“We’ll leave whenever you want,” he interrupts.
The next moment we are busy greeting an infinite number of people who treat me as if I were a close friend. I reciprocate even though I don’t know their names. If the conversation drags on, I have a foolproof trick: I introduce my husband and say nothing. He introduces himself and asks the other person’s name. I listen to the answer and repeat, loud and clear: “Honey, don’t you remember so-and-so?”
So cynical!
I finish greeting them, and we go to a corner where I complain: Why do people have a habit of asking whether we remember them? There’s nothing more embarrassing. They all consider themselves important enough to be etched in my memory, even though I meet new people every day because of my job.
“Be more forgiving. People are having fun.”
My husband doesn’t know what he’s talking about. People are just pretending to have fun. What they’re really looking for is visibility, attention, and—every now and then—the opportunity to meet someone and close a business deal. The fate of people who think they’re so beautiful and powerful as they walk down the red carpet lies in the hands of an underpaid guy from the news department. The paginator receives the photos via e-mail and decides who should or shouldn’t appear in our small world of traditions and conventions. He is the one who places images of people of interest in the paper, leaving a small space for the famous photo with an overview of the party (or cocktail hour, or dinner, or reception). There, with a little luck, one or another might be recognized among the anonymous people who consider themselves very important.
Darius takes the stage and begins to share his experiences with all the important people he interviewed during his program’s ten-year span. I’m able to relax a bit and go to one of the windows with my husband. My internal radar already detected Jacob and Mme K?nig. I want distance, and I imagine Jacob does, too.
“Is there something wrong?”
I knew it. Are you Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde today? Victor Frankenstein or his monster?
No, darling. I’m just avoiding the man I went to bed with yesterday. I suspect that everyone in this room knows it, and that the word “lovers” is written on our foreheads.
I smile and say something he’s tired of hearing, that I’m too old to go to parties. I would love to be home right now, taking care of our children instead of having left them with a babysitter. I’m not much of a drinker—I already get confused with all these people saying hello to me and making conversation. I have to feign interest in what they’re saying and respond with a question before I can finally put the hors d’oeuvre in my mouth and finish chewing without seeming rude.
A screen is lowered and a video clip starts, featuring the most important guests who’ve been on the program. I’ve worked with some of them, but most of them are foreigners visiting Geneva. As we all know, there’s always someone important in this city, and going on the show is obligatory.
“Let’s leave, then. He already saw you. We’ve done our social duty. Let’s rent a movie and enjoy the rest of the night together.”
No. We’ll stay a little longer, because Jacob and Mme K?nig are here. It might seem suspicious to leave the party before the ceremony ends. Darius starts calling some of his show’s guests to the stage, and they make a short statement about the experience. I nearly die of boredom. Unaccompanied men start looking around, discreetly seeking single women. The women, in turn, look at one another: how they’re dressed, what makeup they’re wearing, if they’re here with husbands or lovers.
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—”