Love alone is not enough. I need to fall in love with my husband.
Love isn't just a feeling; it's an art. And like any art, it takes not only inspiration, but also a lot of work.
Why is the angel turning away and leaving the woman alone in the bed?
"It's not an angel. It's Eros, the Greek god of love. The girl in the bed with him is Psyche."
I open a bottle of wine and fill our glasses. He puts the painting above the unlit fireplace--often just a decorative feature in homes with central heating. Then he begins:
"Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who was admired by all, but no one dared to ask for her hand in marriage. In despair, the king consulted the god Apollo. He told him that Psyche should be dressed in mourning and left alone on top of a mountain. Before daybreak, a serpent would come to meet and marry her. The king obeyed, and all night the princess waited for her husband to appear, deathly afraid and freezing cold. Finally, she slept. When she awoke, she found herself crowned a queen in a beautiful palace. Every night her husband came to her and they made love, but he had imposed one condition: Psyche could have all she desired, but she had to trust him completely and could never see his face."
How awful, I think, but I don't dare interrupt him.
"The young woman lived happily for a long time. She had comfort, affection, joy, and she was in love with the man who visited her every night. However, occasionally she was afraid that she was married to a hideous serpent. Early one morning, while her husband slept, she lit a lantern and saw Eros, a man of incredible beauty, lying by her side. The light woke him, and seeing that the woman he loved was unable to fulfill his one request, Eros vanished. Desperate to get her lover back, Psyche submitted to a series of tasks given to her by Aphrodite, Eros's mother. Needless to say, her mother-in-law was incredibly jealous of Psyche's beauty and she did everything she could to thwart the couple's reconciliation. In one of the tasks, Psyche opened a box that makes her fall into a deep sleep."
I grow anxious to find out how the story will end.
"Eros was also in love and regretted not having been more lenient toward his wife. He managed to enter the castle and wake her with the tip of his arrow. 'You nearly died because of your curiosity,' he told her. 'You sought security in knowledge and destroyed our relationship.' But in love, nothing is destroyed forever. Imbued with this conviction, they go to Zeus, the god of gods, and beg that their union never be undone. Zeus passionately pleaded the cause of the lovers with strong arguments and threats until he gained Aphrodite's support. From that day on, Psyche (our unconscious, but logical, side) and Eros (love) were together forever."
I pour another glass of wine. I rest my head on his shoulder.
"Those who cannot accept this, and who always try to find an explanation for magical and mysterious human relationships, will miss the best part of life."
Today I feel like Psyche on the cliff, cold and afraid. But if I can overcome this night and give in to the mystery and faith in life, I will awake in a palace. All I need is time.
THE BIG day finally arrives when both couples will be together at a reception given by an important local TV presenter. We talked about it yesterday in bed at the hotel while Jacob smoked his customary cigarette before getting dressed and leaving.
I couldn't turn down the invitation because I'd already sent my RSVP. So had he, and changing his mind now would be terrible for his career.
I arrive with my husband at the TV station, and we are told the party is on the top floor. My phone rings before we get in the elevator, and I am forced to leave the queue and stay in the lobby, talking with my boss, while others arrive, smiling at me and my husband and nodding discreetly. Apparently, I know almost everyone.
My boss says my articles with the Cuban shaman--the second of which was published yesterday despite having been written more than a month ago--are a big hit. I have to write one more to complete the series. I explain that the man doesn't want to speak with me anymore. He asks me to find someone else "in the industry," because there is nothing less interesting than conventional opinions (psychologists, sociologists, et cetera). I don't know anyone "in the industry," but as I need to hang up, I promise to think about it.
Jacob and Mme Konig walk by and greet us with a nod. My boss was just about to hang up, but I decide to continue the conversation. God forbid we have to go up in the same elevator! "How about we put a cattle herder and a Protestant minister together?" I suggest. "Wouldn't it be interesting to record their conversation about how they deal with stress or boredom?" The boss says it's a great idea, but it would be even better to find someone "in the industry." Right, I'll try. The doors have closed and the elevator is gone. I can hang up without fear.
I explain to my boss that I don't want to be the last one to arrive at the reception. I'm two minutes late. We live in Switzerland, where the clocks are always right.
Yes, I have behaved strangely over the last few months, but one thing hasn't changed: I hate going to parties. I can't understand why people enjoy them.
Yes, people enjoy them. Even when it comes to something professional like tonight's cocktail hour--that's right, a cocktail hour, not party--they get dressed up, put on makeup, and tell their friends, not without a certain air of ennui, that unfortunately they'll be busy Tuesday because of the reception celebrating ten years of Pardonnez-moi as presented by the handsome, intelligent, and photogenic Darius Rochebin. Everyone who's "anyone" will be there, and the rest will have to settle for the photos that will be published in the only celebrity magazine for the entire population of French-speaking Switzerland.
Going to parties like this gives status and visibility. Occasionally our newspaper covers this type of event, and the day after we'll receive phone calls from aides to important people, asking if the photos where they appear might be published and saying they would be extremely grateful. The next best thing to being invited is seeing your presence garner the spotlight it deserved. And there is nothing that better proves this than appearing in the newspaper wearing an outfit specially made for the occasion (although this is never admitted) and the same smile from all the other parties and receptions. Good thing I'm not the editor of the social column; in my current state as Victor Frankenstein's monster, I would have already been fired.
The elevator doors open. There are two or three photographers in the lobby. We proceed to the main hall, which has a 360-degree view of the city. It looks like the eternal cloud decided to cooperate with Darius and lifted its gray cloak; we can see the sea of lights below.
I don't want to stay long, I tell my husband. And I start chattering to ease the tension.
"We'll leave whenever you want," he interrupts.
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The next moment we are busy greeting an infinite number of people who treat me as if I were a close friend. I reciprocate even though I don't know their names. If the conversation drags on, I have a foolproof trick: I introduce my husband and say nothing. He introduces himself and asks the other person's name. I listen to the answer and repeat, loud and clear: "Honey, don't you remember so-and-so?"
So cynical!
I finish greeting them, and we go to a corner where I complain: Why do people have a habit of asking whether we remember them? There's nothing more embarrassing. They all consider themselves important enough to be etched in my memory, even though I meet new people every day because of my job.
"Be more forgiving. People are having fun."