Book Excerpt – Adultery: A Novel
Adultery: A Novel
by Paulo Coelho
Publication Date: Aug 19, 2014
List Price: $24.95
Format: Hardcover, 272 pages
Classification: Fiction
ISBN13: 9781101874080
Imprint: Knopf
Publisher: Penguin Random House
Parent Company: Bertelsmann
Read a Description of Adultery: A Novel
Copyright © 2014 Penguin Random House/Paulo Coelho No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission from the publisher or author. The format of this excerpt has been modified for presentation here.
Every morning, when I open my eyes to the so-Âcalled “new day,” I feel like
closing them again, staying in bed, and not getting up. But I can’t do that.
I have a wonderful husband who is not only madly in love with me, but also the
owner of a large investment fund. Every year—Âmuch to his distaste—Âhe appears
in Bilan magazine’s list of the three hundred richest people in Switzerland.
I have two children who are (as my friends say) my “reason for living.” I get up
early to make their breakfast and take them on the five-Âminute walk to school,
where they spend all day, allowing me to work and fill my time. After school, a
Filipino nanny looks after them until my husband and I get home.
I enjoy my work. I’m a highly regarded journalist at a respectable newspaper
that can be found in almost all the news kiosks in Geneva, where we live.
Once a year, I go on holiday with the whole family, usually to some far-Âflung
paradise with marvelous beaches, where we stay in exotic cities inhabited by
very poor people who make us feel richer, more privileged, and more grateful for
the blessings life has bestowed upon us.
Ah, but I haven’t introduced myself. Pleased to meet you. My name’s Linda. I’m
in my thirties, five-Âfoot-Âeight, 150 pounds, and I wear the best clothes that
money can buy (thanks to my husband’s limitless generosity). I arouse desire in
men and envy in other women.
And yet, every morning, when I open my eyes to this ideal life that everyone
dreams of having but few achieve, I know the day will be a disaster. Until the
beginning of this year, I didn’t question anything. I simply got on with my
life, although, now and then, I did feel guilty about having more than I
deserved. One day, though, while I was making everyone breakfast (it was spring,
I remember, and the flowers were just beginning to open in the garden), I asked
myself: “Is this it?”
I shouldn’t have asked that question. It was all the fault of a writer I’d
interviewed the previous day who, at one point, said:
“I haven’t the slightest interest in being happy. I prefer to live life
passionately, which is dangerous because you never know what might happen next.”
At the time, I thought: “Poor man. He’s never satisfied. He’ll die sad and
embittered.”
The following day, I realized that I never take any risks at all.
I know what lies ahead of me: another day exactly like the previous one. And
passion? Well, I love my husband, which means that I’ve no cause to get
depressed over living with someone purely for the sake of his money, the
children, or to keep up appearances.
I live in the safest country in the world, I have no problems to speak of, and
I’m a good wife and mother. I was brought up as a strict Protestant and intend
to pass that education on to my children. I never take a false step because I
know how easy it is to ruin everything. I do what I have to do efficiently and
put as little of myself into it as possible. When I was younger, I experienced
the pain of unrequited love, just like any other normal person.
Since I married, though, time has stopped.
Until, that is, I came across that horrible writer and his answer to my
question. I mean, what’s wrong with routine and boredom?
To be honest, nothing at all. It’s just … it’s just the secret fear that
everything could change from one moment to the next, catching me completely
unawares.
From the moment I had that ominous thought that bright, beautiful morning, I
began to feel afraid. Would I be capable of facing the world alone if my husband
died? “Yes,” I told myself, because the money he left behind would be enough to
support several generations. And if I died, who would look after my children? My
beloved husband. But he would surely remarry, because he’s rich, charming, and
intelligent. Would my children be in good hands?
The first thing I did was try to answer all my questions. And the more questions
I answered, the more questions appeared. Will he take a mistress when I get old?
We don’t make love as often as we used to—Âdoes he already have someone else?
Does he think I’ve found someone else because I haven’t shown much interest in
sex for the last three years?
We never have jealous spats, and I used to think that was great, but after that
spring morning, I began to suspect that perhaps our lack of jealousy meant a
complete lack of love on both sides.
I did my best not to think about the matter anymore.
For a whole week, whenever I left work, I would go and buy something in one of
the expensive shops on Rue du RhÃ’ne. There was nothing I really wanted, but at
least I felt that I was—Âhow should I say this?—Âchanging something, discovering
something I didn’t even know I needed, like some new domestic appliance,
although it has to be said, novelties in the world of domestic appliances are
few and far between. I avoided toy shops, because I didn’t want to spoil my
children by giving them a present every day. I didn’t go into any men’s shops,
either, just in case my husband might grow suspicious of my sudden extreme
generosity.
When I got home and entered the enchanted realm of my domestic world, everything
would seem marvelous for a few hours, until everyone went to bed. Then, slowly,
the nightmare would begin.
I think that passion is strictly for the young. Presumably, its absence is
normal at my age, but that isn’t what terrifies me.
Today I am a woman torn between the terror that everything might change and the
equal terror that everything might carry on exactly the same for the rest of my
days. Some people say that, as summer approaches, we start to have weird ideas;
we feel smaller because we spend more time out in the open air, and that makes
us aware of how large the world is. The horizon seems farther away, beyond the
clouds and the walls of our house.
That may be true, but I just can’t sleep anymore, and it isn’t because of the
heat. When night comes and no one is watching, I feel afraid of everything:
life, death, love or the lack of it; the fact that all novelties quickly become
habits; the feeling that I’m wasting the best years of my life in a pattern that
will be repeated over and over until I die; and sheer panic at facing the
unknown, however exciting and adventurous that might be.
Naturally, I seek consolation in other people’s suffering.
I turn on the TV and watch the news. I see endless reports about accidents,
people made homeless by natural disasters, refugees. How many people on the
planet are ill right now? How many, whether in silence or not, are suffering
injustices and betrayals? How many poor people are there, how many unemployed or
imprisoned?
I change channels. I watch a soap or a movie and for a few minutes or hours I
forget everything. I’m terrified my husband might wake up and ask: “What’s
wrong, babe?” Because then I would have to say that everything’s fine. It would
be even worse if—Âas happened a few times last month—Âhe put his hand on my
thigh, slid it slowly upward and started caressing me. I can fake orgasms—ÂI
often have—Âbut I can’t just decide to get wet with excitement.
I would have to say that I’m really tired, and he, never for one moment
admitting that he was annoyed, would give me a kiss, turn over, and watch the
latest news on his tablet, waiting until the next day. And then I would hope
against hope that when the next day comes, he’d be tired. Very tired.
It’s not always like that, though. Sometimes I have to take the initiative. If I
reject him two nights in a row, he might go looking for a mistress, and I really
don’t want to lose him. If I masturbate beforehand, then I’m ready and
everything’s normal again.
“Normal” means that nothing will ever be as it was in the days when we were
still a mystery to each other.
Keeping the same fire burning after ten years of marriage seems a complete
impossibility to me. And each time I fake an orgasm, I die a little inside. A
little? I think I’m dying more quickly than I thought.
My friends tell me how lucky I am, because I lie to them and tell them that we
often make love, just as they lie to me when they say that they don’t know how
their husbands can still be so interested in sex. They say that sex in marriage
is interesting only for the first five years, and after that calls for a little
“imagination.” Closing your eyes and imagining your neighbor lying on top of
you, doing things your husband would never dare to do. Imagining having sex with
him and your husband at the same time. Imagining every possible perversion,
every forbidden game.