Free Adultery by Paulo Coelho Page B

tell the newspaper the week before the elections. People will soon forget a marital infidelity, but they’ll always remember his bravery at denouncing corruption even though it could have had serious repercussions for his family life.”
    She laughs at that last bit and tells me that what she’s saying is strictly off the record, of course, and should not be published.
    I say that according to the rules of journalism, people should request that something be kept off the record before they speak. The journalist can then agree or not. Asking afterward is like trying to stop a leaf that has fallen into the river and is already traveling wherever the waters choose to take it. The leaf can no longer make its own decisions.
    “But you won’t repeat it, will you? I’m sure you don’t have the slightest interest in damaging my husband’s reputation.”
    In less than five minutes of conversation, there is already evident hostility between us. Feeling embarrassed, I agree to treat her statement as off the record. She notes that on any similar occasion, she will ask first. She learns something new every minute. She gets closer and closer to her ambition every minute. Yes, her ambition, because Jacob said that he was unhappy with the life he leads.
    She doesn’t take her eyes off me. I decide to resume my role as journalist and ask if she has anything more to add. Has she organized a party at home for close friends?
    “Of course not! Imagine how much work that would be. Besides, he’s already been elected. You hold any parties and dinners before an election, to draw votes.”
    Again, I feel like a complete imbecile, but I need to ask at least one other question.
    Is Jacob happy?
    And I see that I have hit home. Mme König gives me a condescending look and replies slowly, as if she were a teacher giving me a lesson:
    “Of course he’s happy. Why on earth wouldn’t he be?”
    This woman deserves to be drawn and quartered.
    We are both interrupted at the same time—me by an aide wanting to introduce me to the winner, she by an acquaintance coming to offer his congratulations. It was a pleasure to meet her, I say, and am tempted to add that, on another occasion, I’d like to explore what she means by consensual sex with the wife of a friend—off the record, of course—but there’s no time. I give her my card should she ever need to contact me, but she does not reciprocate. Before I move away, however, she grabs my arm and, in front of the aide and the man who has come to congratulate her on her husband’s victory, says:
    “I saw that mutual friend of ours who had lunch with my husband. I feel very sorry for her. She pretends to be strong, but she’s really very fragile. She pretends that she’s confident, but she spends all her time wondering what other people think of her and her work. She must be a very lonely person. As you know, my dear, we women have a very keen sixth sense when it comes to detecting anyone who is a threat to our relationship. Don’t you agree?”
    Of course, I say, showing no emotion whatsoever. The aide looks impatient. The winner of the election is waiting for me.
    “But she doesn’t have a hope in hell,” Marianne concludes.
    Then she holds out her hand, which I dutifully shake, and she moves off without another word.

I SPEND the whole of Monday morning trying to call Jacob’s private mobile number. I never get through. I block his number, on the assumption that he has done the same with mine. I try ringing again, but still no luck.
    I ring his aides. I’m told that he’s very busy after the elections, but I need to speak to him. I continue trying.
    I adopt a strategy I often have to resort to: I use the phone of someone whose number will not be on his list of contacts.
    The telephone rings twice and Jacob answers.
    It’s me. I need to see you urgently.
    Jacob replies politely and says that today is impossible, but he’ll call me back. He asks:
    “Is this your new number?”
    No, I