I leave, cross the street, and go to the Jardin Anglais, where, moments ago, I imagined walking. I go to the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor on the corner of Rue du 31 Décembre. I like the name of this street because it always reminds me that sooner or later, another year will end and, once again, I’ll make big resolutions for the next.

I order a scoop of pistachio with chocolate. I walk to the pier and eat my ice cream while looking at the symbol of Geneva, its jet of water shooting up in the sky and creating a curtain of droplets before me. Tourists get closer and take photos that will come out poorly lit. Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a postcard?

I have visited many monuments around the world, many of mighty men whose names are long forgotten, but who will remain eternally mounted on their beautiful horses. Of women holding their crowns or swords to the sky, symbolizing victories that no longer appear even in textbooks. Of lone, nameless children carved in stone, their innocence lost forever during the hours and days they were forced to pose for an artist whose name history has also stamped out.

With very few exceptions, in the end a city’s landmarks aren’t its statues, but unexpected things. When Eiffel built a steel tower for the World’s Fair, he never even dreamed it would wind up becoming the symbol of Paris—over the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, and its magnificent gardens. An apple represents New York. A not-so-crowded bridge is the symbol of San Francisco. Another bridge, this one over the Tagus, dominates the picture postcards of Lisbon. Barcelona has an unfinished cathedral as its most emblematic monument.

And so it is with Geneva. Lake Léman meets the Rhône River at precisely this point, creating a very strong current. A hydroelectric power station was built here to take advantage of the hydraulic power (we’re masters at taking advantage of things), but when the workers returned home and closed the valves, the pressure was too great and the turbines ended up bursting.

Until an engineer had the idea to put a fountain in place, allowing the excess water to run off.

Over time, engineers solved the problem and the fountain became unnecessary. But the city’s residents voted in a referendum to keep it. The city already had many fountains, and this one was in the middle of a lake. How could they make it more visible?

That was how the mutant monument was born. Powerful pumps were installed and now an extremely forceful jet shoots out five hundred liters of water per second, at two hundred kilometers per hour. They say, and I’ve confirmed it, that it can be seen from an airplane at thirty thousand feet. It doesn’t have a special name; it’s just called Jet d’Eau (jet of water), the city’s landmark in spite of all the sculptures of men on horses, heroic women, lonely children.

I once asked Denise, a Swiss scientist, what she thought of the Jet d’Eau.

“Our body is made almost entirely of water, through which electrical discharges pass, communicating information. One such piece of information is called love, and it can interfere with the entire organism. Love is always changing. I think that the Jet d’Eau is the most beautiful monument to love conceived by the art of man, because it is also never the same.”

I TAKE my phone and call Jacob’s office. Sure, I could dial his personal number, but no. I speak with his assistant and let her know I’m going to meet him.

His assistant knows me. She asks me to hold the line while she confirms. One minute later she returns and says she’s sorry, but his schedule is fully booked. Perhaps in the new year? I say no, I need to meet with him right away; it’s urgent.

“It’s urgent” doesn’t always open many doors, but in this case I’m sure my chances are good. This time the assistant takes two minutes. She asks if it could be early next week. I let her know I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

I say thank you and hang up.

JACOB asks me to get dressed quickly—after all, his office is a public place, paid for by government money. If someone were to find out, he could go to jail. I carefully study the walls covered with carved wood panels and beautiful frescoes on the ceiling. I’m still lying on the worn leather sofa, completely naked.

He is growing nervous. He’s in a suit and tie, looking anxiously at his watch. The lunch hour is over. His personal secretary is already back; she knocked quietly on the door, heard “I’m in a meeting,” and didn’t insist. Forty minutes have passed since then—along with a few hearings and appointments that have likely been canceled.

When I arrived, Jacob greeted me with three pecks on the cheek and pointed formally to the chair in front of his desk. I didn’t need my female intuition to figure out he was scared. What was the reason for this meeting? Don’t I understand he has a tight schedule? The parliamentary recess will start soon, and he needs to resolve several important issues. Did I not read the message he sent, saying how his wife is convinced there is something between us? We need to wait a while and let things cool off before we go back to meeting.

“Of course I denied everything. I pretended I was deeply shocked by her insinuations. I said my dignity had been offended. That I was sick of her distrust and that she could ask anyone about my behavior. Wasn’t she the one who said jealousy was a sign of inferiority? I did what I could, and she merely replied: ‘Stop being silly. I’m not complaining about anything, I’m just saying I found out why you’ve been so kind and polite lately.’ It was—”

I didn’t let him finish his sentence. I got up and grabbed him by the collar. He thought I was going to assault him. But instead I gave him a long kiss. Jacob was completely unresponsive, as he’d been imagining I had come there to do something melodramatic. But I continued kissing his mouth and neck as I undid his tie.

He pushed me away. I slapped him across the face.

“I just need to lock the door first. I’ve also missed you.”

He walked across his office, tastefully decorated with nineteenth-century furniture, and turned the key. When he returned I was already nearly naked, wearing just my panties.

As I ripped off his clothes, he started sucking on my breasts. I moaned with pleasure; he covered my mouth with his hand, but I shook my head and continued moaning quietly.

The whole time, I stopped only once to say: My reputation is at stake, as you can imagine. Don’t worry.

I got down on my knees and began to give him oral sex. Again, he held my head, setting the pace—faster and faster. But I didn’t want him to come in my mouth. I pushed him away and went to the leather sofa, where I leaned back with my legs spread. He kneeled and started to go down on me. When I had the first orgasm, I bit my hand to keep from screaming. The wave of pleasure felt like it would never end. I continued biting my hand.

Then I called his name, telling him I wanted him inside me and to do anything he wanted. He penetrated me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me like a savage. He pushed my legs up so he could go deeper. The pace increased, but I ordered him not to come yet. I needed more and more and more.

He put me on the floor on all fours, like a dog, hit me, and penetrated me again as I wildly moved my waist. From his stifled groans, I knew that he was ready to come, that he could no longer control himself. I made him withdraw, turned over, and asked him to enter me again while looking into my eyes and saying the dirty things we loved to tell each other whenever we made love. I said the nastiest things a woman can say to a man. He called my name softly, begging me to tell him I loved him. But I just spoke profanities and demanded he treat me like a prostitute, like a stranger, that he use me like a slave, someone who didn’t deserve respect.