"That happens very often."
The dealer has gone from pastor to marriage counselor! But I keep going--because I am getting excited about the story I'm telling as I invent it. I asked him to move out. He agreed, and the next day he left me with our two children to go live with the love of his life. But she didn't take very kindly to this plan, as she thought it much more fun to be in a relationship with a married man than to live with a husband she didn't choose.
"Women! It's impossible to understand you!"
I think so, too. I continue my story: She said she wasn't ready to live with him and broke it off. As I imagine often happens, he came home begging for forgiveness. I forgave him. I actually wanted him to return. I'm a romantic woman, and I wouldn't know how to live without the person I love.
But now, after only a few weeks, I've noticed he's changed again. He's no longer foolish enough to leave his phone lying around, so there's no way to find out if they're back together. But I suspect they are. And the woman--that blond, independent executive, irresistibly charming and powerful--is taking what's most important in my life: love. Does he know what love is?
"I understand what you want, but it's really dangerous."
How can he understand if I haven't finished explaining?
"You want to set a trap for this woman, but we don't have the kind of merchandise you're asking for. To carry out your plan, you would need at least thirty grams of cocaine."
He grabs his smartphone, pulls up something, and shows it to me. It's a page from CNN's Money site detailing the price of drugs. I'm surprised, but discover it's a recent report on the difficulties facing the major cartels.
"As you can see, you'll need to spend five thousand Swiss francs. Is it worth it? Wouldn't it be cheaper to go over to this woman's house and make a fuss? Besides, from what I understand, she might not be guilty of anything."
He had gone from pastor to marriage counselor. And now, from marriage counselor, he's turned into a financial adviser, trying to keep me from needlessly spending my money.
I say I accept the risk. I know I'm right. But why thirty grams and not ten?
"It's the minimum amount to frame a person as a drug dealer. The penalty is much heavier than the one for users. Are you sure you want to do this? Because you could be arrested on the way to your house, or to that woman's house, and you'd have no way of explaining why the drugs are in your possession."
Are all drug dealers like this, or did I just fall into the hands of someone special? I'd love to spend hours chatting with this man. He's so experienced and knowledgeable. But apparently, he's very busy. He asks me to return in half an hour with the money in cash. I go to an ATM, surprised at my own naivete. Of course drug dealers don't carry large quantities. Otherwise they'd be considered drug dealers!
I return and he is waiting. I hand over the money discreetly and he points to a trash can.
"Please don't leave the goods somewhere where the woman can find it, because she might get confused and wind up ingesting it. That would be a disaster."
This man is one of a kind; he thinks of everything. If he were the CEO of a multinational, he'd be earning a fortune in shareholder bonuses.
I think about continuing the conversation, but he's already walked away. I look back at the trash can. What if there's nothing there? But no, these men have a reputation to uphold and wouldn't do something like that.
Looking around, I walk over and grab the manila envelope inside, putting it in my bag and immediately taking a taxi to the newspaper offices. I'm going to be late again.
I paid a fortune for something that weighs almost nothing.
But how do I know that man didn't trick me? I need to find out for myself.
I rent two or three movies whose main characters are addicts. My husband is surprised by my new interest.
"You're not thinking of doing that, are you?"
Of course not! It's just research for the newspaper. By the way, I'll be home late tomorrow. I've decided to write an article about Lord Byron's castle and I need to stop by there. You needn't worry.
"I'm not worried. I think things have improved a lot since we spent that day in Nyon. We need to travel more, maybe at New Year's Eve. Next time we'll leave the children with my mother. I've been talking with people who understand this kind of thing."
The "thing" must be what he considers my depression. Who exactly have you been talking to? Some friend who will spill the beans the first time he has a little too much to drink?
"No, not at all. A marriage counselor."
How awful! Marriage counseling was the last thing I heard that terrible afternoon at the golf club. Have the two of them been talking behind my back?
"Maybe I caused your problem. I don't give you the attention you deserve. I'm always talking about work, or things we need to do. We've lost the romance needed to maintain a happy family. Caring about the children isn't enough. We need more than that while we're still young. Who knows, maybe we can revisit Interlaken, the first trip we took together after we met? We can climb part of the Jungfrau and enjoy the scenery from above."
A marriage counselor! That's all I need.