But what was it?
“Sell everything I had, buy a boat, and travel the world with you. My father would have been furious that I didn’t follow in his footsteps, but it wouldn’t have mattered. We’d stop off at ports, do odd jobs until we earned enough to move on, and as soon as we had enough money, we’d set sail again. Be with people we’d never seen before and discover places not listed in the guidebooks. Adventure. My only wish was adventure.”
He orders another glass of gin and drinks it at unprecedented speed. I stop drinking because I’m already feeling nauseated; we haven’t had anything to eat. I’d like to say that I would have been the happiest woman in the world if he’d gotten his wish. But I had better keep quiet or he’ll feel worse.
“Then came the first child.”
So? There must be millions of couples with children doing exactly what he suggested.
He reflects a bit.
“I wouldn’t say millions. Maybe thousands.”
His eyes change; they no longer show aggression, but sadness.
“There are times when we should stop to take a look at the whole picture: our past and our present. What we have learned and the mistakes we made. I was always afraid of those moments. I trick myself, telling myself that I made the best choices and had to make a few small sacrifices. Nothing major.”
I suggest we walk a bit. His eyes are starting to get weird, dull.
He slams his fist on the table. The waitress looks frightened, and I order another glass of gin for me. She refuses. It’s time to close the bar because dinner will begin soon. And she brings the bill.
I wonder how my husband will react. But he just gets out his wallet and throws some money on the counter. He takes my hand and we go out in the cold.
“I’m afraid that if I think too much about everything that could have been, and never was, I’ll fall into a dark hole …”
I know that feeling. We talked about this at the restaurant, when I opened up to you.
He doesn’t seem to hear.
“… deep down there’s a voice telling me: none of this makes sense. The universe has existed for billions of years, and it will continue to exist after you die. We live in a microscopic part of a gigantic mystery, and we still have no answers to our childhood questions: Is there life on another planet? If God is good, why does He allow suffering and the pain of others? And what’s worse: time continues to pass. Often, for no apparent reason, I feel an immense dread. Sometimes it’s when I’m at work, sometimes in the car, and sometimes when I put the kids to bed. I look at them lovingly, afraid: What will happen to them? They live in a country that gives us peace and security, but what about the future?”
Yes, I understand what you’re saying. I imagine we’re not the only ones to think that way.
“Then I see you making breakfast or dinner and occasionally I think that fifty years from now, or maybe even less, one of us will be sleeping alone, crying every night because once we were happy. The children will be all grown up and far away. The surviving one of us will be sick, always needing help from strangers.”
He stops talking, and we walk in silence. We pass by a sign announcing a New Year’s Eve party. He kicks it violently. Two or three passersby look at us.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to say all that. I brought you here to make you feel better without all the daily pressures. Blame it on the booze.”
I’m stunned.
We pass by a group of young men and women who are talking animatedly among the beer cans scattered everywhere. My husband, usually shy and serious, approaches them and invites them to have another drink.
The young people look frightened. I apologize, hinting that we’re both drunk and one drop more of alcohol might lead to catastrophe. I grab his arm and we carry on.
How long has it been since I’ve done that? He was always the protector, the helper, the problem solver. Now I’m the one trying to keep him from skidding and falling. His mood has changed again, and now he’s singing a song I’ve never heard—perhaps a traditional song of that region.
When we approach the church, the bells ring again.
That’s a good sign, I say.
“I listen to the bells. They speak of God. But is God listening to us? We’re in our thirties, and life isn’t fun anymore. If not for our children, what would be the point of all this?”
I prepare myself to say something. But I have no answer. We arrive at the restaurant where we exchanged our first words of love and have a depressing candlelight dinner in one of the most beautiful and most expensive cities in Switzerland.
WHEN I awake, there’s already daylight outside. I had a dreamless sleep and didn’t wake up in the middle of the night. I look at the clock: nine a.m.
My husband is still sleeping. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and order breakfast for the two of us. I put on a robe and go to the window to pass the time while I wait for the room service to arrive.
At this point, I notice something: the sky is full of paragliders! They land in the park opposite the hotel. Most are not alone, and have an instructor behind them steering. First-timers.
How can they do such a crazy thing? Have we reached the point where risking our life is the only thing that frees us from boredom?
Another paraglider lands. And another. Friends film everything, smiling cheerfully. I wonder what the view must be like up there, because the mountains surrounding us are very, very high.
Although I envy every one of those people, I would never have the courage to jump.
The doorbell rings. The waiter enters with a silver tray, a vase with a rose, coffee (for my husband), tea (for me), croissants, hot toast, rye bread, jams of various flavors, eggs, orange juice, the local newspaper, and everything else that makes us happy.
I wake him up with a kiss. I don’t remember the last time I did that. He is startled, but then smiles. We sit at the table and savor the treats in front of us. We talk a bit about our drinking spree last night.
“I think I needed that. But don’t take what I said too seriously. When a balloon bursts, it startles everyone, but it’s nothing more than that: a bursting balloon. Harmless.”
I want to say it felt great to discover all his weaknesses, but I just smile and keep eating my croissant.
He also notices the paragliders. His eyes light up. We get dressed and go downstairs to enjoy the morning.
We go straight to the front desk. He says we’ll be leaving today, asks them to bring down our suitcases, and pays the bill.
Are you sure? Can’t we stay until tomorrow morning?
“I’m sure. Last night was enough for me to understand that it’s impossible to go back in time.”
We head to the door crossing the long, glass-ceilinged lobby. I read in one of the brochures that there used to be a street here; now they’ve joined the two buildings that stood on either side. Tourism is apparently thriving, even without ski slopes.
But instead of going out the door, my husband turns left and approaches the concierge.
“How can we go paragliding?”
We? I don’t have the slightest intention of doing that.
The concierge hands him a brochure. It’s all there.
“And how do we get up top?”
The concierge explains that we don’t have to go all the way up. The road is very treacherous. All we have to do is set a time and they’ll pick us up from the hotel.
Isn’t it very dangerous? Jumping into the nothing between two mountain ranges without ever having done it before? Who is in charge? Are there any government controls on the instructors and their equipment?
“Madam, I’ve been working here for ten years. I paraglide at least once a year. I’ve never seen a single accident.”
He is smiling. He must have repeated those words thousands of times over those ten years.
“Shall we?”