TODAY is Saturday, the eve of the elections. I have a friend who says he hates weekends because when the stock market is closed he has no way to amuse himself.
My husband has persuaded me that we need to get out of the city. His argument is that the kids will enjoy a little trip, even if we can’t go away for the whole weekend because tomorrow I’m working.
He tells me to wear my jogging pants. I feel embarrassed going out like that, especially to visit Nyon, the ancient and glorious city that was once home to the Romans but now has fewer than twenty thousand inhabitants. I tell him that jogging pants are really something you wear closer to home, where it’s obvious that you’re intending to exercise, but he insists.
I don’t want to argue, so I do as he asks. I don’t want to argue with anyone about anything—not now. The less said, the better.
While I’m off to a picnic in a small town less than half an hour away, Jacob will be visiting voters, talking to aides and friends, and feeling nervous, perhaps a little stressed, but glad because something is happening in his life. Opinion polls in Switzerland don’t count for much, because here secrecy of the vote is taken very seriously; however, it seems likely that he’ll be reelected.
His wife must have spent a sleepless night, but for very different reasons from mine. She’ll be planning how to receive their friends after the result is officially announced. This morning she’ll be at the market in Rue de Rive, where, all week, stalls selling fruit and cheese and meat are set up right outside the Julius Baer Bank and the shop windows of Prada, Gucci, Armani, and other designer brands. She chooses the best of everything, without worrying about the cost. Then she might take her car and drive to Satigny to visit one of the many vineyards that are the pride of the region, to taste some of the new vintages, and to decide on something that will please those who really understand wine—as seems to be the case with her husband.
She will return home tired, but happy. Officially, Jacob is still campaigning, but why not get things ready for the evening? Oh, dear, now she realizes that she has less cheese than she thought! She gets in the car again and goes back to the market. Among the dozens of varieties on display, she chooses the cheeses that are the pride of the Canton of Vaud: Gruyère (all three varieties: mild, salé, and the most expensive of all, which takes nine to twelve months to mature), Tomme Vaudoise (soft and creamy, to be eaten in a fondue or on its own), and L’Etivaz (made from the milk of cows grazed in alpine pastures and prepared in the traditional way, in copper cauldrons, over open wood fires).
Is it worth popping in to one of the shops and buying something new to wear? Or would that appear ostentatious? Best to wear that Moschino outfit she bought in Milan when she accompanied her husband to a conference on labor laws.
And how will Jacob be feeling?
He phones his wife every hour to ask if he should say this or that, if it would be best to visit this street or that area, or if the Tribune de Genève has posted anything new on its website. He depends on her and her advice, offloads some of the tension that builds up with each visit he makes, and asks her about the strategy they drew up together and where he should go next. As he suggested during our conversation in the park, the only reason he stays in politics is so he doesn’t disappoint her. Even though he hates what he’s doing, love lends a unique quality to his efforts. If he continues on his brilliant path, he will one day be president of the republic. Admittedly, this doesn’t mean very much in Switzerland, because as we all know, the president changes every year and is elected by the Federal Council. But who wouldn’t like to say that her husband was president of Switzerland, otherwise known as the Swiss Confederation?
It will open doors, bring invitations to conferences in far-flung places. Some large company will appoint him to its board. The future of the K?nigs looks bright, while all that lies before me at this precise moment is the road and the prospect of a picnic while wearing a hideous pair of jogging pants.
THE FIRST thing we do is visit the Roman museum and then climb a small hill to see some ruins. Our children race around, laughing. Now that my husband knows everything, I feel relieved. I don’t need to pretend all the time.
“Let’s go and run round the lake.”
What about the kids?
My husband spots a couple family friends sitting on a nearby bench, eating ice cream with their children. “Should we ask them if our kids can join? We can buy them ice cream, too.”
Our friends are surprised to see us, but agree. Before we go down to the shore of Lake Léman—which all foreigners call Lake Geneva—he buys the ice cream for the children and asks them to stay with our friends while Mommy and Daddy go for a run. My son complains that he hasn’t got his iPad. My husband goes to the car and fetches the stupid thing. From that moment on, the screen will be the best possible nanny. They won’t budge until they’ve killed terrorists in games more suited to adults.
We start running. On one side are gardens; on the other, seagulls and sailboats making the most of the mistral. The wind didn’t stop on the third day, nor on the sixth. It must be nearing its ninth day, when it will disappear and take with it the blue sky and the good weather. We run along the track for fifteen minutes. We’ve left Nyon behind us and had better head back.
I haven’t exercised in ages. When we’ve been running for twenty minutes, I stop. I can’t go on. I’ll have to walk the rest of the way.
“Of course you can do it!” encourages my husband, jogging in place so as not to lose his rhythm. “Don’t stop, keep running.”
I bend forward, resting my hands on my knees. My heart is pounding; it’s the fault of all those sleepless nights. He keeps jogging circles round me.
“Come on, you can do it! It’s worse if you stop. Do it for me, for the kids. This isn’t just a way of getting some exercise, it’s reminding you that there’s a finish line and that you can’t give up halfway through.”
Is he talking about my “compulsive sadness”?
He stops jogging, takes my hands, and gently shakes me. I’m too tired to run, but I’m too tired to resist as well. I do as he asks. We run together for the remaining ten minutes.
I pass billboards for the various Council of States candidates, which I hadn’t noticed before. Among the photos is one of Jacob K?nig, smiling at the camera.
I run more quickly. My husband is surprised and speeds up. We get there in seven minutes instead of ten. The children haven’t moved. Despite the beautiful surroundings—the mountains, the seagulls, the Alps in the distance—they have their eyes glued to the screen of that soul-sucking machine.
My husband goes to them, but I keep running. He watches me, surprised and happy. He must think his words have had an effect and are filling my body with the endorphins that fill our blood whenever we do some physical activity with a slight intensity, like when we run or have an orgasm. The hormones’ main effects are improving our mood, boosting our immune system, and fending off premature aging, but, above all, they provoke a feeling of euphoria and pleasure.
However, that isn’t what the endorphins are doing for me. They’re merely giving me the strength to carry on, to run as far as the horizon and leave everything behind. Why do I have to have such wonderful children? Why did I have to meet my husband and fall in love? If I hadn’t met him, I’d be a free woman now.
I’m mad. I should run straight to the nearest mental hospital, because these are not the kinds of things one should think. But I continue to think them.