Adultery

I get up.

I look him straight in the eye and say that I’m actually very happy, and that he should go to a psychiatrist. His wife can’t control everything in his life. Besides, medical confidentiality would guarantee that no one would find out. I have a friend who was cured by taking pills. Does he want to spend the rest of his life haunted by the specter of depression just to be reelected? Is that what he wants for his future?

He looks around to see if anyone is listening. I’ve already done that, and I know we’re alone apart from a group of drug dealers on the other side of the park, behind the restaurant. But they won’t bother us.

I can’t stop. The more I talk, the more I realize that I’m hearing myself and it’s helping. I say that negativity feeds on itself. He needs to look for something that will give him a little joy, like sailing, or going to the movies, or reading.

“No, that’s not it. You don’t understand.” He seems startled by my response.

I do understand. Every day we’re bombarded with information and images—with adolescents in heavy makeup pretending to be grown women as they advertise miraculous creams promising eternal beauty; with the story of an aging couple who climbed Mount Everest to celebrate their wedding anniversary; with new massage gizmos, and pharmacy windows that are chockablock with slimming products; with movies that give an entirely false impression of reality, and books promising fantastic results; with specialists who give advice about how to succeed in life or find inner peace. And all these things make us feel old, make us feel that we’re leading dull, unadventurous lives as our skin grows ever more flaccid, and the pounds pile on irrevocably. And yet we feel obliged to repress our emotions and our desires, because they don’t fit with what we call “maturity.”

Choose what information you listen to. Place a filter over your eyes and ears and allow in only things that won’t bring you down, because we have our day-to-day life to do that. Do you think I don’t get judged and criticized at work? Well, I do—a lot! But I’ve decided to hear only the things that encourage me to improve, the things that help me correct my mistakes. Otherwise, I will just pretend I can’t hear the other stuff or block it out.

I came here in search of a complicated story involving adultery, blackmail, and corruption. But you’ve dealt with it all in the best possible way. Can’t you see that?

Without thinking, I sit down again and grasp his head so that he can’t escape. I give him a long kiss. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then responds. Immediately, all my feelings of impotence, fragility, failure, and insecurity are replaced by one of immense euphoria. From one moment to the next, I have suddenly become wise, I have regained control of the situation and dared to do something that before I could only imagine. I have ventured into unknown territory and dangerous waters, destroying pyramids and building sanctuaries.

I am once again the mistress of my thoughts and my actions. What seemed impossible this morning has become reality this afternoon. I can feel again, and I can love something I don’t possess. The wind has ceased to bother me and has become instead a blessing, like the caress of a god on my cheek. I have my soul back.

Hundreds of years seem to pass during the short time the kiss lasts. We separate slowly, and, as he gently strokes my hair, we look deep into each other’s eyes.

And we find exactly what was there before.

Sadness.

Now with the addition of a stupid, irresponsible gesture that, at least in my case, will only make matters worse.

We spend another half an hour together, talking about the city and its inhabitants as if nothing had happened. We seemed very close when we arrived at the park, and we became one when we kissed. Now, however, we are two complete strangers, trying to keep the conversation going just long enough so that we can each go our separate ways without too much embarrassment.

No one saw us—we’re not in a restaurant. Our marriages are safe.

I consider apologizing, but know it’s not necessary. After all, it was only a kiss.





I CAN’T honestly say that I feel victorious, but at least I’ve recovered some self-control. At home, everything carries on as usual; before I was in a terrible state, and now I’m feeling better. No one asks me how I am.

I’m going to follow Jacob K?nig’s example and talk to my husband about my strange state of mind. I’ll confide in him, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help me.

On the other hand, I feel so good today; why spoil it by confessing to things I don’t even understand myself? I continue to struggle. I don’t believe that what I’m going through can be put down to a lack of chemical elements in my body, as I’ve read online about “compulsive sadness.”

I’m not sad today. It’s just one of those phases we all go through. I remember when my high-school class organized its farewell party; we laughed for two hours and then, at the end, we all sobbed because we knew we were parting forever. The sadness lasted for a few days or weeks, I can’t quite remember. But the mere fact that I don’t remember says something very important: it’s over. Turning thirty was hard, and perhaps I just wasn’t ready for it.

My husband goes upstairs to put the children to bed. I pour myself a glass of wine and go out into the garden.

It’s still windy. It’s a wind we know well here; it can blow for three, six, or even nine days. In France—a more romantic country than Switzerland—it’s known as the mistral and it always brings bright, cold weather. It’s high time these clouds went away. Tomorrow it will be sunny.

I keep thinking about the conversation in the park, that kiss. I feel no regrets at all. I did something I’d never done before, and that in itself has begun to break down the walls imprisoning me.

It doesn’t really matter what Jacob K?nig thinks. I can’t spend my life trying to please other people.

I finish my glass of wine and refill it, and for the first time in many months, I feel something other than apathy or a sense of futility.

My husband comes downstairs dressed for a party and asks how long it will take me to get ready. I’d forgotten that we’d agreed to go dancing tonight.

I race upstairs, and when I come back down, I see that our Filipino babysitter has arrived and has already spread her books across the living-room table. The children are in bed asleep and shouldn’t be any trouble, and so she uses her time to study. She seems to have an aversion to television.

We’re ready to leave. I’ve put on my best dress, even at the risk of dressing to the nines for a laid-back party. What does it matter? I need to celebrate.





I WAKE to the sound of the wind rattling the windows. I blame my husband for not shutting them properly. I feel the need to get up and perform my nightly ritual of going into the children’s bedrooms to check that everything’s all right. And yet something stops me. Is it because I had too much to drink? I start to think about the waves I saw earlier at the lake, about the clouds that have now dissipated and the person who was with me. I remember very little about the nightclub; we both thought the music was horrible and the atmosphere extremely dull. It wasn’t long before we were back at our respective computers.

What about all those things I said to Jacob this afternoon? Shouldn’t I take a little time to think about them myself?