Adultery(55)
I look out at the city, lost in absent thoughts, just waiting for time to pass so we can leave quietly without arousing suspicion.
“It’s you!”
Me?
“Darling, he’s calling your name!”
Darius just invited me to the stage and I hadn’t heard. Yes, I had been on his show with the ex-president of Switzerland to talk about human rights. But I’m not that important. I never imagined this; it hadn’t been arranged, and I didn’t prepare anything to say.
But Darius gestures to me. The people all look my way, smiling. I walk toward him. I’ve regained my composure and am secretly happy, because Marianne wasn’t called, nor will she be. Jacob wasn’t called up, either, because the idea is for the evening to be enjoyable, not filled with political speeches.
I climb the makeshift stage—it’s a staircase linking the two areas of the hall at the top of the TV tower—give Darius a kiss, and start telling an uninteresting story about when I went on the show. The men continue their hunt, and the women continue looking at one another. Those nearest the stage pretend to be interested in what I’m saying. I keep my eyes on my husband; everyone who speaks in public has to choose someone to serve as support.
In the middle of my impromptu speech, I see something that absolutely should not happen: Jacob and Marianne K?nig are standing next to my husband. All this had to have happened in the less than two minutes it took me to get to the stage and start the speech that, at this point, is already making the waiters circulate and most of the guests look away from the stage in search of something more attractive.
I say thank you as quickly as possible. The guests applaud. Darius gives me a kiss. I try to get to my husband and the K?nigs, but am waylaid by people who praise me for things I didn’t say and claim I was wonderful. They’re delighted with the series of articles on shamanism and suggest topics, hand me business cards, and discreetly offer themselves as “sources” on something that could be “very interesting.” All this takes about ten minutes. When I finally approach my destination, the three are smiling. They congratulate me, say I’m a great public speaker, and deliver the bad news:
“I explained to them that you’re tired and that our children are with the babysitter,” my husband says, “but Mme K?nig insists on having dinner together.”
“I do. I suppose no one here has had dinner?” says Marianne.
Jacob has a fake smile on his face and agrees like a lamb to the slaughter.
In a split second, two hundred thousand excuses run through my head. But why? I have a fair amount of cocaine ready to be used at any moment, and what better than this “opportunity” to see if I’ll carry out my plan.
Besides, I have a morbid curiosity to see how this dinner goes.
It would be our pleasure, Mme K?nig.
Marianne chooses the restaurant at Hotel Les Armures, which shows a certain lack of originality, as that’s where everyone usually takes their foreign visitors. The fondue is excellent, the staff strives to speak every language possible, and it’s located in the heart of the old city … but for someone who lives in Geneva, it is definitely nothing new.
We arrive after the K?nigs. Jacob is outside, enduring the cold in the name of his nicotine addiction. Marianne has already gone in. I suggest my husband also go in and keep her company while I wait for Mr. K?nig to finish smoking. He says that the reverse would be better, but I insist—it wouldn’t be polite to leave two women alone at the table, even if just for a few minutes.
“The invitation caught me off guard, too,” says Jacob, as soon as my husband is gone.
I try to act as though nothing is wrong. Are you feeling guilty? Worried about a potential end to your unhappy marriage (with that stone-cold bitch, I’d like to add)?
“It’s not about that. It’s that—”
We’re interrupted by the bitch. A devilish grin on her lips, she greets me (again!) with the three customary pecks on the cheek and orders her husband to put out his cigarette and come inside. I read between the lines: I’m suspicious of you two and think you must be planning something, but look, I’m clever, much more intelligent than you think.
We order the usual: fondue and raclette. My husband says he’s tired of eating cheese and picks something different: a sausage that is on the visitor menu. We also order wine, but Jacob doesn’t sniff, swirl, taste, and nod—that was just a dumb way of impressing me on the first day. While we wait for the food and make small talk, we finish the first bottle, which is soon replaced by a second. I ask my husband not to drink anymore, or we’ll have to leave the car again, and we’re much farther away from home than we were the previous time.