get to the office, I search through the government's digital archives. It takes me less than a minute to find Jacob Konig's address, as well as information about how much he earns, where he studied, the name of his wife, and where she works.

  MY HUSBAND has chosen a restaurant halfway between my office and our house. We've been there before. I like the food, the wine, and the atmosphere, but I always feel that we eat better at home. I dine out
only when my social life requires it, and, whenever I can, I avoid it. I love cooking. I love being with my family, feeling that I'm both protector and protected.

  One of the tasks not on my to-do list this morning was "drive past Jacob Konig's house." I managed to resist the impulse. I have enough imaginary problems without adding the real problem of unrequited love. The feelings I had are long over. It won't happen again. We can now proceed into a future of peace, hope, and prosperity.

  "They say the owner has changed and the food isn't quite as good," says my husband.

  It doesn't matter. Restaurant food is always the same: too much butter, ostentatious presentation, and--because we live in one of the most expensive cities in the world--an exorbitant price for something that really isn't worth it.

  But eating out is a ritual. We are greeted by the headwaiter, who leads us to our usual table even though we haven't been here for some time. He asks if we want the same wine (of course we do) and hands us the menu. I read it from beginning to end and choose the same thing as always. My husband opts for his traditional choice, roast lamb with lentils. The waiter comes to tell us about today's chef's specials: we listen politely, grunt appreciatively, then order.

  The first glass of wine doesn't need to be tasted and meticulously analyzed because we've been married for ten years. It goes down very quickly, among talk of work and complaints about the man who was supposed to come and fix the central heating but never turned up.

  "And how are you getting on with that article about next Sunday's elections?" my husband asks.

  I've been commissioned to write about a question I find particularly interesting: Does the electorate have a right to scrutinize a politician's private life? It's a response to the news that a deputy is being blackmailed by Nigerians. Most of the people I interviewed said they don't care. It's not like it is in the United States, they say, and we're proud of that.

  We talk about other recent news items. The increase in the number of voters at the last election for the Council of States. The drivers working for Geneva's public transport company, TPG, who are tired but happy with their work. A woman who was run over in a crosswalk. The train that broke down and blocked the line for more than two hours. And other such pointless topics.

  I pour myself another glass of wine, without waiting for the appetizer and without asking my husband what his day was like. He listens politely to everything I've just said. He must be wondering what we're doing here.

  "You seem happier today," he says after the waiter has brought our main course, and after I realize I've been talking nonstop for twenty minutes. "Has something special happened to cheer you up?"

  If he'd asked that same question on the day I went to Parc des Eaux-Vives, I would have blushed and immediately come out with the string of excuses I'd saved up. But today has been another normal, tedious day despite my attempts to convince myself that I'm very important to the world.

  "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  I take a sip from my third glass of wine and prepare to make a full confession. The waiter arrives and stops me just as I'm about to leap into the abyss. We exchange a few more meaningless words, wasting precious minutes of my life on pointless niceties.

  My husband orders another bottle of wine. The waiter wishes us "bon appetit" and goes off to fetch the new bottle. Then I begin.

  You'll say that I need to see a doctor, but I don't. I cope perfectly well with my work at home and in the office, but for some months now I've been feeling sad.

  "You could have fooled me. Like I just said, you seem much happier."

  Of course. My sadness has become so routine that no one notices anymore. It's really good to finally talk about it, but what I have to say runs deeper than that false happiness. I don't sleep properly anymore. I feel I'm just being self-obsessed, trying to impress people as if I were a child. I cry alone in the shower for no reason. I've only really enjoyed making love once in many months, and you know what time I'm talking about. I thought perhaps I was going through a midlife crisis, but that isn't enough of an explanation. I feel like I'm wasting my life, that one day I'll look back and regret everything I've done, apart from having married you and having our lovely children.

  "But isn't that what matters most?"

  For lots of people, yes. But it isn't enough for me. It's getting worse every day. When I finally finish my housework each evening, an endless dialogue starts in my head. I'm afraid of things changing, but at the same time I'm dying to experience something different. My thoughts keep repeating themselves uncontrollably. You don't notice because you're asleep. For example, did you notice the mistral last night rattling the windows?

  "No, the windows were shut."

  That's what I mean. Even a high wind that has blown thousands of times since we've been married is capable of waking me up. I notice when you turn over in bed and when you talk in your sleep. But please don't take this personally--it seems like I'm surrounded by things that make no sense. Just to be clear, though: I love our children. I love you. I adore my work. But that only makes me feel worse, because I feel I'm being unfair to God, to life, to you.

  He's barely touched his food. It's as if he were sitting opposite a complete stranger. But saying these words has already filled me with an enormous peace. My secret is out. The wine is having its effect. I am no longer alone. Thank you, Jacob Konig.

  "Do you think you need to see a doctor?"

  I don't know. Even if I did, I don't want to go down that road. I need to learn how to resolve my problems on my own.

  "It must have been very difficult to keep all these emotions to yourself for so long. Thank you for telling me. But why didn't you tell me before?"

  Because it's only now that things have become unbearable. I was thinking today about my childhood and teenage years. Does the root of all this lie there? I don't think so, not unless my mind has been lying to me all these years, which I think is unlikely. I come from a normal family, I had a normal upbringing, I lead a normal life. What's wrong with me?

  I didn't say anything before--I tell him, crying now--because I thought it would pass and I didn't want to worry you.

  "You're definitely not crazy. I haven't noticed any of this. You haven't been particularly irritable, you haven't lost weight, and if you can control your feelings that well, then there must be a way out of this."

  Why did he mention losing weight?

  "I can ask our doctor to prescribe some tranquilizers to help you sleep. I'll say they're for me. I think that if you could sleep properly, then you would gradually regain control of your thoughts. Perhaps we should exercise more. The children would love it. We're far too caught up in work, and that's not good."

  I'm not that caught up in my work. Despite what you think, the idiotic articles I write help me keep my mind occupied and drive away the wild thoughts that overwhelm me as soon as I have nothing to do.

  "But we do need more exercise, more time outdoors. To run until we drop with exhaustion. And perhaps we should invite friends round more often."

  That would be a complete nightmare! Having to talk and entertain people with a fixed smile on my lips, listening to their views on opera and traffic. Then, to top it all, having to clean up afterward.

  "Let's go to the Jura National Park this weekend. We haven't been there for ages."

  The elections are this weekend. I'll be on duty at the newspaper.

  We eat in silence. The waiter has already been to our table twice to see if we've finished, but we haven't even touched our plates. We make short work of the second bottle of wine. I can imagine what my husband's thinking: "How can I help my wife? What can I do to make her happy?" Nothing. Nothing more than he's doing already. I would hate it if he arrived home bearing a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers.

  We conclude that he's had too much to drink to drive home, so we'll have to leave the car at the restaurant and fetch it tomorrow. I telephone my mother-in-law and ask if the children can sleep over. I'
ll be there early tomorrow morning to take them to school.

  "But what exactly is missing in your life?"

  Please don't ask me that. Because the answer is nothing. Nothing! If only I had some serious problem. I don't know anyone who's going through quite the same thing. Even a friend of mine, who spent years feeling depressed, is now getting treatment. I don't think I need that, because I don't have the symptoms she described. I don't want to enter the dangerous territory of legal drugs. People might be angry, stressed, or grieving over a broken heart--and in the latter case, they might think they're depressed and in need of medicines and drugs--but they're not. They're just suffering from a broken heart, and there have been broken hearts ever since the world began, ever since man discovered that mysterious thing called Love.

  "If you don't want to go and see a doctor, why don't you do some research?"

  I've tried. I've spent ages looking at psychology websites. I've devoted myself more seriously to yoga. Haven't you noticed the books I've been bringing home lately? Did you think I'd suddenly become less literary and more spiritual?

  No, I'm looking for an answer I can't find. After reading about ten of those self-help books, I saw that they were leading nowhere. They have an immediate effect, but that effect stops as soon as I close the book. They're just words, describing an ideal world that doesn't exist, not even for the people who wrote them.

  "But do you feel better now?"

  Of course, but that isn't the problem. I need to know who I've become, because I am that person. It's not something external.

  I can see that he's trying desperately to help, but he's as lost as I am. He keeps talking about symptoms, but that, I tell him, isn't the problem. Everything is a symptom. Can you imagine a kind of spongy black hole?

  "No."

  Well, that's what it is.

  He assures me that I will get out of this situation. I mustn't judge myself. I mustn't blame myself. He's on my side.