Paulo Coelho - Adultery

She must be a brilliant strategist to have succeeded in persuading a mainstream newspaper to believe in her, an anonymous informer. (They are normally never taken seriously and are, besides, few and far between in Switzerland.) I doubt that she identified herself as a source.

She is a manipulator who was able to transform something that could have proved devastating to her husband’s career into a lesson in marital tolerance and solidarity, as well as a struggle against corruption.

She is a visionary, intelligent enough to wait before having children. She still has time. Meanwhile, she can build the career she wants without being troubled by babies crying in the middle of the night or by neighbors saying that she should give up her work and pay more attention to the children (as mine do).

She has excellent instincts, and doesn’t see me as a threat. Despite appearances, the only person I am a danger to is myself.

She is precisely the kind of woman I would like to destroy pitilessly.

Because she is not some poor wretch without a resident’s permit who wakes at five in the morning in order to travel into the city, terrified that one day she’ll be exposed as an illegal worker. Because she isn’t a lady of leisure married to some high-ranking official in the United Nations, always seen at parties in order to show the world how rich and happy she is (even though everyone knows that her husband has a mistress ten years her junior). And because she isn’t the mistress of a high-ranking official at the United Nations, where she works and, however hard she tries, will never be recognized for what she does because “she’s having an affair with the boss.”

She isn’t a lonely, powerful female CEO who had to move to Geneva to be close to the World Trade Organization’s headquarters, where everyone takes sexual harassment in the workplace so seriously that no one dares to even look at anyone else. And at night, she doesn’t lie staring at the wall of the vast mansion she has rented, occasionally hiring a male escort to distract her and help her forget that she’ll spend the rest of her life without a husband, children, or lovers.

No, Marianne doesn’t fit any of those categories. She’s the complete woman.

I’VE BEEN sleeping better. I should be meeting Jacob before the end of the week—at least that’s what he promised, and I doubt he would have the courage to change his mind. He sounded nervous during our telephone conversation on Monday.

My husband thinks that the Saturday we spent in Nyon did me good. Little does he know that’s where I discovered what was really troubling me: a lack of passion and adventure.

One of the symptoms I’ve noticed in myself is a kind of psychological nearsightedness. My world, which once seemed so broad and full of possibilities, began to shrink as my need for security grew. Why could that be? It must be a quality we inherited from when our ancestors lived in caves. Groups provide protection; loners die.

Even though we know that the group can’t possibly control everything—for example, your hair falling out or a cell in your body that suddenly goes crazy and becomes a tumor—the false sense of security makes us forget this. The more clearly we can see the walls of our life, the better. Even if it’s only a psychological boundary, even if, deep down, we know that death will still enter without asking, it’s comforting to pretend that we have everything under control.

Lately, my mind has been as rough and tempestuous as the sea. When I look back now, it’s as if I am making a transoceanic voyage on a rudimentary raft, in the middle of the stormy season. Will I survive? I ask, now that there is no going back.

Of course I will.

I’ve survived storms before. I’ve also made a list of things to focus on whenever I feel I’m in danger of falling back into the black hole:

· Play with my children. Read them stories that provide a lesson for them and for me, because stories are ageless.

· Look up at the sky.

· Drink lots of iced mineral water. That may seem simple, but it always invigorates me.

· Cook. Cooking is the most beautiful and most complete of the arts. It involves all our five senses, plus one more—the need to give of our best. That is my preferred therapy.

· Write down a list of complaints. This was a real discovery! Every time I feel angry about something, I write it down. At the end of the day, when I read the list, I realize that I’ve been angry about nothing.

· Smile, even if I feel like crying. That is the most difficult thing on the list, but you get used to it. Buddhists say that a fixed smile, however false, lights up the soul.

· Take two showers a day, instead of one. It dries the skin because of the hard water and chlorine, but it’s worth it, because it washes the soul clean.

But this is working now only because I have a goal: to win the heart of a man. I’m a cornered tiger with nowhere to run; the only option that remains is to attack.

I FINALLY have a date: tomorrow at three o’clock in the restaurant of the Golf Club de Genève in Cologny. It could have been in a bistro in the city or in a bar on one of the roads that lead off from the city’s main (or you might say only) commercial street, but he chose the restaurant at the golf club.

In the middle of the afternoon.

Because at that hour, the restaurant will be empty and we’ll have more privacy. I need to come up with a good excuse for my boss, but that’s not a problem. After all, the article I wrote about the elections was picked up by lots of other newspapers.

A discreet place, that’s what he must have had in mind. But in my usual mania for believing whatever I want, I think of it as romantic. Autumn has already painted the trees many shades of gold; perhaps I’ll invite Jacob to go for a walk. I think better when I’m moving, especially when I run, as proven in Nyon, but I doubt very much that we’ll do any running.

Ha, ha, ha.

Tonight for dinner we had a cheese fondue that we Swiss call raclette, accompanied by thin slices of raw bison meat and traditional rösti potatoes with cream. My family asked if we were celebrating something special, and I said that we were: the fact that we were together and could enjoy a quiet dinner in one another’s company. Then I took my second shower of the day and allowed the water to wash away my anxiety. Afterward, I slathered on plenty of moisturizer and went to the children’s bedroom to read them a story. I found them glued to their tablets, which I think should be forbidden for anyone under fifteen.

I told them to turn their electronics off, and they reluctantly obeyed. I picked up a book of traditional stories, opened it at random, and began to read.

During the ice age, many animals died of cold, so the porcupines decided to band together to provide one another with warmth and protection. But their spines or quills kept sticking into their surrounding companions, precisely those who provided the most warmth. And so they drifted apart again.

And again many of them died of cold.

They had to make a choice: either risk extinction or accept their fellow porcupines’ spines.

Very wisely, they decided to huddle together again. They learned to live with the minor wounds inflicted by their relatives, because the most important thing to their survival was that shared warmth.

The children want to know if they can see a real porcupine.

“Are there any at the zoo?”

I don’t know.

“What’s the ice age?”

A time when it was very, very cold.

“Like winter?”

Yes, but a winter that never ended.

“But why didn’t they remove their prickly spines before they snuggled up together?”

Oh, dear, I should have chosen another story. I turn out the light and decide to sing them to sleep with a traditional song from a village in the Alps, stroking their hair as I do so. They soon fall asleep.