Adultery

But Darius gestures to me. The people all look my way, smiling. I walk toward him. I’ve regained my composure and am secretly happy, because Maria

I climb the makeshift stage—it’s a staircase linking the two areas of the hall at the top of the TV tower—give Darius a kiss, and start telling an uninteresting story about when I went on the show. The men continue their hunt, and the women continue looking at one another. Those nearest the stage pretend to be interested in what I’m saying. I keep my eyes on my husband; everyone who speaks in public has to choose someone to serve as support.

In the middle of my impromptu speech, I see something that absolutely should not happen: Jacob and Maria

I say thank you as quickly as possible. The guests applaud. Darius gives me a kiss. I try to get to my husband and the Königs, but am waylaid by people who praise me for things I didn’t say and claim I was wonderful. They’re delighted with the series of articles on shamanism and suggest topics, hand me business cards, and discreetly offer themselves as “sources” on something that could be “very interesting.” All this takes about ten minutes. When I finally approach my destination, the three are smiling. They congratulate me, say I’m a great public speaker, and deliver the bad news:

“I explained to them that you’re tired and that our children are with the babysitter,” my husband says, “but Mme König insists on having di

“I do. I suppose no one here has had di

Jacob has a fake smile on his face and agrees like a lamb to the slaughter.

In a split second, two hundred thousand excuses run through my head. But why? I have a fair amount of cocaine ready to be used at any moment, and what better than this “opportunity” to see if I’ll carry out my plan.

Besides, I have a morbid curiosity to see how this di

It would be our pleasure, Mme König.

Maria

We arrive after the Königs. Jacob is outside, enduring the cold in the name of his nicotine addiction. Maria

“The invitation caught me off guard, too,” says Jacob, as soon as my husband is gone.

I try to act as though nothing is wrong. Are you feeling guilty? Worried about a potential end to your unhappy marriage (with that stone-cold bitch, I’d like to add)?

“It’s not about that. It’s that—”

We’re interrupted by the bitch. A devilish grin on her lips, she greets me (again!) with the three customary pecks on the cheek and orders her husband to put out his cigarette and come inside. I read between the lines: I’m suspicious of you two and think you must be pla

We order the usual: fondue and raclette. My husband says he’s tired of eating cheese and picks something different: a sausage that is on the visitor menu. We also order wine, but Jacob doesn’t sniff, swirl, taste, and nod—that was just a dumb way of impressing me on the first day. While we wait for the food and make small talk, we finish the first bottle, which is soon replaced by a second. I ask my husband not to drink anymore, or we’ll have to leave the car again, and we’re much farther away from home than we were the previous time.

The food arrives. We open a third bottle of wine. The small talk continues; Jacob’s new routine as a member of the Council of States, congratulations for my two articles on stress (“a rather unusual approach”), and if it’s true the price of real estate will fall now that banking secrecy is disappearing and if the thousands of bankers will go with it. They are moving to Singapore or Dubai, where we spend the holiday season.

I keep waiting for the bull to enter the arena. But it doesn’t, and I lower my guard. I drink a bit more than I should and start to feel relaxed and cheerful. Then the doors swing wide open.

“The other day I was talking with some friends about the stupid feeling of jealousy,” says Maria

What do we think about a topic that no one talks about at di

“I grew up witnessing terrible displays of jealousy at home,” says my husband.

What? He’s talking about his private life? To a stranger?

“So I promised myself I would never let that happen to me if I ever got married. It was hard at first, because our instinct is to control everything, even the uncontrollable, like love and fidelity. But I did it. And my wife, who meets with other people every day and sometimes comes home later than usual, has never heard a criticism or an insinuation from me.”

I’ve never heard this explanation. I didn’t know he’d grown up with jealousy all around him. The bitch manages to make everyone obey her command: let’s have di

There are two reasons for what my husband just said. The first is that he is suspicious of her invitation and is trying to protect me. The second: he is telling me, in front of everyone, how important I am to him. I reach out my hand and touch his. I never imagined this. I thought he simply wasn’t interested in what I did.

“And what about you, Linda? Don’t you get jealous of your husband?”

Me?

Of course not. I trust him completely. I think jealousy is for sick, insecure people with no self-esteem, people who feel inferior and believe anyone can threaten their relationship. And you?

Maria

“Like I said, I think it’s a stupid feeling.”

Yes, you already said that. But if you found out your husband was cheating, what would you do?

Jacob goes pale. He restrains himself from drinking the entire contents of his wineglass.

“I believe my husband meets insecure people every day who must be dying of boredom in their own marriage and are destined to have a mediocre and repetitive life. I imagine there are some people like that in your line of work, too, who will go from junior reporter straight to retirement …”

“Many,” I reply with zero emotion in my voice. I help myself to more fondue. She stares me right in the eyes. I know you’re talking about me, but I don’t want my husband to suspect anything. I don’t care one bit about her and Jacob, who must have confessed everything, unable to stand the pressure.

My cool surprises me. Maybe it’s the wine or the monster having fun with all this. Maybe it’s the immense pleasure of being able to confront a woman who thinks she knows everything. “Go on,” I say, as I dunk the piece of bread in the melted cheese.

“As you all know, these unloved women aren’t a threat to me. Unlike you, I don’t have complete trust in Jacob. I know he’s already cheated on me a few times. The flesh is weak …”