The Happy Marriage (13 page)

But for the moment, his fate was in the doctors’ hands, and they were trying to revive him.

XIV

Casablanca

August 27, 2000

Don’t try to soften me with your troubles. Down here, everyone has to cope on their own. I don’t have any pity for the sufferings of the soul.

—Isak Borg’s reply to his daughter-in-law

INGMAR BERGMAN
,
Wild Strawberries

On that day, he received Imane in his studio. He still couldn’t paint, but he could look at the numerous paintings his illness had prevented him from finishing, which he’d had laid out on the floor. Some people had been ecstatic to see those so-called unfinished canvases, while others didn’t pay them any attention. The painter told himself: “If I ever decided to leave this world before my time is up, I’d make sure I left my studio in order and then I’d give my children very specific instructions, even if I wasn’t sure that they’d follow them, but you never know. Then I’d go to see a lawyer to ensure that my daughters received
an equal share of their inheritance, just like the boys. I disagree with the kind of discrimination that women are subjected to, whereby they only receive half a share, while men are entitled to a full one. It makes me sad that theologians haven’t yet changed Sharia law, which might have made sense in the Prophet’s time, when women didn’t work, but which has now become outdated. There we have it, I would put all my affairs in order before I left!” The prospect delighted him, as though the idea of suicide was no longer strange to him. The very act of putting his estate in order and imagining people’s varying reactions amused him. He wanted to write, but his fingers found it difficult to grip a pen. He thought about recording his last testament in front of a video camera, the idea reminded him of a film starring Andy Garcia, who played an ex-gangster who retired in Denver and set up a company that recorded dying people’s messages for their loved ones. Some would talk about their lives, others would give advice or impart some simple truths. In particular, he remembered a very pretty girl who was courting Garcia. “Are you in love?” he’d asked her. The question had been surprising. It was a lesson in seduction that the painter had retained in his memory.

He’d wanted to talk to Imane, but he still found it difficult to speak. So he decided to listen to her while she massaged his limbs. She was wearing a white blouse, where the gaps between the buttons revealed parts of her body. It was very warm on that day and so she’d wanted to be comfortable. Her patient was a courteous and respectful man. She had nothing to fear from him. Rubbing his right arm in order to revitalize its suppleness, she’d given him some slight caresses that had pleased him and made her smile. But her smile always had an unpleasant shape to it, which greatly upset him. He whispered: “Thank you. Excuse me, please tell me your story!” It took him some time to ensure she’d understood him. She’d taken a step back and replied: “I’ll have some time today after work. First allow me to take care of your arms
and legs, which is very important since I really want to see you back in shape and in perfect health. You know, I’m very fond of you. I don’t know much about painting, but your colors and shapes speak to me. I’m not sure what they’re telling me, but I’m glad they speak to me. You reproduce objects better than any photographer, because you can tell that your paintings are the result of a lot of work, which must have taken you a great deal of time. A photographer on the other hand is happy to just press a button … Good, now let’s move on to the right leg, put some effort into it, that’s right, you can move it, good, you’re working with me!”

When she knelt to massage his feet, he could see her bosom. He didn’t know whether she’d noticed him looking, but he loved to watch her without her knowledge. He’d always had a weak spot for breasts.

After she’d finished, she suggested boiling some water to prepare the tea, and then she sat next to him and told him a story, as though she were Scheherazade in
One Thousand and One Nights
.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who couldn’t stop dreaming. All she knew about life was what she dreamed at night. At school she would see imaginary characters amongst the crowds, and she could see them clearly while still following her lessons in class. She had the strange ability to live in two different worlds: the real and the imaginary. But she could switch back and forth between the two with the greatest of ease. She didn’t dream like the other girls of her age did
.

She dreamed of climbing a pyramid on the shoulders of an Egyptian king whom she healed with her smiles and caresses
.

She dreamed of conducting a symphony orchestra in a great hall filled with family and friends. Each musician would have a star shining above their head, a favor bestowed by the angels on each member of the orchestra
.

She dreamed of making a solo crossing of the Atlantic Ocean but gave up on it because she didn’t know how to swim
.

She dreamed of being a female imam leading the prayers in a gigantic mosque and delivering a sermon that talked about the Prophet’s love for women
.

She dreamed of being a sparrow that would fly from branch to branch and provide answers to the shrub of questions
.

She dreamed of being Scheherazade’s sister and witnessing her wedding night with the prince. She would make herself smaller than usual, but wouldn’t miss anything that happened
.

She dreamed of running a hospital and waving a magic wand
.

She dreamed of succulent Arabian dates and a bowl of goat milk
.

She dreamed of not being in pain at the end of a long day of work
.

She dreamed of long summer days spent under a tree surrounded by her imaginary friends while eating raisins and exotic fruits from distant countries
.

She dreamed of being able to dream all the time
.

But she would have to work harder for that to happen
.

She interrupted her story because she’d noticed that the painter’s facial features had almost regained their normal composure. He listened to her and drank her words. He told her to carry on by moving his eyes. She helped him swallow some sips of tea, wiped his lips, and then resumed her seat to continue her story.

Once upon a time there lived an angry man. This man had a kind, good-hearted nature that shameful people took advantage of
.

He interrupted her by banging his hand against his chair. He formed the words he wanted to tell her in his mind: “I want to hear
your story, not mine!” Imane was taken aback, and promised him she would tell him that story the next time she saw him.

But the next time she’d visited him, Imane had been in a hurry. Her grandmother had fallen and shattered her femoral neck. The painter had thought about his father, who’d passed away ten days after falling from his chair. This had happened in September. The painter had been working on a tribute for Giacometti when the phone had rung. One of his friends, a doctor, had told him: “At that age, it’s a matter of days …” The painter had experienced an immense grief. That sudden death had sparked an intense anger that he’d suppressed despite shedding a great deal of tears. His wife’s behavior had been impeccable. Although the painter’s family had always underestimated her, he was stunned by how conscientiously she’d taken to her duties during the mourning period. Nobody had been able to crack any jokes or make innuendos about her lowly background anymore. He’d been happy that she’d managed to pull through such an ordeal so well.

Imane had barely had the time to give him his injections and a few massages, as well as to tell him that her real dream was for him to recover soon so that he could paint her portrait: “I’ll tell you a lot of things when I’ll pose for that portrait. You’ll be surprised!” He’d agreed by nodding his head.

After Imane had left, the Twins had come to look for him so they could groom him. He’d muttered the word “hammam” and they’d looked at one another surprised, asking themselves if it would be an appropriate thing to do given his condition. One of them called the doctor, who told him it would be best to avoid the hottest rooms and
the kind of forceful massages that were typical to popular hammams. The Twins hired out a room that was moderately warm and took the painter there in his wheelchair. He had been happy to reconnect with one of his childhood memories.

The Twins were efficient and highly capable. The painter was at his ease, and ready to be rid of a lot of dead skin. A man had come and he’d scrubbed the artist as though he were a root vegetable pulled out of the ground. Another came to give him a gentler massage. He felt good, especially after he got to his living room so he could rest. He dozed off and managed to sleep a little. He decided not to take any sleeping pills that evening. He was pretty relaxed and was able to sleep without a chemical boost. That night, everyone got mixed up in his dreams: his wife, Imane, his doctor, Ava, the professor of applied mathematics, the director of his gallery, and many others still who paraded before him for the entirety of the night. In the morning he’d woken up scared, thinking his dream had been premonitory, presaging all the farewell visits people made to those about to die.

Like all men who loved women, the painter thought about the succession of women who had loved him and whom he’d loved in his turn. He even imagined how he would one day assemble them under the roof of his house in order to tell them how much pleasure and happiness they’d brought into his life. He would thank them and kiss them for one last time. Then he suddenly asked himself: “Would my wife be there? Does she belong with those who gave me pleasure and happiness?” He didn’t want to be unfair. Pleasure? Yes, she’d certainly done that. He greatly enjoyed making love to her, although they never spoke about it. That would never do. He was surprised that she’d never said anything about their sex life, except for a single occasion when she’d told him in anger: “You don’t satisfy me either sexually or financially! You’re impotent!”

It was curious and interesting that she’d linked money and sex in
a single sentence. The painter had read Freud and he knew a lot about the subject. But to be called “impotent” had made him chuckle. Of course, he hadn’t been able to tell his wife that the other women he’d been with had never had any complaints—quite the contrary, in fact. Still, from time to time that phrase would start ringing in his head like a crazy alarm clock. “Fine, maybe it’s true. She isn’t happy or satisfied, but I know it isn’t true. That is, unless she was faking, and I can’t do anything about that!”

After that incident, he’d asked himself the same old question: “Why have we never been able to speak to each other, to talk without arguing, to understand each other without wanting to smash everything around us—in short, to compromise and live together? Am I a monster and a pervert like she says I am? Am I so emotionally stunted to the point that she has to reproach me for never concerning myself with my family or what goes on in the house? I know that all of this isn’t true, but thanks to her endless accusations I’ve wound up believing her, or at least have started to doubt myself. Perhaps that’s what she was aiming for—to get me to doubt myself, to doubt my abilities, my actions, thus putting me in a corner from which I would be unable to escape, where I would be at her mercy, become her victim, so she would be free to do whatever she wanted, just like she’d been kept in purdah by an ayatollah!” Ayatollah, that was what she always called him. Did she even know what that word meant? It was an insult as far as he was concerned.

Defeat begins the moment that your enemy gets you to doubt yourself to the point that you start feeling guilty and you’re ready to submit to her will and bend to her demands.

One of his friends had confessed to him that his wife used to scratch him during their arguments. “We’re constantly at war,” he’d told the painter, “and sooner or later I’ll lay down my arms. Look, all our childhood friends have abdicated to their wives, they’ve been brought to heel and now they can enjoy peaceful lives. But I’m not at that point just yet. I’ll keep fighting until she sends me to my grave!”

A writer friend of his seemed to live an exceptionally peaceful life. Not only did his wife not vex him, but she actually supported him, fawned on him, and took it upon herself so that nothing or nobody ever bothered him. The painter had asked him for his secret. After a deep sigh, the writer had told him: “I don’t have secrets to share, I simply gave up. She controls everything. I don’t even know my bank account number. I never travel without her and I never see anyone outside our close circle of friends. She’s got access to my phone, my e-mails, and my post … she answers them for me. Journalists are afraid of her and so I’ve rid myself of all the bother of having to deal with them. I don’t even remember the last time I saw a naked woman. So from time to time I watch some pornos while she sleeps. I leave our bedroom on the tips of my toes to feast my eyes and occasionally jack off. There’s my secret. If you want peace, now you know the price you have to pay for it!”

Give up? One may as well disappear! What good would it do to become so small that people wouldn’t even notice you anymore? Was married life impossible unless one of the two transformed into a shadow? The painter reread a book that his friend had written. Dedicated to his wife, the novel told the story of an official who worked at the Ministry of the Interior in a country ruled by a dictator who spent his days torturing political activists but became a perfect husband and father the minute he returned home each night. He would drop off his kids at school in the morning, kiss them, button up their shirt collars so they wouldn’t catch a cold, and fifteen minutes later he would be taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves so he could start torturing his detainees in the basement of his office building. He had a clear conscience.