Adultery by Paulo Coelho Read Free Book Online Page A

I’m going through can be put down to a lack of chemical elements in my body, as I’ve read online about “compulsive sadness.”
    I’m not sad today. It’s just one of those phases we all go through. I remember when my high-school class organized its farewell party; we laughed for two hours and then, at the end, we all sobbed because we knew we were parting forever. The sadness lasted for a few days or weeks, I can’t quite remember. But the mere fact that I don’t remember says something very important: it’s over. Turning thirty was hard, and perhaps I just wasn’t ready for it.
    My husband goes upstairs to put the children to bed. I pour myself a glass of wine and go out into the garden.
    It’s still windy. It’s a wind we know well here; it can blow for three, six, or even nine days. In France—a more romantic country than Switzerland—it’s known as the mistral and it always brings bright, cold weather. It’s high time these clouds went away. Tomorrow it will be sunny.
    I keep thinking about the conversation in the park, that kiss. I feel no regrets at all. I did something I’d never donebefore, and that in itself has begun to break down the walls imprisoning me.
    It doesn’t really matter what Jacob König thinks. I can’t spend my life trying to please other people.
    I finish my glass of wine and refill it, and for the first time in many months, I feel something other than apathy or a sense of futility.
    My husband comes downstairs dressed for a party and asks how long it will take me to get ready. I’d forgotten that we’d agreed to go dancing tonight.
    I race upstairs, and when I come back down, I see that our Filipino babysitter has arrived and has already spread her books across the living-room table. The children are in bed asleep and shouldn’t be any trouble, and so she uses her time to study. She seems to have an aversion to television.
    We’re ready to leave. I’ve put on my best dress, even at the risk of dressing to the nines for a laid-back party. What does it matter? I need to celebrate.

I WAKE to the sound of the wind rattling the windows. I blame my husband for not shutting them properly. I feel the need to get up and perform my nightly ritual of going into the children’s bedrooms to check that everything’s all right. And yet something stops me. Is it because I had too much to drink? I start to think about the waves I saw earlier at the lake, about the clouds that have now dissipated and the person who was with me. I remember very little about the nightclub; we both thought the music was horrible and the atmosphere extremely dull. It wasn’t long before we were back at our respective computers.
    What about all those things I said to Jacob this afternoon? Shouldn’t I take a little time to think about them myself?
    This room is suffocating me. My perfect husband is asleep beside me; he doesn’t seem to have heard the wind rattling the windows. I imagine Jacob lying beside his wife and telling her everything he feels (although I’m sure he won’t say anything about me). He’s relieved to have someone who can help him when he feels most alone. I don’t really believe what he said about her—if it were true, they would have separated. After all, they don’t have any children to worry about!
    I wonder if the mistral has woken him up, too, and what he and his wife will talk about now. Where do they live? It wouldn’t be hard to find out. I can find out when I get in to work tomorrow. I wonder: Did they make love tonight? Did he take her passionately, did she moan with pleasure?
    The way I behave with him is always a surprise. Oral sex, sensible advice, that kiss in the park. I seem like another person. Who is this woman I become whenever I’m with Jacob?
    My provocative adolescent self. The one who was once assteady as a rock and as strong as the wind ruffling the calm waters of Lake Léman. It’s odd how whenever we meet up with old school friends, we always think they