“But what about the children?”
“I’m sure their grandparents would be delighted to take care of them.”
And he concludes:
“When you love each other, you have to be ready for anything. Because love is like a kaleidoscope, the kind we used to play with when we were kids. It’s in constant movement and never repeats itself. If you don’t understand this, you are condemned to suffer for something that really only exists to make us happy. And you know the worst thing? People like that woman, always worried about what others think of their marriage. That doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that counts is what you think.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. Everything I had to say has lost its importance. He knows what is going on and is able to deal with the situation in a way I never could.
IT’S SIMPLE; as long doing anything illegal, making and losing money on the financial market is allowed.”
The former tycoon is trying to maintain his pose as one of the richest men in the world. But his fortune evaporated in less than a year after the big financiers discovered he was selling dreams. I try to show interest in what he’s saying. After all, I was the one who asked my boss to drop the series of articles about searching for solutions to stress for good.
It’s been one week since I received Jacob’s message saying I’d ruined everything. One week since I roamed the streets aimlessly, a moment I would soon be reminded of by the traffic ticket. One week since that conversation with my husband.
“We always have to know how to sell an idea. That is what constitutes success for any individual,” continues the former tycoon. “Knowing how to sell what they want.”
My dear fellow, despite all your pageantry, your aura of seriousness, and your suite in this luxury hotel; despite this magnificent view, your impeccably tailored suit from London, your smile, and your hair, dyed with utmost care so as to leave just a few white hairs to give the impression of “naturalness”; despite the confidence with which you speak, there is something I understand better than you: going around selling an idea isn’t everything. You have to find someone to buy. That goes for business, politics, and love.
I imagine, my dear former millionaire, that you understand what I’m talking about: you have charts, assistants, presentations … but what people want are results.
Love also wants results, although everyone insists, no, that the act of loving justifies itself. Is that how it is? I should be walking through the Jardin Anglais, in my fur coat my husband bought when he went to Russia, looking around at the autumn, smiling up at the sky and saying: “I love you, and that’s enough.” Could that be true?
Of course not. I love, but in return I want something concrete—holding hands, kisses, hot sex, a dream to share, the chance to create a new family and raise my children, the opportunity to grow old alongside the person I love.
“We need a very clear goal for any given step,” explains the pathetic figure in front of me with a seemingly confident smile.
I must be verging on madness again. I end up relating everything I hear or read to my emotional situation, even this boring interview with this annoying caricature. I think about it twenty-four hours a day—while I’m walking down the street, or cooking, or spending precious moments of my life listening to things that, rather than offer distraction, push me even deeper into the abyss where I’m plummeting.
“Optimism is contagious …”
The former tycoon cannot stop talking, certain that he will convert me and that I’ll publish this in the newspaper and his redemption will begin. It’s great to interview people like this. We need to ask only one question, and they talk for an hour. Unlike my conversation with the Cuban shaman, this time I’m not paying attention to a single word. The recorder is turned on, and later I’ll trim this monologue down to six hundred words, the equivalent of about four minutes of conversation.
Optimism is contagious, he states.
If that were the case, all you would have to do is go to the person you loved with a huge grin, full of plans and ideas, and know how to present the package. Does it work? No. What is really contagious is fear, the constant fear of never finding someone to accompany us to the end of our days. And in the name of this fear we are capable of doing anything, including accepting the wrong person and convincing ourselves that he or she’s the one, the only one, who God has placed in our path. In very little time the search for security turns into a heartfelt love, and things become less bitter and difficult. Our feelings can be put in a box and pushed to the back of the closet in our head, where it will remain forever, hidden and invisible.
“Some people say I’m one of the most well-connected men in my country. I know entrepreneurs, politicians, industrialists. What is happening with my companies is temporary. Soon you will witness my comeback.”
I’m also a well-connected person, I know the same types of people he knows. But I don’t want to prepare a comeback. I just want a civilized ending for one of these “connections.”
This is because things that don’t end clearly always leave a door open, an unexplored possibility, a chance that everything might still go back to being as it was before. I’m not used to this, but I know a lot of people who love being in this situation.
What am I doing? Comparing economics to love? Trying to establish a connection between the financial world and the emotional world? It’s been one week since I last heard from Jacob.
It’s also been one week since that night in front of the fireplace, when my relationship with my husband returned to normal. Will the two of us be able to rebuild our marriage?
Until this spring I was a normal person. One day I discovered that everything I had could disappear just like that, and instead of reacting like an intelligent person, I panicked. That led to inertia. Apathy. An inability to react and change. And after many sleepless nights, many days of finding no joy in life, I did exactly what I feared most: I walked the other way, despite the dangers. I know I’m not the only one—people have a tendency for self-destruction. By chance, or because life wanted to test me, I found someone who grabbed me by the hair—literally and figuratively—and rattled me, shaking off the dust that had been piling up and making me breathe again.
All of it completely false. It’s the type of happiness that addicts must find when they do drugs. Sooner or later the effects pass, and the despair becomes even greater.
The former tycoon starts talking about money. I didn’t ask anything about it, but he talks anyway. He has an enormous need to say he isn’t poor, that he can maintain his lifestyle for decades to come.
I can’t stand to be here any longer. I thank him for the interview, turn off the recorder, and go get my coat.
“Are you free this evening? We could get a drink and finish this conversation,” he suggests.
It’s not the first time this has happened. In fact, it’s almost a given with me. Even though Mme König won’t admit it, I am pretty and smart and I’ve used my charm to get certain people to say things they wouldn’t normally say to journalists, even after warning them I could publish everything. But the men … oh, the men! They do everything they can to hide their weaknesses and any eighteen-year-old girl can manipulate them without much effort.
I thank him for the invitation and say I already have plans for that evening. I’m tempted to ask how his latest girlfriend reacted to the wave of negative press and the collapse of his empire. But I can already imagine, and it’s of no interest to the newspaper.