Adultery(13)

Everyone is trying to control their own unhappiness. Not just Jacob and me, but probably my husband, too. Only he doesn’t show it.

In my dangerous confessional state, these things are beginning to become much clearer. I don’t feel alone. I’m surrounded by people with the same problems, all of whom are pretending that life is going on as normal. Me. My neighbor. Probably even my boss, as well, and the man sleeping by my side.

After a certain age, we put on a mask of confidence and certainty. In time, that mask gets stuck to our face and we can’t remove it.

As children, we learn that if we cry we’ll receive affection, that if we show we’re sad, we’ll be consoled. If we can’t get what we want with a smile, then we can surely do so with our tears.

But we no longer cry, except in the bathroom when no one is listening. Nor do we smile at anyone other than our children. We don’t show our feelings because people might think we’re vulnerable and take advantage of us.

Sleep is the best remedy.





I MEET Jacob as arranged. This time, I choose the place, and we end up in the lovely but neglected Parc des Eaux-Vives, where there’s another awful restaurant owned by the city. I once had lunch there with a correspondent from the Financial Times. We ordered martinis and the waiter served us Cinzanos.

This time, we don’t have lunch in the restaurant, we just sit on the grass and eat sandwiches. He can smoke freely here, because we have a private view of everything around us. We can watch the people coming and going.

I’ve decided to be honest: after the usual formalities (the weather, work, a “how was the nightclub?”/“I’m going tonight” exchange), the first thing I ask is whether he’s being blackmailed because of, how shall I say, an extramarital relationship.

He doesn’t seem surprised. He merely asks if I’m speaking as a journalist or as a friend.

At the moment, as a journalist. If you say it’s true, I give you my word that the newspaper will support you. We won’t publish anything about your personal life, but we will go after the blackmailers.

“Yes, I had an affair with the wife of a friend, which I imagine you already know. He was the one who encouraged it, because we were both bored with our marriages. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The husband encouraged it? No, I don’t understand, but I nod and remember what happened three nights ago, when I had multiple orgasms.

And is the affair still ongoing?

“No, we lost interest. My wife knows about it. There are some things you can’t hide. Some people in Nigeria photographed us together and are threatening to publish the pictures, but that’s not news to anyone.”

Nigeria is where that metallurgical company is based. Didn’t his wife threaten divorce?

“She was pretty annoyed for a few days, but no more than that. She has great plans for our marriage, and I imagine that fidelity isn’t necessarily part of them. She pretended to be a bit jealous, just to show that what happened was important, but she’s a terrible actress. A few hours after I’d confessed, her mind was already on other things.”

It would seem that Jacob lives in a completely different world from mine, where wives don’t feel jealous and husbands encourage their wives to have affairs. Am I missing out?

“Time heals everything, don’t you think?”

That depends. Time can often make things worse. That’s what’s happening with me, but I came here to interview, not to be interviewed, so I don’t say anything. He goes on:

“The Nigerians don’t know this. I’ve set a trap for them with the Ministry of Finance and arranged to record everything, exactly as they did with me.”

At that point, I see my article go out the window, and along with it my big chance of rising up the ladder in a dying industry. There’s nothing new to be told—no adultery, no blackmail, no corruption. Everything is following the Swiss pattern of quality and excellence.

“Have you finished asking questions? Can we move on to another subject?”

Yes, I’ve asked all my questions, but I don’t really have another subject.

“I think you should have asked why I wanted to see you again. And why I wanted to know if you were happy. Do you think I’m interested in you sexually? We’re not teenagers anymore. I confess that I was surprised by what you did in my office, and I loved coming in your mouth, but that isn’t enough of a reason for why we are here, especially considering we can’t do that kind of thing in a public place. So don’t you want to know why I wanted to meet you again?”