I run for a few more minutes, then go back. Halfway, I’m terrified by the possibility that my wish for freedom will come true and I’ll find no one there when I go back to the park in Nyon.
But there they are, smiling at their loving mother and spouse. I embrace them all. I’m sweating, my body and mind dirty, but still I hold them close.
Despite what I feel. Or, rather, despite what I don’t feel.
YOU don’t choose your life; it chooses you. There’s no point asking why life has reserved certain joys or griefs, you just accept them and carry on.
We can’t choose our lives, but we can decide what to do with the joys or griefs we’re given.
That Sunday afternoon, I’m at the party headquarters doing my professional duty. I managed to convince my boss of this, and now I’m trying to convince myself. It’s a quarter to six and people are celebrating. Contrary to my fevered imaginings, none of the elected candidates will be holding a reception, and so I still won’t get a chance to go to the house of Jacob and Marianne K?nig.
When I arrive, the first results are just coming in. More than forty-five percent of the electorate voted, which is a record. A female candidate came out on top, and Jacob came in an honorable third, which will give him the right to enter government if his party chooses him.
The main hall is decorated with yellow and green balloons. People have already started to drink, and some make the victory sign, perhaps hoping that tomorrow their picture will appear in the newspaper. But the photographers haven’t yet arrived; after all, it’s Sunday, and the weather is lovely.
Jacob spots me at once and immediately looks the other way, searching for someone with whom he can talk about matters that must, I imagine, be extraordinarily dull.
I need to work, or at least pretend to. I take out my digital recorder, a notebook, and a felt-tip pen. I walk back and forth, collecting statements such as “Now we can get that law on immigration through” or “The voters realize that they made the wrong choice last time and now they’ve voted me back in.”
The winner says: “It was the female vote that really counted for me.”
Léman Bleu, the local television station, has set up a studio in the main room, and its female political presenter—a vague object of desire for nine out of ten men there—is asking intelligent questions but receiving only the sound bites approved by the political aides.
At one point, Jacob K?nig is called for an interview, and I try to get closer to hear what he’s saying. Someone blocks my path.
“Hello, I’m Madame K?nig. Jacob has told me a lot about you.”
What a woman! Blond, blue-eyed, and wearing an elegant black cardigan with a red Hermès scarf, although that’s the only famous brand name I can spot. Her other clothes must have been made exclusively by the best couturier in Paris, whose name must be kept secret in order to avoid copycat designs.
I try not to look surprised.
Jacob told you about me? I did interview him, and, a few days later, we had lunch together. I know journalists aren’t supposed to have an opinion about their interviewees, but I think your husband is a brave man to have gone public about that blackmail attempt.
Marianne—or Mme K?nig, as she introduced herself—pretends to be interested in what I’m saying. She must know more than she is letting on. Would Jacob have told her what happened during our meeting in the Parc des Eaux-Vives? Should I mention it?
The interview with Léman Bleu has just begun, but she doesn’t seem to be interested in listening to what her husband says. She probably knows it all by heart, anyway. She doubtless chose his pale blue shirt and gray tie, his beautifully cut flannel jacket, and the watch he’s wearing—not too expensive, to avoid appearing ostentatious, but not too cheap, either, to show a proper respect for one of the country’s main industries.
I ask if she has anything to say. She replies that as an assistant professor of philosophy at the University of Geneva, she would be delighted to comment, but as the wife of a reelected politician, that would be absurd.
It seems to me that she’s provoking me, and so I decide to pay her back in kind.
I say I admire her dignity. She knew her husband had had an affair with the wife of a friend and yet she didn’t create a scandal. Not even when it appeared in the newspapers just before the elections.
“Of course not. When it’s a matter of consensual sex without love, I’m in favor of open relationships.”
Is she insinuating something? I can’t quite look into the blue beacons that are her eyes. I notice only that she doesn’t wear much makeup. She doesn’t need to.
“In fact,” she says, “it was my idea to get an anonymous informer to tell the newspaper the week before the elections. People will soon forget a marital infidelity, but they’ll always remember his bravery at denouncing corruption even though it could have had serious repercussions for his family life.”
She laughs at that last bit and tells me that what she’s saying is strictly off the record, of course, and should not be published.
I say that according to the rules of journalism, people should request that something be kept off the record before they speak. The journalist can then agree or not. Asking afterward is like trying to stop a leaf that has fallen into the river and is already traveling wherever the waters choose to take it. The leaf can no longer make its own decisions.
“But you won’t repeat it, will you? I’m sure you don’t have the slightest interest in damaging my husband’s reputation.”
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.