I don’t have the strength to say what I do or don’t want to do. Why don’t I just give up yoga once and for all? Why don’t I go to a psychiatrist and start taking those magic pills? Why can’t I control myself and stop thinking about Jacob? After all, he never suggested he wanted anything more than someone to talk to about Saturn and the frustrations that all adults face sooner or later.
I can’t stand myself any longer. My life is like a film endlessly repeating the same scene.
I took a few classes in psychology when I was studying journalism. In one of them, the professor—a very interesting man, both in class and in bed—said that all interviewees go through five stages: defensiveness, self-promotion, self-confidence, confession, and an attempt to put things right.
In my life, I’ve gone straight from self-confidence to confession. I’m starting to confess things to myself that would be best left unspoken.
For example: the world has stopped.
Not just my world, but the world of everyone around me. When we meet with friends, we always talk about the same things and the same people. The conversations seem new, but it’s all just a waste of time and energy. We’re trying to prove that life is still interesting.
Everyone is trying to control their own unhappiness. Not just Jacob and me, but probably my husband, too. Only he doesn’t show it.
In my dangerous confessional state, these things are beginning to become much clearer. I don’t feel alone. I’m surrounded by people with the same problems, all of whom are pretending that life is going on as normal. Me. My neighbor. Probably even my boss, as well, and the man sleeping by my side.
After a certain age, we put on a mask of confidence and certainty. In time, that mask gets stuck to our face and we can’t remove it.
As children, we learn that if we cry we’ll receive affection, that if we show we’re sad, we’ll be consoled. If we can’t get what we want with a smile, then we can surely do so with our tears.
But we no longer cry, except in the bathroom when no one is listening. Nor do we smile at anyone other than our children. We don’t show our feelings because people might think we’re vulnerable and take advantage of us.
Sleep is the best remedy.
I MEET Jacob as arranged. This time, I choose the place, and we end up in the lovely but neglected Parc des Eaux-Vives, where there’s another awful restaurant owned by the city. I once had lunch there with a correspondent from the Financial Times. We ordered martinis and the waiter served us Cinzanos.
This time, we don’t have lunch in the restaurant, we just sit on the grass and eat sandwiches. He can smoke freely here, because we have a private view of everything around us. We can watch the people coming and going.
I’ve decided to be honest: after the usual formalities (the weather, work, a “how was the nightclub?”/“I’m going tonight” exchange), the first thing I ask is whether he’s being blackmailed because of, how shall I say, an extramarital relationship.
He doesn’t seem surprised. He merely asks if I’m speaking as a journalist or as a friend.
At the moment, as a journalist. If you say it’s true, I give you my word that the newspaper will support you. We won’t publish anything about your personal life, but we will go after the blackmailers.
“Yes, I had an affair with the wife of a friend, which I imagine you already know. He was the one who encouraged it, because we were both bored with our marriages. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The husband encouraged it? No, I don’t understand, but I nod and remember what happened three nights ago, when I had multiple orgasms.
And is the affair still ongoing?
“No, we lost interest. My wife knows about it. There are some things you can’t hide. Some people in Nigeria photographed us together and are threatening to publish the pictures, but that’s not news to anyone.”
Nigeria is where that metallurgical company is based. Didn’t his wife threaten divorce?
“She was pretty annoyed for a few days, but no more than that. She has great plans for our marriage, and I imagine that fidelity isn’t necessarily part of them. She pretended to be a bit jealous, just to show that what happened was important, but she’s a terrible actress. A few hours after I’d confessed, her mind was already on other things.”
It would seem that Jacob lives in a completely different world from mine, where wives don’t feel jealous and husbands encourage their wives to have affairs. Am I missing out?
“Time heals everything, don’t you think?”
That depends. Time can often make things worse. That’s what’s happening with me, but I came here to interview, not to be interviewed, so I don’t say anything. He goes on:
“The Nigerians don’t know this. I’ve set a trap for them with the Ministry of Finance and arranged to record everything, exactly as they did with me.”
At that point, I see my article go out the window, and along with it my big chance of rising up the ladder in a dying industry. There’s nothing new to be told—no adultery, no blackmail, no corruption. Everything is following the Swiss pattern of quality and excellence.
“Have you finished asking questions? Can we move on to another subject?”
Yes, I’ve asked all my questions, but I don’t really have another subject.
“I think you should have asked why I wanted to see you again. And why I wanted to know if you were happy. Do you think I’m interested in you sexually? We’re not teenagers anymore. I confess that I was surprised by what you did in my office, and I loved coming in your mouth, but that isn’t enough of a reason for why we are here, especially considering we can’t do that kind of thing in a public place. So don’t you want to know why I wanted to meet you again?”
The jack-in-the-box of that question about whether or not I’m happy springs out at me again. Doesn’t he realize that you don’t ask that kind of thing?
Only if you want to tell me, I reply, in order to provoke him and destroy, once and for all, that arrogant air of his that makes me feel so insecure. Then I add: It’s because you want to go to bed with me. You won’t be the first I’ve told “no.”
He shakes his head. I pretend to be unfazed and point at the waves on the normally calm surface of the lake below. We sit looking at them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world until he manages to find the right words:
“As you no doubt realized, I asked if you were happy because I recognized myself in you. Similarities attract. You may not feel the same about me, but that doesn’t matter. You may be mentally exhausted, convinced that your nonexistent problems—problems you know are nonexistent—are draining you of all your energy.”
I had that exact thought during lunch; tortured souls recognize each other and are drawn together in order to frighten the living.
“I feel the same,” he says. “Except that my problems are more real. Since I depend on the approval of so many people, I am filled with self-loathing when I haven’t resolved this or that problem. And that makes me feel useless. I’ve thought of seeking medical help, but my wife doesn’t want me to. She says that if anyone found out, it could ruin my career. I agree.”
So he talks about these things with his wife. Perhaps tonight I’ll do the same with my husband. Instead of going to a nightclub, I could sit down with him and tell him everything. How would he react?
“Of course, I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he continues. “At the moment I’m trying to force myself to look at the world differently, but it’s not working. When I see someone like you—and I’ve met a lot of people in the same situation—I try to find out how they’re dealing with the problem. I need help, you see, and that’s the only way I can get it.”
So that’s it. No sex, no great romantic affair to bring a little sunshine into the gray Geneva afternoon. He just wants a support group, the kind of thing alcoholics and drug addicts have.