Adultery(57)

Time to spring into action. I say that, in general, jealous people will try to show exactly the opposite in public. They love to make insinuations and see if they can get some information about their partner’s behavior, but are na?ve to think they’ll succeed. I, for example, could be having an affair with your husband and you would never know, because I’m not stupid enough to fall for that trap.

My tone changes slightly. My husband looks at me, surprised at my answer.

“Darling, don’t you think that’s going a little far?”

No, I don’t. I’m not the one who started this conversation, and I don’t know what Mme K?nig is driving at. But ever since we got here she hasn’t stopped insinuating things, and I’m sick of it. By the way, have you noticed how she’s been staring at me the whole time we’ve been talking about something that’s of no interest to anyone at this table but her?

Marianne looks at me, stunned. I think she didn’t expect a reaction because she’s used to controlling everything.

I say that I’ve met a lot of people who are driven by obsessive jealousy, and not because they think their husband or wife is committing adultery, but because they would like to be the center of attention all the time, and they’re not. Jacob calls the waiter and asks for the bill. Great. After all, they were the ones who invited us and who should bear the expense.

I look at my watch and pretend to be greatly surprised; it’s already past the time we gave the babysitter! I get up, thank them for dinner, and go to the cloakroom to get my coat. The conversation has already shifted to children and the responsibilities they bring.

“Do you think she really thought I was talking about her?” I hear Marianne asking my husband.

“Of course not. There would be no reason for that.”

We go out into the cold air, not saying much. I’m angry, anxious, and I volunteer without being prompted that yes, she was talking about me, and that that woman is so neurotic that on election day she also made several insinuations. She’s always wanting to show off—she must be dying of jealousy over the jerk whose “proper behavior” she controls with an iron fist so he has some future in politics, even though she’s really the one who’d like to be campaigning for what is right or wrong.

My husband says that I’ve had too much to drink and should calm down.

We walk in front of a cathedral. Mist covers the city again and makes everything look like we’re in a horror movie. I imagine Marianne waiting for me in a corner with a dagger, like in the days Geneva was a medieval city and in constant battle with the French.

Neither the cold nor the walk calms me down. We get the car, and when we arrive home I go directly to the bedroom and swallow two Valiums while my husband pays the babysitter and puts the kids to bed.

I sleep for ten hours straight. The next day, when I get up for the usual morning routine, I start to think my husband is a little less affectionate. It’s almost imperceptible, but still something yesterday made him uncomfortable. I’m not sure what to do—I’ve never taken two tranquilizers at once, and am experiencing a lethargy that’s nothing like the one loneliness and unhappiness caused.

I leave for work and automatically check my phone. There’s a text from Jacob. I’m hesitant to open it, but curiosity is greater than hate.

It was sent this morning, very early.

“You blew it. She had no idea that there was something between us, but now she’s sure. You fell into a trap she didn’t set.”





I HAVE to stop by the damn supermarket to buy groceries, feeling frustrated and unloved. Marianne is right; I’m nothing more than a sexual hobby for the stupid dog sleeping in her bed. I drive dangerously because I can’t stop crying, the tears keeping me from seeing the other cars clearly. I hear honking and complaints. I try to slow down; I hear more honking and more complaints.

If it was stupid to let Marianne suspect something, it was even more stupid to risk everything I have—my husband, my family, my job.

Driving under the delayed effects of two tranquilizers and with frazzled nerves, I realize that I am also putting my life at risk. I park on a side street and cry. My sobs are so loud that someone approaches and asks if I need help. I say no and the person walks away. But the truth is I do need help—a lot. I’m plunging deeper into my inner self, into its sea of mud, and I can’t swim.

I’m blinded by hatred. I imagine that Jacob has already recovered from yesterday’s dinner and will never want to see me again. It’s my fault for wanting to go beyond my limits, for always thinking that my behavior is suspicious, that everyone knows what I am doing. Maybe it’s a good idea to call and apologize, but I know he won’t answer. Maybe it’s better to call my husband and see if he’s okay? I know his voice. I know when he’s angry and tense, even though he’s a master at self-control. But I don’t want to know. I’m really scared. My stomach is churning, and my hands clench around the steering wheel. I allow myself to cry as loud as I can, to shout and make a scene in the only safe place on earth: my car. The person who approached me is now eyeing me from afar, afraid I’ll do something stupid. No, I won’t do anything. I just want to cry. Is that too much to ask?