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.
The food arrives. We open a third bottle of wine. The small talk continues; Jacob’s new routine as a member of the Council of States, congratulations for my two articles on stress (“a rather unusual approach”), and if it’s true the price of real estate will fall now that banking secrecy is disappearing and if the thousands of bankers will go with it. They are moving to Singapore or Dubai, where we spend the holiday season.
I keep waiting for the bull to enter the arena. But it doesn’t, and I lower my guard. I drink a bit more than I should and start to feel relaxed and cheerful. Then the doors swing wide open.
“The other day I was talking with some friends about the stupid feeling of jealousy,” says Marianne K?nig. “What do you think about it?”
What do we think about a topic that no one talks about at dinner? The bitch knows how to choose her words well. She must have spent the whole day thinking about it. She called jealousy a “stupid feeling,” intending to leave me more exposed and vulnerable.
“I grew up witnessing terrible displays of jealousy at home,” says my husband.
What? He’s talking about his private life? To a stranger?
“So I promised myself I would never let that happen to me if I ever got married. It was hard at first, because our instinct is to control everything, even the uncontrollable, like love and fidelity. But I did it. And my wife, who meets with other people every day and sometimes comes home later than usual, has never heard a criticism or an insinuation from me.”
I’ve never heard this explanation. I didn’t know he’d grown up with jealousy all around him. The bitch manages to make everyone obey her command: let’s have dinner, put out your cigarette, talk about the topic I picked.
There are two reasons for what my husband just said. The first is that he is suspicious of her invitation and is trying to protect me. The second: he is telling me, in front of everyone, how important I am to him. I reach out my hand and touch his. I never imagined this. I thought he simply wasn’t interested in what I did.
“And what about you, Linda? Don’t you get jealous of your husband?”
Me?
Of course not. I trust him completely. I think jealousy is for sick, insecure people with no self-esteem, people who feel inferior and believe anyone can threaten their relationship. And you?
Marianne is caught in her own trap.
“Like I said, I think it’s a stupid feeling.”
Yes, you already said that. But if you found out your husband was cheating, what would you do?
Jacob goes pale. He restrains himself from drinking the entire contents of his wineglass.
“I believe my husband meets insecure people every day who must be dying of boredom in their own marriage and are destined to have a mediocre and repetitive life. I imagine there are some people like that in your line of work, too, who will go from junior reporter straight to retirement …”
“Many,” I reply with zero emotion in my voice. I help myself to more fondue. She stares me right in the eyes. I know you’re talking about me, but I don’t want my husband to suspect anything. I don’t care one bit about her and Jacob, who must have confessed everything, unable to stand the pressure.
My cool surprises me. Maybe it’s the wine or the monster having fun with all this. Maybe it’s the immense pleasure of being able to confront a woman who thinks she knows everything. “Go on,” I say, as I dunk the piece of bread in the melted cheese.
“As you all know, these unloved women aren’t a threat to me. Unlike you, I don’t have complete trust in Jacob. I know he’s already cheated on me a few times. The flesh is weak …”
Jacob laughs nervously and has another sip of wine. The bottle’s empty; Marianne motions to the waiter to bring another.
“… but I try to see it as part of a normal relationship. If my man wasn’t desired and pursued by these sluts, then he must be completely uninteresting. Instead of jealousy, you know what I feel? Horniness. I often take off my clothes, approach him naked, spread my legs, and ask him to do to me exactly what he did with them. Sometimes I ask him to tell me how it was, and this makes me come many times.”
“That’s all in Marianne’s fantasies,” says Jacob, rather unconvincingly. “She makes these things up. The other day she asked if I would like to go to a swingers club in Lausanne.”
He’s not joking, of course, but everyone laughs, including her.
To my horror, I discover that Jacob is enjoying being labeled the “unfaithful male.” My husband seems very interested in Marianne’s reply and asks her to talk a bit more about the arousal she gets from knowing about the extramarital affairs. He asks for the address of the swingers club and gazes at me, his eyes shining. He says it’s about time we tried something different. I don’t know if he’s trying to manage the almost unbearable atmosphere at the table or if he is actually interested in trying. Marianne says she doesn’t know the address, but if he gives her his phone number, she’ll send it to him by text.
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.