Adultery by Paulo Coelho

whole-grain bread, yogurt, and plums. A copy of the newspaper I work for is placed discreetly to the left. My husband has long since given up reading print media and is consulting his iPad. Our oldest son asks what “blackmail” means. I can’t understand why he wants to know until I seethe front page. There is a large photo of Jacob, one of many he must have sent to the press. He looks thoughtful, reflective. Next to the photo is the headline: “Deputy Reports Blackmail Attempt.”
    I didn’t write the article. In fact, while I was at my meeting with Jacob, the editor-in-chief rang to say that I could cancel because they had received a communiqué from the Ministry of Finance and were working on the case. I explained that the meeting had already taken place, that it had happened more quickly than I’d expected and without any need for the “usual tactics.” I was then dispatched to a nearby neighborhood (which considers itself a “city” and even has a prefecture) whose grocery store was caught selling food that’s past its sell-by date. I talked to the owner of the store, to neighbors and friends of neighbors, something I’m sure our readers found made for a more interesting article than some political scandal. It also made the front page, but without the banner headlines. “Grocery Store Fined, No Reports of Food Poisoning.”
    Seeing that photo of Jacob right there on our breakfast table troubles me deeply.
    I tell my husband that we need to have a talk—tonight.
    “We can leave the children with my mother and go to dinner somewhere, just the two of us,” he says. “I need to spend a bit of time with you as well, alone and without any terrible music blaring in our ears. How can people possibly like that?”

IT WAS a spring morning.
    I was sitting in a corner of the playground that was usually deserted and studying the tiles on the school wall. I knew there was something wrong with me.
    The other children all thought I acted “better than them,” and I never made any attempt to deny this. On the contrary. I made my mother keep buying me expensive clothes and taking me to school in her pricey foreign car.
    But that day in the playground, I realized that I was alone, and might remain alone for the rest of my life. Even though I was only eight years old, it seemed like it was already too late to change and to prove to the other children that I was just like them.
    Now, summer.
    I was at secondary school, and the boys were always hitting on me, no matter how hard I tried to fend them off. The other girls were green with envy, but pretended not to be and were always hanging around and cozying up to me, hoping to pick up any rejects.
    And I rejected almost everyone, because I knew that if anyone ever managed to enter my world, they would find nothing of interest. It was best to maintain an air of mystery with a hint of unattainable pleasures.
    On my way home, I noticed a few mushrooms that had sprung up after the rain. They were perfect and intact because everyone knew they were poisonous. For a fraction of a second, I considered eating them. I wasn’t feeling particularlysad or particularly happy; I just wanted to get my parents’ attention.
    I didn’t eat the mushrooms.
    Now it’s the first day of autumn, the loveliest season of the year. Soon the leaves will change color and each tree will be different from all the others. On the way to the car park, I decide to take a slightly different route.
    I stop in front of the school where I studied. The tile wall is still there. Nothing has changed, except for the fact that I’m no longer alone. In my mind are two men; one will never be mine, but I’ll have dinner tonight with the other one in some special, carefully chosen spot.
    A bird flies across the sky, playing with the wind. It flies back and forth, rises and falls, its movements obeying some logic I cannot understand. Perhaps the only logic is that of having fun.
    I am not a bird. I can’t spend my