Paulo Coelho - Adultery

My husband brings me some Valium. I’ve always refused to take any medicine because I’m afraid of becoming dependent, but I need to be in top form tomorrow.

I take a ten-milligram pill and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. I don’t wake up all night.

I GET there early, and go straight to the clubhouse and out into the garden. I walk to the trees at the far end, determined to enjoy this lovely afternoon to the full.

Melancholy. That is always the first word that comes into my head when autumn arrives, because I know the summer is over. The days will grow shorter, and we don’t live in the charmed world of those ice-age porcupines; we can’t bear to be wounded by the sharp spines of others, even slightly.

We already hear about people in other countries dying of the cold, traffic jams on snowbound highways, airports closed. Fires are lit and blankets are brought out of cupboards. But that happens only in the world we humans create.

In nature, the landscape looks magnificent. The trees, which seemed so similar before, take on their own personalities and paint the forests in a thousand different shades. One part of the cycle of life is coming to an end. Everything will rest for a while and come back to life in the spring, in the form of flowers.

There is no better time than the autumn to begin forgetting the things that trouble us, allowing them to fall away like dried leaves. There is no better time to dance again, to make the most of every crumb of sunlight and warm body and soul with its rays before it falls asleep and becomes only a dim lightbulb in the skies.

I see him arrive. He looks for me in the restaurant and on the terrace, finally going over to the waiter at the bar, who points in my direction. Jacob has seen me now and waves. Slowly, I begin to walk back to the clubhouse. I want him to appreciate my dress, my shoes, my fashionable lightweight jacket, the way I walk. My heart may be pounding furiously, but I must keep cool.

I’m thinking about what words to use. What mysterious reason did I give for meeting again? Why hold back now when we know there’s something between us? Are we afraid of stumbling and falling, like we have before?

As I walk, I feel as if I were entering a tunnel I’ve never traveled before, one that leads from cynicism to passion, from irony to surrender.

What is he thinking as he watches me? Do I need to explain that we shouldn’t be frightened and that “if Evil exists, it’s to be found in our fears”?

Melancholy. The word is transforming me into a romantic and rejuvenating me with each step I take.

I keep thinking about what I should say when I reach his side. No, best not to think and just let the words flow naturally. They are inside me. I may not recognize or accept them, but they are more powerful than my need to control everything.

Why don’t I want to hear my own words before I say them to him?

Could it be fear? But what could be worse than living a sad, gray life, in which every day is the same? What could be worse than the fear that everything will disappear, including my own soul, and leave me completely alone in this world when I once had everything I needed to be happy?

I see the leaves falling, their shapes silhouetted against the sun. The same thing is happening inside me: with every step I take, another barrier falls, another defense is destroyed, another wall collapses, and my heart, hidden behind it all, is beginning to see and enjoy the autumn light.

What shall we talk about? About the music I heard in the car on the way here? About the wind rustling the trees? About the human condition with all its contradictions, both dark and redemptive?

We will talk about melancholy, and he’ll say that it’s a sad word. I’ll say, no, it’s nostalgic, it describes something forgotten and fragile, as we all are when we pretend we can’t see the path to which life has led us without asking our permission. When we deny our destiny because it’s leading us toward happiness, and all we want is security.

A few more steps, a few more fallen barriers. More light floods into my heart. It doesn’t even occur to me to try to control anything, only to experience this afternoon that will never be repeated. I don’t need to convince him of anything. If he doesn’t understand now, he will understand later. It’s simply a matter of time.

Despite the cold, we’ll sit out on the terrace so he can smoke. At first, he’ll be on the defensive, wanting to know about that photo taken in the park.

We will talk about the possibility of life on other planets and the presence of God, so often forgotten in the lives we lead. We will talk about faith, miracles, and meetings that were planned even before we were born.

We will discuss the eternal struggle between science and religion. We will talk about love, and how it’s always seen as both desirable and threatening. He will insist that my definition of melancholy is incorrect, but I will simply sip my tea in silence, watching the sun set behind the Jura Mountains and feeling happy to be alive.

Ah, yes, we will also talk about flowers, even if the only ones we can see are those decorating the bar inside, the ones that came from some vast greenhouse where they’re produced en masse. But it’s good to talk about flowers in the autumn. That gives us hope for the spring.

Only a few more feet. The walls have all fallen. I have just been reborn.

I reach his side, and we greet each other with the usual three kisses—right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, as demanded by Swiss tradition (although whenever I travel abroad, people are always surprised by that third kiss). I sense how nervous he is and suggest we stay out on the terrace; we’ll have more privacy there and he can smoke. The waiter knows him. Jacob orders a Campari and tonic, and I order tea, as planned.

To put him at his ease, I start talking about nature, about trees, and about how lovely it is to realize that everything is constantly changing. Why are we always trying to repeat the same pattern? It’s not possible. It’s unnatural. Wouldn’t it be better to see challenges as a source of knowledge, and not as our enemies?

He still seems nervous. He responds automatically, as if he wants to bring the conversation to a close, but I won’t let him. This is a unique day in my life and should be respected. I continue talking about the various thoughts that occurred to me while I was walking, the words for which I had no control. I’m astonished to see them emerge now with such precision.

I talk about pets and ask if he understands why people like them so much. Jacob gives a conventional answer and then I move on to the next subject: Why is it so difficult to accept that people are different? Why are there so many laws trying to create new tribes instead of simply accepting that cultural differences can make our lives richer and more interesting? But he says that he’s tired of talking about politics.

Then I tell him about the aquarium I saw at the school when I dropped my kids off that morning. Inside it was a fish, swimming round and round, and I said to myself: He can’t remember where he began, and he will never reach the end. That’s why we like fish in aquariums; they remind us of ourselves, well fed but incapable of moving beyond the glass walls.

He lights another cigarette. I see that there are already two cigarette butts in the ashtray. Then I realize that I’ve been talking for a very long time in a trance of light and peace without giving him a chance to express his feelings. What would he like to talk about?

“About that photo you mentioned,” he says cautiously, because he’s noticed that I’m in a particularly sensitive mood.

Ah, the photo. Of course it exists. It’s engraved on my heart and will be erased only when God chooses. But come in and see with your own eyes, because the barriers protecting my heart fell away as I was walking toward you.