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 König 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.
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.”
My husband doesn’t know what he’s talking about. People are just pretending to have fun. What they’re really looking for is visibility, attention, and—every now and then—the opportunity to meet someone and close a business deal. The fate of people who think they’re so beautiful and powerful as they walk down the red carpet lies in the hands of an underpaid guy from the news department. The paginator receives the photos via e-mail and decides who should or shouldn’t appear in our small world of traditions and conventions. He is the one who places images of people of interest in the paper, leaving a small space for the famous photo with an overview of the party (or cocktail hour, or dinner, or reception). There, with a little luck, one or another might be recognized among the anonymous people who consider themselves very important.
Darius takes the stage and begins to share his experiences with all the important people he interviewed during his program’s ten-year span. I’m able to relax a bit and go to one of the windows with my husband. My internal radar already detected Jacob and Mme König. I want distance, and I imagine Jacob does, too.
“Is there something wrong?”
I knew it. Are you Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde today? Victor Frankenstein or his monster?
No, darling. I’m just avoiding the man I went to bed with yesterday. I suspect that everyone in this room knows it, and that the word “lovers” is written on our foreheads.
I smile and say something he’s tired of hearing, that I’m too old to go to parties. I would love to be home right now, taking care of our children instead of having left them with a babysitter. I’m not much of a drinker—I already get confused with all these people saying hello to me and making conversation. I have to feign interest in what they’re saying and respond with a question before I can finally put the hors d’oeuvre in my mouth and finish chewing without seeming rude.
A screen is lowered and a video clip starts, featuring the most important guests who’ve been on the program. I’ve worked with some of them, but most of them are foreigners visiting Geneva. As we all know, there’s always someone important in this city, and going on the show is obligatory.
“Let’s leave, then. He already saw you. We’ve done our social duty. Let’s rent a movie and enjoy the rest of the night together.”
No. We’ll stay a little longer, because Jacob and Mme König are here. It might seem suspicious to leave the party before the ceremony ends. Darius starts calling some of his show’s guests to the stage, and they make a short statement about the experience. I nearly die of boredom. Unaccompanied men start looking around, discreetly seeking single women. The women, in turn, look at one another: how they’re dressed, what makeup they’re wearing, if they’re here with husbands or lovers.
I look out at the city, lost in absent thoughts, just waiting for time to pass so we can leave quietly without arousing suspicion.
“It’s you!”
Me?
“Darling, he’s calling your name!”
Darius just invited me to the stage and I hadn’t heard. Yes, I had been on his show with the ex-president of Switzerland to talk about human rights. But I’m not that important. I never imagined this; it hadn’t been arranged, and I didn’t prepare anything to say.