"Of course I denied everything. I pretended I was deeply shocked by her insinuations. I said my dignity had been offended. That I was sick of her distrust and that she could ask anyone about my behavior. Wasn't she the one who said jealousy was a sign of inferiority? I did what I could, and she merely replied: 'Stop being silly. I'm not complaining about anything, I'm just saying I found out why you've been so kind and polite lately.' It was--"
I didn't let him finish his sentence. I got up and grabbed him by the collar. He thought I was going to assault him. But instead I gave him a long kiss. Jacob was completely unresponsive, as he'd been imagining I had come there to do something melodramatic. But I continued kissing his mouth and neck as I undid his tie.
He pushed me away. I slapped him across the face.
"I just need to lock the door first. I've also missed you."
He walked across his office, tastefully decorated with nineteenth-century furniture, and turned the key. When he returned I was already nearly naked, wearing just my panties.
As I ripped off his clothes, he started sucking on my breasts. I moaned with pleasure; he covered my mouth with his hand, but I shook my head and continued moaning quietly.
The whole time, I stopped only once to say: My reputation is at stake, as you can imagine. Don't worry.
I got down on my knees and began to give him oral sex. Again, he held my head, setting the pace--faster and faster. But I didn't want him to come in my mouth. I pushed him away and went to the leather sofa, where I leaned back with my legs spread. He kneeled and started to go down on me. When I had the first orgasm, I bit my hand to keep from screaming. The wave of pleasure felt like it would never end. I continued biting my hand.
Then I called his name, telling him I wanted him inside me and to do anything he wanted. He penetrated me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me like a savage. He pushed my legs up so he could go deeper. The pace increased, but I ordered him not to come yet. I needed more and more and more.
He put me on the floor on all fours, like a dog, hit me, and penetrated me again as I wildly moved my waist. From his stifled groans, I knew that he was ready to come, that he could no longer control himself. I made him withdraw, turned over, and asked him to enter me again while looking into my eyes and saying the dirty things we loved to tell each other whenever we made love. I said the nastiest things a woman can say to a man. He called my name softly, begging me to tell him I loved him. But I just spoke profanities and demanded he treat me like a prostitute, like a stranger, that he use me like a slave, someone who didn't deserve respect.
My entire body was covered in goose bumps. The pleasure came in waves. I came again and again as he controlled himself to prolong it as long as possible. Our bodies collided violently, creating rumblings that he must no longer care if anyone heard through the door.
My eyes locked on him, listening to him repeat my name with each movement; I realized he wasn't wearing a condom and was going to come. Once again I shifted, making him withdraw. I asked him to come on my face, in my mouth, and tell me he loved me.
Jacob did exactly as I said, while I masturbated and came, too. Then he embraced me, put my head on his shoulder, and wiped the corners of my mouth with his hands. He said again, many times, that he loved me and that he had really missed me.
But now he's asking me to get dressed, and I don't budge. He's gone back to being the well-behaved boy who the voters admire. He senses something is wrong, but doesn't know what it is. He begins to realize that I'm not just there because he is an amazing lover.
"What do you want?"
Closure. As much as that breaks my heart and leaves me emotionally in shambles, I need to end it. To look in your eyes and say it's over. Never again.
The suffering I endured this past week was almost unbearable. I cried tears I didn't have and became lost in thoughts of being carried away to the campus where your wife works and committed to the university asylum. I thought I'd failed at everything, except at work and as a mother. I was one step away from life and death at every minute, dreaming about everything we could have had if we were still two teenagers looking into the future together, like the first time. But there came a moment when I understood that I had reached the limits of despair and couldn't go any deeper, and when I looked up there was a single outstretched hand: my husband's.
He must have known, too, but his love was stronger. I tried to be honest and tell him everything to lift that weight off my shoulders, but I didn't need to. He made me see that regardless of the choices I made in life, he would always be by my side and so my burden was light.
I realized I was blaming myself and beating myself up over things he wasn't condemning or even blaming me for. I told myself: "I'm not worthy of this man, he doesn't know who I am."
But he does know. And that's what allows me to get back my self-respect and regain my self-esteem. Because if a man like him wants to stay by my side, a man who would have no difficulty at all finding a new partner the day after separating, it's because I'm worth something; I'm worth a lot.
I discovered I could go back to sleeping by his side without feeling like I was dirty or think I was cheating on him. I felt loved and that I deserved this love.
I get up, gather my clothes, and go to his private bathroom. He knows it's the last time he'll see me naked.
There is a long healing process ahead, I say, when I return. I guess you are feeling the same thing, but I'm sure that all Marianne wants is for this fling to end so she can hug you again with the same love and the same security as before.
"Yes, but she won't tell me anything. She knew what was going on and she closed herself off even more. She was never affectionate, and now she's like a robot, more devoted to her work than ever. It's her way of running away."
I adjust my skirt, put on my shoes, take a bundle out of my bag, and leave it on his desk.
"What's that?"
Cocaine.
"I didn't know you ..."
He doesn't need to know anything, I think. He doesn't need to know how far I was willing to go to fight for him, the man I was madly in love with. The passion is still there, but the flame weakens each day. I know it will eventually die out completely. Any breakup is painful, and I can feel this pain in every fiber of my body. It's the last time I will see him alone. We will meet again at galas and cocktail parties, at elections and press conferences, but we will never again be the way we were today. It was great to have made love like that and end as we began, both of us completely surrendered to the other. I knew it was the last time; he didn't, but I couldn't say anything.
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
Throw it away. It cost me a small fortune, but throw it away. Then you'll set me free from my addiction.
I don't explain exactly what addiction I'm talking about. It has a name: Jacob Konig.
I see his expression of surprise and smile. I say good-bye with three kisses on the cheek and leave. In the vestibule, I turn to his aide and wave. He looks away, pretending to focus on a stack of papers, and just mumbles a good-bye.
When I make it to the sidewalk, I call my husband and tell him I would rather spend New Year's Eve at home, with the children. If he wants to travel, let's do it at Christmas.
LET'S take a walk before dinner?"
I nod yes, but I don't move. I stare at the park across from the hotel and, beyond that, the Jungfrau, perpetually snowcapped and illuminated by the afternoon sun.
The human brain is fascinating; we will forget a scent until we smell it again, we will erase a voice from our memory until we hear it again, and even emotions that seemed buried forever will be awakened when we return to the same place.
I think back to when we were at Interlaken the first time. Back then we stayed at a cheap hotel and hiked from one lake to another, each time like we were discovering a new path. My husband was going to run that crazy marathon that has most of its route in the mountains. I was proud of his adventurous spirit, his desire to conquer
the impossible and always demand more and more of his body.
He wasn't the only person crazy enough to do it; people came from all over the world, filling the hotels and socializing in the many bars and restaurants of this small town of five thousand inhabitants. I have no idea how Interlaken is in the winter, but from my window it now seems more empty, more removed.
This time we're staying in a better hotel. We have a beautiful suite. The manager's card is on the table, greeting us and offering us the bottle of champagne that we've already emptied.
He calls my name. I come back to reality and we go downstairs to take a walk through the streets before nightfall.
If he asks me whether or not everything is fine, I'll lie, because I don't want to spoil his happiness. But the truth is that the wounds in my heart are taking a long time to heal. He points out the bench where we sat to have coffee one morning and were approached by a couple of neo-hippie foreigners asking for money. We pass in front of one of the churches as the bells ring, he kisses me and I kiss him back, doing all I can to hide what I feel.
We walk holding hands because of the cold--I hate wearing gloves. We stop at a nice bar and drink a little. We go to the train station. He buys the same souvenir he bought last time--a lighter with the symbol of the city. Back then he smoked and ran marathons.
Today he doesn't smoke and he thinks he gets more and more out of breath each day. He is always panting when we walk quickly and, though he tries to hide it, I've noticed he was more tired than usual when we took that run by the lake in Nyon.
My phone is vibrating. It takes me ages to find it in my purse. When I finally find it, the person has already hung up. The screen shows it was my friend, the one who was depressed and, thanks to medication, is a happy person again today.
"If you want to call her back, I don't mind."
I ask why I should call back. Is he unhappy with my company? Does he want to be interrupted by people who will spend hours on the phone engaged in irrelevant chatter?
He gets irritated with me, too. Maybe it's just the effect of the bottle of champagne, coupled with the two glasses of aquavit. His irritation calms me and puts me more at ease; I am walking alongside a human being, with emotions and feelings.
Interlaken sure is strange without the marathon, I say. It looks like a ghost town.
"There are no ski slopes here."
Nor could there be. We are in the middle of a valley, with very high mountains to either side and lakes at each end.
He orders two glasses of gin. I suggest we change bars, but he is determined to combat the cold with alcohol. We haven't done this in a long time.
"I know it's only been ten years, but when we were here the first time, I was young. I had ambitions, I liked the open air, and I wouldn't let myself be intimidated by the unknown. Have I changed that much?"
You're only in your thirties. Are you really an old man?
He doesn't answer. He downs his drink in one gulp and stares into space. He is no longer the perfect husband and, oddly enough, this makes me happy.
We leave the bar and walk back to the hotel. Along the way we find a beautiful and charming restaurant, but we've already made reservations elsewhere. It's still early--the sign says dinner service doesn't start until seven p.m.
"Let's have another gin."
Who is this man next to me? Has Interlaken awakened forgotten memories and opened up Pandora's box?
I say nothing. And I begin to be afraid.
I ask if we should cancel our reservation at the Italian restaurant and have dinner here instead.
"It doesn't matter."
It doesn't matter? Is he suddenly feeling everything I went through when he thought I was depressed?
For me it does matter. I want to go to the restaurant we booked. The same one where we exchanged vows of love.
"This trip was a terrible idea. I'd rather go back tomorrow. I had good intentions: I wanted to relive the early days of our relationship. But is that even possible? Of course not. We're mature. We're living under pressures that didn't exist before. We need to maintain basic needs like education, healthcare, food. We try to have fun on the weekends because that's what everybody does, and when we don't feel like leaving the house, we think there's something wrong with us."
I never want to. I'd rather do nothing.
"Me, too. But what about our children? They want something else. We can't leave them locked up with their computers. They're too young for that. So we force ourselves to take them somewhere and do the same things our parents did with us, the same thing our grandparents did with our parents. An ordinary life. We're an emotionally well-structured family. If one of us needs help, the other is always ready to do anything."
I understand. Like taking a trip to a place filled with memories, for example.
Another glass of gin. He sits in silence for a while before replying.
"That's right. But do you think memories can fill the present? Not at all. In fact, they're suffocating me. I'm discovering I'm no longer the same person. Until we got here and had that bottle of champagne, everything was fine. Now I realize just how far I am from living the life I dreamed of when I visited Interlaken the first time."
What did you dream?
"It was silly. But it was still my dream. And I could have made it come true."
But what was it?
"Sell everything I had, buy a boat, and travel the world with you. My father would have been furious that I didn't follow in his footsteps, but it wouldn't have mattered. We'd stop off at ports, do odd jobs until we earned enough to move on, and as soon as we had enough money, we'd set sail again. Be with people we'd never seen before and discover places not listed in the guidebooks. Adventure. My only wish was adventure."
He orders another glass of gin and drinks it at unprecedented speed. I stop drinking because I'm already feeling nauseated; we haven't had anything to eat. I'd like to say that I would have been the happiest woman in the world if he'd gotten his wish. But I had better keep quiet or he'll feel worse.
"Then came the first child."
So? There must be millions of couples with children doing exactly what he suggested.
He reflects a bit.
"I wouldn't say millions. Maybe thousands."
His eyes change; they no longer show aggression, but sadness.
"There are times when we should stop to take a look at the whole picture: our past and our present. What we have learned and the mistakes we made. I was always afraid of those moments. I trick myself, telling myself that I made the best choices and had to make a few small sacrifices. Nothing major."
I suggest we walk a bit. His eyes are starting to get weird, dull.
He slams his fist on the table. The waitress looks frightened, and I order another glass of gin for me. She refuses. It's time to close the bar because dinner will begin soon. And she brings the bill.
I wonder how my husband will react. But he just gets out his wallet and throws some money on the counter. He takes my hand and we go out in the cold.
"I'm afraid that if I think too much about everything that could have been, and never was, I'll fall into a dark hole ..."
I know that feeling. We talked about this at the restaurant, when I opened up to you.
He doesn't seem to hear.
"... deep down there's a voice telling me: none of this makes sense. The universe has existed for billions of years, and it will continue to exist after you die. We live in a microscopic part of a gigantic mystery, and we still have no answers to our childhood questions: Is there life on another planet? If God is good, why does He allow suffering and the pain of others? And what's worse: time continues to pass. Often, for no apparent reason, I feel an immense dread. Sometimes it's when I'm at work, sometimes in the car, and sometimes when I put the kids to bed. I look at them lovingly, afraid: What will happen to them? They live in a country that gives us peace and security, but what about the future?"
Yes, I understand what you're sayin
g. I imagine we're not the only ones to think that way.
"Then I see you making breakfast or dinner and occasionally I think that fifty years from now, or maybe even less, one of us will be sleeping alone, crying every night because once we were happy. The children will be all grown up and far away. The surviving one of us will be sick, always needing help from strangers."
He stops talking, and we walk in silence. We pass by a sign announcing a New Year's Eve party. He kicks it violently. Two or three passersby look at us.
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to say all that. I brought you here to make you feel better without all the daily pressures. Blame it on the booze."
I'm stunned.
We pass by a group of young men and women who are talking animatedly among the beer cans scattered everywhere. My husband, usually shy and serious, approaches them and invites them to have another drink.
The young people look frightened. I apologize, hinting that we're both drunk and one drop more of alcohol might lead to catastrophe. I grab his arm and we carry on.
How long has it been since I've done that? He was always the protector, the helper, the problem solver. Now I'm the one trying to keep him from skidding and falling. His mood has changed again, and now he's singing a song I've never heard--perhaps a traditional song of that region.
When we approach the church, the bells ring again.
That's a good sign, I say.
"I listen to the bells. They speak of God. But is God listening to us? We're in our thirties, and life isn't fun anymore. If not for our children, what would be the point of all this?"
I prepare myself to say something. But I have no answer. We arrive at the restaurant where we exchanged our first words of love and have a depressing candlelight dinner in one of the most beautiful and most expensive cities in Switzerland.
WHEN I awake, there's already daylight outside. I had a dreamless sleep and didn't wake up in the middle of the night. I look at the clock: nine a.m.
My husband is still sleeping. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and order breakfast for the two of us. I put on a robe and go to the window to pass the time while I wait for the room service to arrive.