Adultery (22 page)

I thank him for the invitation and say I already have plans for that evening. I’m tempted to ask how his latest girlfriend reacted to the wave of negative press and the collapse of his empire. But I can already imagine, and it’s of no interest to the newspaper.

I leave, cross the street, and go to the Jardin Anglais, where, moments ago, I imagined walking. I go to the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor on the corner of Rue du 31 Décembre. I like the name of this street because it always reminds me that
sooner or later, another year will end and, once again, I’ll make big resolutions for the next.

I order a scoop of pistachio with chocolate. I walk to the pier and eat my ice cream while looking at the symbol of Geneva, its jet of water shooting up in the sky and creating a curtain of droplets before me. Tourists get closer and take photos that will come out poorly lit. Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a postcard?

I have visited many monuments around the world, many of mighty men whose names are long forgotten, but who will remain eternally mounted on their beautiful horses. Of women holding their crowns or swords to the sky, symbolizing victories that no longer appear even in textbooks. Of lone, nameless children carved in stone, their innocence lost forever during the hours and days they were forced to pose for an artist whose name history has also stamped out.

With very few exceptions, in the end a city’s landmarks aren’t its statues, but unexpected things. When Eiffel built a steel tower for the World’s Fair, he never even dreamed it would wind up becoming the symbol of Paris—over the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, and its magnificent gardens. An apple represents New York. A not-so-crowded bridge is the symbol of San Francisco. Another bridge, this one over the Tagus, dominates the picture postcards of Lisbon. Barcelona has an unfinished cathedral as its most emblematic monument.

And so it is with Geneva. Lake Léman meets the Rhône River at precisely this point, creating a very strong current. A hydroelectric power station was built here to take advantage of the hydraulic power (we’re masters at taking advantage of things), but when the workers returned home and closed the valves, the pressure was too great and the turbines ended up bursting.

Until an engineer had the idea to put a fountain in place, allowing the excess water to run off.

Over time, engineers solved the problem and the fountain became unnecessary. But the city’s residents voted in a referendum to keep it. The city already had many fountains, and this one was in the middle of a lake. How could they make it more visible?

That was how the mutant monument was born. Powerful pumps were installed and now an extremely forceful jet shoots out five hundred liters of water per second, at two hundred kilometers per hour. They say, and I’ve confirmed it, that it can be seen from an airplane at thirty thousand feet. It doesn’t have a special name; it’s just called Jet d’Eau (jet of water), the city’s landmark in spite of all the sculptures of men on horses, heroic women, lonely children.

I once asked Denise, a Swiss scientist, what she thought of the Jet d’Eau.

“Our body is made almost entirely of water, through which electrical discharges pass, communicating information. One such piece of information is called love, and it can interfere with the entire organism. Love is always changing. I think that the Jet d’Eau is the most beautiful monument to love conceived by the art of man, because it is also never the same.”

I TAKE
my phone and call Jacob’s office. Sure, I could dial his personal number, but no. I speak with his assistant and let her know I’m going to meet him.

His assistant knows me. She asks me to hold the line while she confirms. One minute later she returns and says she’s sorry, but his schedule is fully booked. Perhaps in the new year? I say no, I need to meet with him right away; it’s urgent.

“It’s urgent” doesn’t always open many doors, but in this case I’m sure my chances are good. This time the assistant takes two minutes. She asks if it could be early next week. I let her know I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

I say thank you and hang up.

JACOB
asks me to get dressed quickly—after all, his office is a public place, paid for by government money. If someone were to find out, he could go to jail. I carefully study the walls covered with carved wood panels and beautiful frescoes on the ceiling. I’m still lying on the worn leather sofa, completely naked.

He is growing nervous. He’s in a suit and tie, looking anxiously at his watch. The lunch hour is over. His personal secretary is already back; she knocked quietly on the door, heard “I’m in a meeting,” and didn’t insist. Forty minutes have passed since then—along with a few hearings and appointments that have likely been canceled.

When I arrived, Jacob greeted me with three pecks on the cheek and pointed formally to the chair in front of his desk. I didn’t need my female intuition to figure out he was scared. What was the reason for this meeting? Don’t I understand he has a tight schedule? The parliamentary recess will start soon, and he needs to resolve several important issues. Did I not read the message he sent, saying how his wife is convinced there is something between us? We need to wait a while and let things cool off before we go back to meeting.

“Of course I denied everything. I pretended I was deeply shocked by her insinuations. I said my dignity had been offended. That I was sick of her distrust and that she could ask anyone about my behavior. Wasn’t she the one who said jealousy was a sign of inferiority? I did what I could, and she merely replied: ‘Stop being silly. I’m not complaining about anything, I’m just saying I found out why you’ve been so kind and polite lately.’ It was—”

I didn’t let him finish his sentence. I got up and grabbed
him by the collar. He thought I was going to assault him. But instead I gave him a long kiss. Jacob was completely unresponsive, as he’d been imagining I had come there to do something melodramatic. But I continued kissing his mouth and neck as I undid his tie.

He pushed me away. I slapped him across the face.

“I just need to lock the door first. I’ve also missed you.”

He walked across his office, tastefully decorated with nineteenth-century furniture, and turned the key. When he returned I was already nearly naked, wearing just my panties.

As I ripped off his clothes, he started sucking on my breasts. I moaned with pleasure; he covered my mouth with his hand, but I shook my head and continued moaning quietly.

The whole time, I stopped only once to say: My reputation is at stake, as you can imagine. Don’t worry.

I got down on my knees and began to give him oral sex. Again, he held my head, setting the pace—faster and faster. But I didn’t want him to come in my mouth. I pushed him away and went to the leather sofa, where I leaned back with my legs spread. He kneeled and started to go down on me. When I had the first orgasm, I bit my hand to keep from screaming. The wave of pleasure felt like it would never end. I continued biting my hand.

Then I called his name, telling him I wanted him inside me and to do anything he wanted. He penetrated me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me like a savage. He pushed my legs up so he could go deeper. The pace increased, but I ordered him not to come yet. I needed more and more and more.

He put me on the floor on all fours, like a dog, hit me, and penetrated me again as I wildly moved my waist. From his stifled groans, I knew that he was ready to come, that he could no longer control himself. I made him withdraw, turned over,
and asked him to enter me again while looking into my eyes and saying the dirty things we loved to tell each other whenever we made love. I said the nastiest things a woman can say to a man. He called my name softly, begging me to tell him I loved him. But I just spoke profanities and demanded he treat me like a prostitute, like a stranger, that he use me like a slave, someone who didn’t deserve respect.

My entire body was covered in goose bumps. The pleasure came in waves. I came again and again as he controlled himself to prolong it as long as possible. Our bodies collided violently, creating rumblings that he must no longer care if anyone heard through the door.

My eyes locked on him, listening to him repeat my name with each movement; I realized he wasn’t wearing a condom and was going to come. Once again I shifted, making him withdraw. I asked him to come on my face, in my mouth, and tell me he loved me.

Jacob did exactly as I said, while I masturbated and came, too. Then he embraced me, put my head on his shoulder, and wiped the corners of my mouth with his hands. He said again, many times, that he loved me and that he had really missed me.

But now he’s asking me to get dressed, and I don’t budge. He’s gone back to being the well-behaved boy who the voters admire. He senses something is wrong, but doesn’t know what it is. He begins to realize that I’m not just there because he is an amazing lover.

“What do you want?”

Closure. As much as that breaks my heart and leaves me emotionally in shambles, I need to end it. To look in your eyes and say it’s over. Never again.

The suffering I endured this past week was almost unbearable. I cried tears I didn’t have and became lost in thoughts
of being carried away to the campus where your wife works and committed to the university asylum. I thought I’d failed at everything, except at work and as a mother. I was one step away from life and death at every minute, dreaming about everything we could have had if we were still two teenagers looking into the future together, like the first time. But there came a moment when I understood that I had reached the limits of despair and couldn’t go any deeper, and when I looked up there was a single outstretched hand: my husband’s.

He must have known, too, but his love was stronger. I tried to be honest and tell him everything to lift that weight off my shoulders, but I didn’t need to. He made me see that regardless of the choices I made in life, he would always be by my side and so my burden was light.

I realized I was blaming myself and beating myself up over things he wasn’t condemning or even blaming me for. I told myself: “I’m not worthy of this man, he doesn’t know who I am.”

But he does know. And that’s what allows me to get back my self-respect and regain my self-esteem. Because if a man like him wants to stay by my side, a man who would have no difficulty at all finding a new partner the day after separating, it’s because I’m worth something; I’m worth a lot.

I discovered I could go back to sleeping by his side without feeling like I was dirty or think I was cheating on him. I felt loved and that I deserved this love.

I get up, gather my clothes, and go to his private bathroom. He knows it’s the last time he’ll see me naked.

There is a long healing process ahead, I say, when I return. I guess you are feeling the same thing, but I’m sure that all Marianne wants is for this fling to end so she can hug you again with the same love and the same security as before.

“Yes, but she won’t tell me anything. She knew what was
going on and she closed herself off even more. She was never affectionate, and now she’s like a robot, more devoted to her work than ever. It’s her way of running away.”

I adjust my skirt, put on my shoes, take a bundle out of my bag, and leave it on his desk.

“What’s that?”

Cocaine.

“I didn’t know you …”

He doesn’t need to know anything, I think. He doesn’t need to know how far I was willing to go to fight for him, the man I was madly in love with. The passion is still there, but the flame weakens each day. I know it will eventually die out completely. Any breakup is painful, and I can feel this pain in every fiber of my body. It’s the last time I will see him alone. We will meet again at galas and cocktail parties, at elections and press conferences, but we will never again be the way we were today. It was great to have made love like that and end as we began, both of us completely surrendered to the other. I knew it was the last time; he didn’t, but I couldn’t say anything.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

Throw it away. It cost me a small fortune, but throw it away. Then you’ll set me free from my addiction.

I don’t explain exactly what addiction I’m talking about. It has a name: Jacob König.

I see his expression of surprise and smile. I say good-bye with three kisses on the cheek and leave. In the vestibule, I turn to his aide and wave. He looks away, pretending to focus on a stack of papers, and just mumbles a good-bye.

When I make it to the sidewalk, I call my husband and tell him I would rather spend New Year’s Eve at home, with the children. If he wants to travel, let’s do it at Christmas.

LET’S
take a walk before dinner?”

I nod yes, but I don’t move. I stare at the park across from the hotel and, beyond that, the Jungfrau, perpetually snowcapped and illuminated by the afternoon sun.

The human brain is fascinating; we will forget a scent until we smell it again, we will erase a voice from our memory until we hear it again, and even emotions that seemed buried forever will be awakened when we return to the same place.

I think back to when we were at Interlaken the first time. Back then we stayed at a cheap hotel and hiked from one lake to another, each time like we were discovering a new path. My husband was going to run that crazy marathon that has most of its route in the mountains. I was proud of his adventurous spirit, his desire to conquer the impossible and always demand more and more of his body.

He wasn’t the only person crazy enough to do it; people came from all over the world, filling the hotels and socializing in the many bars and restaurants of this small town of five thousand inhabitants. I have no idea how Interlaken is in the winter, but from my window it now seems more empty, more removed.

This time we’re staying in a better hotel. We have a beautiful suite. The manager’s card is on the table, greeting us and offering us the bottle of champagne that we’ve already emptied.

He calls my name. I come back to reality and we go downstairs to take a walk through the streets before nightfall.