Adultery(24)
In less than five minutes of conversation, there is already evident hostility between us. Feeling embarrassed, I agree to treat her statement as off the record. She notes that on any similar occasion, she will ask first. She learns something new every minute. She gets closer and closer to her ambition every minute. Yes, her ambition, because Jacob said that he was unhappy with the life he leads.
She doesn’t take her eyes off me. I decide to resume my role as journalist and ask if she has anything more to add. Has she organized a party at home for close friends?
“Of course not! Imagine how much work that would be. Besides, he’s already been elected. You hold any parties and dinners before an election, to draw votes.”
Again, I feel like a complete imbecile, but I need to ask at least one other question.
Is Jacob happy?
And I see that I have hit home. Mme K?nig gives me a condescending look and replies slowly, as if she were a teacher giving me a lesson:
“Of course he’s happy. Why on earth wouldn’t he be?”
This woman deserves to be drawn and quartered.
We are both interrupted at the same time—me by an aide wanting to introduce me to the winner, she by an acquaintance coming to offer his congratulations. It was a pleasure to meet her, I say, and am tempted to add that, on another occasion, I’d like to explore what she means by consensual sex with the wife of a friend—off the record, of course—but there’s no time. I give her my card should she ever need to contact me, but she does not reciprocate. Before I move away, however, she grabs my arm and, in front of the aide and the man who has come to congratulate her on her husband’s victory, says:
“I saw that mutual friend of ours who had lunch with my husband. I feel very sorry for her. She pretends to be strong, but she’s really very fragile. She pretends that she’s confident, but she spends all her time wondering what other people think of her and her work. She must be a very lonely person. As you know, my dear, we women have a very keen sixth sense when it comes to detecting anyone who is a threat to our relationship. Don’t you agree?”
Of course, I say, showing no emotion whatsoever. The aide looks impatient. The winner of the election is waiting for me.
“But she doesn’t have a hope in hell,” Marianne concludes.
Then she holds out her hand, which I dutifully shake, and she moves off without another word.
I SPEND the whole of Monday morning trying to call Jacob’s private mobile number. I never get through. I block his number, on the assumption that he has done the same with mine. I try ringing again, but still no luck.
I ring his aides. I’m told that he’s very busy after the elections, but I need to speak to him. I continue trying.
I adopt a strategy I often have to resort to: I use the phone of someone whose number will not be on his list of contacts.
The telephone rings twice and Jacob answers.
It’s me. I need to see you urgently.
Jacob replies politely and says that today is impossible, but he’ll call me back. He asks:
“Is this your new number?”
No, I borrowed it from someone because you weren’t answering my calls.
He laughs. I imagine he’s surrounded by people. He’s very good at pretending that he’s talking about something perfectly legitimate.
Someone took a photo of us in the park and is trying to blackmail me, I lie. I’ll say that it was all your fault, that you grabbed me. The people who elected you and thought that the last extramarital affair was a one-off will be disappointed. You may have been elected to the Council of States, but you could miss out on becoming a minister, I say.
“Are you feeling all right?”
Yes, I say, and hang up, but only after asking him to send me a text confirming where and when we should meet tomorrow.
I feel fine.
Why wouldn’t I? I finally have something to fill my boring life. And my sleepless nights will no longer be full of crazy thoughts: now I know what I want. I have an enemy to destroy and a goal to achieve.
A man.
It isn’t love (or is it?), but that doesn’t matter. My love belongs to me and I’m free to offer it to whomever I choose, even if it’s unrequited. Of course, it would be great if it were requited, but if not, who cares. I’m not going to give up digging this hole, because I know that there’s water down below. Fresh water.
I’m pleased by that last thought: I’m free to love anyone in the world. I can decide who without asking anyone’s permission. How many men have fallen in love with me in the past and not been loved in return? And yet they still sent me presents, courted me, accepted being humiliated in front of their friends. And they never became angry.