"Let's go and run round the lake."
What about the kids?
My husband spots a couple family friends sitting on a nearby bench, eating ice cream with their children. "Should we ask them if our kids can join? We can buy them ice cream, too."
Our friends are surprised to see us, but agree. Before we go down to the shore of Lake Leman--which all foreigners call Lake Geneva--he buys the ice cream for the children and asks them to stay with our friends while Mommy and Daddy go for a run. My son complains that he hasn't got his iPad. My husband goes to the car and fetches the stupid thing. From that moment on, the screen will be the best possible nanny. They won't budge until they've killed terrorists in games more suited to adults.
We start running. On one side are gardens; on the other, seagulls and sail
boats making the most of the mistral. The wind didn't stop on the third day, nor on the sixth. It must be nearing its ninth day, when it will disappear and take with it the blue sky and the good weather. We run along the track for fifteen minutes. We've left Nyon behind us and had better head back.
I haven't exercised in ages. When we've been running for twenty minutes, I stop. I can't go on. I'll have to walk the rest of the way.
"Of course you can do it!" encourages my husband, jogging in place so as not to lose his rhythm. "Don't stop, keep running."
I bend forward, resting my hands on my knees. My heart is pounding; it's the fault of all those sleepless nights. He keeps jogging circles round me.
"Come on, you can do it! It's worse if you stop. Do it for me, for the kids. This isn't just a way of getting some exercise, it's reminding you that there's a finish line and that you can't give up halfway through."
Is he talking about my "compulsive sadness"?
He stops jogging, takes my hands, and gently shakes me. I'm too tired to run, but I'm too tired to resist as well. I do as he asks. We run together for the remaining ten minutes.
I pass billboards for the various Council of States candidates, which I hadn't noticed before. Among the photos is one of Jacob Konig, smiling at the camera.
I run more quickly. My husband is surprised and speeds up. We get there in seven minutes instead of ten. The children haven't moved. Despite the beautiful surroundings--the mountains, the seagulls, the Alps in the distance--they have their eyes glued to the screen of that soul-sucking machine.
My husband goes to them, but I keep running. He watches me, surprised and happy. He must think his words have had an effect and are filling my body with the endorphins that fill our blood whenever we do some physical activity with a slight intensity, like when we run or have an orgasm. The hormones' main effects are improving our mood, boosting our immune system, and fending off premature aging, but, above all, they provoke a feeling of euphoria and pleasure.
However, that isn't what the endorphins are doing for me. They're merely giving me the strength to carry on, to run as far as the horizon and leave everything behind. Why do I have to have such wonderful children? Why did I have to meet my husband and fall in love? If I hadn't met him, I'd be a free woman now.
I'm mad. I should run straight to the nearest mental hospital, because these are not the kinds of things one should think. But I continue to think them.
I run for a few more minutes, then go back. Halfway, I'm terrified by the possibility that my wish for freedom will come true and I'll find no one there when I go back to the park in Nyon.
But there they are, smiling at their loving mother and spouse. I embrace them all. I'm sweating, my body and mind dirty, but still I hold them close.
Despite what I feel. Or, rather, despite what I don't feel.
YOU don't choose your life; it chooses you. There's no point asking why life has reserved certain joys or griefs, you just accept them and carry on.
We can't choose our lives, but we can decide what to do with the joys or griefs we're given.
That Sunday afternoon, I'm at the party headquarters doing my professional duty. I managed to convince my boss of this, and now I'm trying to convince myself. It's a quarter to six and people are celebrating. Contrary to my fevered imaginings, none of the elected candidates will be holding a reception, and so I still won't get a chance to go to the house of Jacob and Marianne Konig.
When I arrive, the first results are just coming in. More than forty-five percent of the electorate voted, which is a record. A female candidate came out on top, and Jacob came in an honorable third, which will give him the right to enter government if his party chooses him.
The main hall is decorated with yellow and green balloons. People have already started to drink, and some make the victory sign, perhaps hoping that tomorrow their picture will appear in the newspaper. But the photographers haven't yet arrived; after all, it's Sunday, and the weather is lovely.
Jacob spots me at once and immediately looks the other way, searching for someone with whom he can talk about matters that must, I imagine, be extraordinarily dull.
I need to work, or at least pretend to. I take out my digital recorder, a notebook, and a felt-tip pen. I walk back and forth, collecting statements such as "Now we can get that law on immigration through" or "The voters realize that they made the wrong choice last time and now they've voted me back in."
The winner says: "It was the female vote that really counted for me."
Leman Bleu, the local television station, has set up a studio in the main room, and its female political presenter--a vague object of desire for nine out of ten men there--is asking intelligent questions but receiving only the sound bites approved by the political aides.
At one point, Jacob Konig is called for an interview, and I try to get closer to hear what he's saying. Someone blocks my path.