Paulo Coelho - Adultery

I wait a bit and walk by a third time. I make eye contact again, and one man asks me to follow him with a simple nod. Never in my life did I imagine I would be doing this, but this year has been so unusual that I no longer find my behavior strange.

I feign an air of nonchalance and go after him.

We walk two or three minutes to the Jardin Anglais. We pass tourists taking photos in front of the flower clock, one of the city’s landmarks. We cross by the station of the small train that runs around the lake, as though we were in Disneyland. Finally, we arrive at the jetty and look at the water like we’re a couple gazing at the Jet d’Eau, the gigantic fountain that reaches up to one hundred forty meters high and has long been the symbol of Geneva.

He waits for me to say something, but I worry that my voice will shake in spite of my self-confident pose. I sit quietly and force him to break the silence:

“Ganja, crystal, acid, or blow?”

Okay, I’m lost. I don’t know what to answer, and the man can tell he’s dealing with a novice. I’ve been tested and I didn’t pass.

He laughs. I ask if he thinks I’m with the police.

“Of course not. The police would know immediately what I’m talking about.”

I explain that it’s my first time doing this.

“You can tell. A woman dressed like you would never bother coming down here. You could ask your nephew or a work colleague for leftovers from their personal stash. That’s why I brought you to the edge of the lake. We could have done the deal as we walked, and then I wouldn’t be wasting so much of my time. But I want to know exactly what you’re looking for, and if you need advice.”

He wasn’t wasting his time; he must have been dying of boredom just standing around in that underpass. In the three times I walked past, there hadn’t been a single interested customer.

“All right, I’ll repeat in terms you might understand: hashish, amphetamines, LSD, or cocaine?”

I ask if he has crack or heroin. He says those drugs are banned. I want to tell him that the ones he mentioned are also banned, but I bite my tongue.

It’s not for me, I explain. It’s for an enemy.

“You mean revenge? You want to kill someone with an overdose? Please, lady, find somebody else.”

He begins to walk away, but I stop him and plead for him to listen to me. I note that desperation has likely already doubled the price.

As far as I know, the person in question doesn’t do drugs, I explain. But she has seriously harmed my romantic relationship. I just want to set a trap for her.

“That’s going against the ethics of God.”

Will you look at that? Someone who sells addictive and possibly deadly products is trying to put me on the right path!

I tell him my story. I’ve been married for ten years, I have two wonderful children. My husband and I have the same kind of smartphone, and two months ago I grabbed his by accident.

“You don’t use a security code?”

Of course not. We trust each other. Or maybe his has one, but it was deactivated at that moment. What’s important is I found around four hundred texts and several photos of an attractive blond woman who is well-off, by the looks of it. I did what I shouldn’t have. I made a scene. I asked him who she was, and he didn’t deny it—he said she was the woman he loved. He was glad that I had found out before he had to tell me.

“That happens very often.”

The dealer has gone from pastor to marriage counselor! But I keep going—because I am getting excited about the story I’m telling as I invent it. I asked him to move out. He agreed, and the next day he left me with our two children to go live with the love of his life. But she didn’t take very kindly to this plan, as she thought it much more fun to be in a relationship with a married man than to live with a husband she didn’t choose.

“Women! It’s impossible to understand you!”

I think so, too. I continue my story: She said she wasn’t ready to live with him and broke it off. As I imagine often happens, he came home begging for forgiveness. I forgave him. I actually wanted him to return. I’m a romantic woman, and I wouldn’t know how to live without the person I love.

But now, after only a few weeks, I’ve noticed he’s changed again. He’s no longer foolish enough to leave his phone lying around, so there’s no way to find out if they’re back together. But I suspect they are. And the woman—that blond, independent executive, irresistibly charming and powerful—is taking what’s most important in my life: love. Does he know what love is?

“I understand what you want, but it’s really dangerous.”

How can he understand if I haven’t finished explaining?

“You want to set a trap for this woman, but we don’t have the kind of merchandise you’re asking for. To carry out your plan, you would need at least thirty grams of cocaine.”

He grabs his smartphone, pulls up something, and shows it to me. It’s a page from CNN’s Money site detailing the price of drugs. I’m surprised, but discover it’s a recent report on the difficulties facing the major cartels.

“As you can see, you’ll need to spend five thousand Swiss francs. Is it worth it? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to go over to this woman’s house and make a fuss? Besides, from what I understand, she might not be guilty of anything.”

He had gone from pastor to marriage counselor. And now, from marriage counselor, he’s turned into a financial adviser, trying to keep me from needlessly spending my money.

I say I accept the risk. I know I’m right. But why thirty grams and not ten?

“It’s the minimum amount to frame a person as a drug dealer. The penalty is much heavier than the one for users. Are you sure you want to do this? Because you could be arrested on the way to your house, or to that woman’s house, and you’d have no way of explaining why the drugs are in your possession.”

Are all drug dealers like this, or did I just fall into the hands of someone special? I’d love to spend hours chatting with this man. He’s so experienced and knowledgeable. But apparently, he’s very busy. He asks me to return in half an hour with the money in cash. I go to an ATM, surprised at my own naïveté. Of course drug dealers don’t carry large quantities. Otherwise they’d be considered drug dealers!

I return and he is waiting. I hand over the money discreetly and he points to a trash can.

“Please don’t leave the goods somewhere where the woman can find it, because she might get confused and wind up ingesting it. That would be a disaster.”

This man is one of a kind; he thinks of everything. If he were the CEO of a multinational, he’d be earning a fortune in shareholder bonuses.

I think about continuing the conversation, but he’s already walked away. I look back at the trash can. What if there’s nothing there? But no, these men have a reputation to uphold and wouldn’t do something like that.

Looking around, I walk over and grab the manila envelope inside, putting it in my bag and immediately taking a taxi to the newspaper offices. I’m going to be late again.

I paid a fortune for something that weighs almost nothing.

But how do I know that man didn’t trick me? I need to find out for myself.

I rent two or three movies whose main characters are addicts. My husband is surprised by my new interest.

“You’re not thinking of doing that, are you?”

Of course not! It’s just research for the newspaper. By the way, I’ll be home late tomorrow. I’ve decided to write an article about Lord Byron’s castle and I need to stop by there. You needn’t worry.

“I’m not worried. I think things have improved a lot since we spent that day in Nyon. We need to travel more, maybe at New Year’s Eve. Next time we’ll leave the children with my mother. I’ve been talking with people who understand this kind of thing.”