life playing like many of our friends, who have less money but who seem to spend their whole lives traveling or going to restaurants. I’ve tried to be like that, but I can’t. Thanks to my husband’s influence, I got the job I have now. I work, I fill my time, I feel useful and able to justify my existence. One day, my children will be proud of their mother, and my childhood friends will be more frustrated than ever, because I have managed to build something tangible while they have devoted themselves to looking after the house, the children, and their husband.
Perhaps they don’t have this need to impress other people. I do, and I can’t reject it, because it’s been a good influence on my life, driving me on. As long as I don’t take any unnecessaryrisks, of course. As long as I manage to preserve my world exactly as it is today.
As soon as I get to the office, I search through the government’s digital archives. It takes me less than a minute to find Jacob König’s address, as well as information about how much he earns, where he studied, the name of his wife, and where she works.
MY HUSBAND has chosen a restaurant halfway between my office and our house. We’ve been there before. I like the food, the wine, and the atmosphere, but I always feel that we eat better at home. I dine out only when my social life requires it, and, whenever I can, I avoid it. I love cooking. I love being with my family, feeling that I’m both protector and protected.
One of the tasks not on my to-do list this morning was “drive past Jacob König’s house.” I managed to resist the impulse. I have enough imaginary problems without adding the real problem of unrequited love. The feelings I had are long over. It won’t happen again. We can now proceed into a future of peace, hope, and prosperity.
“They say the owner has changed and the food isn’t quite as good,” says my husband.
It doesn’t matter. Restaurant food is always the same: too much butter, ostentatious presentation, and—because we live in one of the most expensive cities in the world—an exorbitant price for something that really isn’t worth it.
But eating out is a ritual. We are greeted by the headwaiter, who leads us to our usual table even though we haven’t been here for some time. He asks if we want the same wine (of course we do) and hands us the menu. I read it from beginning to end and choose the same thing as always. My husband opts for his traditional choice, roast lamb with lentils. The waiter comes to tell us about today’s chef’s specials: we listen politely, grunt appreciatively, then order.
The first glass of wine doesn’t need to be tasted and meticulously analyzed because we’ve been married for ten years. It goes down very quickly, among talk of work and complaints about the man who was supposed to come and fix the central heating but never turned up.
“And how are you getting on with that article about next Sunday’s elections?” my husband asks.
I’ve been commissioned to write about a question I find particularly interesting: Does the electorate have a right to scrutinize a politician’s private life? It’s a response to the news that a deputy is being blackmailed by Nigerians. Most of the people I interviewed said they don’t care. It’s not like it is in the United States, they say, and we’re proud of that.
We talk about other recent news items. The increase in the number of voters at the last election for the Council of States. The drivers working for Geneva’s public transport company, TPG, who are tired but happy with their work. A woman who was run over in a crosswalk. The train that broke down and blocked the line for more than two hours. And other such pointless topics.
I pour myself another glass of wine, without waiting for the appetizer and without asking my husband what his day was like. He listens politely to everything I’ve just said. He must be wondering what we’re doing here.
“You seem
Perhaps they don’t have this need to impress other people. I do, and I can’t reject it, because it’s been a good influence on my life, driving me on. As long as I don’t take any unnecessaryrisks, of course. As long as I manage to preserve my world exactly as it is today.
As soon as I get to the office, I search through the government’s digital archives. It takes me less than a minute to find Jacob König’s address, as well as information about how much he earns, where he studied, the name of his wife, and where she works.
MY HUSBAND has chosen a restaurant halfway between my office and our house. We’ve been there before. I like the food, the wine, and the atmosphere, but I always feel that we eat better at home. I dine out only when my social life requires it, and, whenever I can, I avoid it. I love cooking. I love being with my family, feeling that I’m both protector and protected.
One of the tasks not on my to-do list this morning was “drive past Jacob König’s house.” I managed to resist the impulse. I have enough imaginary problems without adding the real problem of unrequited love. The feelings I had are long over. It won’t happen again. We can now proceed into a future of peace, hope, and prosperity.
“They say the owner has changed and the food isn’t quite as good,” says my husband.
It doesn’t matter. Restaurant food is always the same: too much butter, ostentatious presentation, and—because we live in one of the most expensive cities in the world—an exorbitant price for something that really isn’t worth it.
But eating out is a ritual. We are greeted by the headwaiter, who leads us to our usual table even though we haven’t been here for some time. He asks if we want the same wine (of course we do) and hands us the menu. I read it from beginning to end and choose the same thing as always. My husband opts for his traditional choice, roast lamb with lentils. The waiter comes to tell us about today’s chef’s specials: we listen politely, grunt appreciatively, then order.
The first glass of wine doesn’t need to be tasted and meticulously analyzed because we’ve been married for ten years. It goes down very quickly, among talk of work and complaints about the man who was supposed to come and fix the central heating but never turned up.
“And how are you getting on with that article about next Sunday’s elections?” my husband asks.
I’ve been commissioned to write about a question I find particularly interesting: Does the electorate have a right to scrutinize a politician’s private life? It’s a response to the news that a deputy is being blackmailed by Nigerians. Most of the people I interviewed said they don’t care. It’s not like it is in the United States, they say, and we’re proud of that.
We talk about other recent news items. The increase in the number of voters at the last election for the Council of States. The drivers working for Geneva’s public transport company, TPG, who are tired but happy with their work. A woman who was run over in a crosswalk. The train that broke down and blocked the line for more than two hours. And other such pointless topics.
I pour myself another glass of wine, without waiting for the appetizer and without asking my husband what his day was like. He listens politely to everything I’ve just said. He must be wondering what we’re doing here.
“You seem
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