The Happy Marriage (23 page)

A few days later, Habiba went to see her grandmother. She was over ninety years old, tiny, frail and thin, but her eyes were still sharp and bright, and she didn’t mince her words: “All men are bastards and cowards,” she told her, “they’ll make your life miserable if you don’t keep them in check. Marriage is nothing but a declaration of war celebrated with music, good food, perfumes, incense, pretty clothes, promises, songs, and so forth. There’s only one way to keep a man in check: you have to eat him.” She visualized her words by bunching her fingers and pointing to her open mouth. “Sometime you can’t do that, but you shouldn’t give up, there are other options. Your grandfather, for example, was completely uneatable. He was hard as a rock, it was impossible to swallow any part of him. So I pretended to be his slave for many months. I did whatever he wanted me to, and crawled on all fours in front of him, never refused anything he asked of me, and did anything I thought would please him. After a few years of careful training, he could only find pleasure with me. Now that’s what I call keeping a man. He never cheated on me. I’m sure of that because I hired a number of spies to keep me informed. He went from the shop to the house and from the house to the shop. He never once paid a visit to those disloyal women who cheat on their husbands. No, he was immune to that. When he was dying, he spent the whole night crying, saying he would be unhappy without me in heaven. I don’t know if God sent him to heaven, but wherever he is, I know that he’s waiting for me. I’m in no hurry to join him. I still have a few years left to live and places to see. God will surely have taught him to be patient
.

“That’s the way you make a marriage work, my daughter, that’s the only way. And don’t forget that your husband will take advantage of you the moment you lower your guard. Marriage is a small war that is won through subterfuge, because when the shouting starts and you’ve run out of arguments, then it’s the beginning of the end. When I look around me, I see nothing but failures. Women cry and men triumph. It’s not fair. If everyone followed my example, that kind of thing wouldn’t happen anymore.”

Habiba had listened closely to her grandmother and had kept her lessons closely in mind. After a year of married life, however, Habiba started to get bored. She was no longer attracted to her obedient husband. Habiba only had to make a gesture and he would start to please her right away. She even started to throw up. She wasn’t pregnant, she was just fed up. A man who did whatever she wanted, was always at her mercy, and was only devoted to her was like a dish without any spices, completely devoid of surprises
.

Habiba chose to act, and to make changes to the wonderful world of the women who’d eaten her husband. Her mother suggested throwing him up a little. She thought it was time for the next stage of the plan: to give him a little freedom, let him go somewhere on his own, perhaps go on some adventure, and to let him sleep with another woman to put the spark back into their relationship
.

Habiba listened to her mother’s advice and spent the entire day throwing up. She felt lighter that evening. After a few days, her man was standing right in front of her, completely free, but she couldn’t bear to look at him. She wasn’t interested in him anymore. She felt better whenever he wasn’t around. She told him that he was free to leave and that she wouldn’t try to keep him anymore
.

Habiba decided to gobble up another man. She set her heart on a man who had been married to one of her cousins, who was an invalid, thereby ensuring her new man would come out of a marriage that hadn’t worked. Before her death, Habiba’s cousin had told her: “I’m warning you, he’s tough. Brutal. Don’t try to swallow him on the first night, otherwise you’ll get indigestion. That’s how I got sick. Trust me, take care!”

But Habiba’s legendary beauty triumphed over that young man and overcame his resistance. She ate him up, turned him into her plaything, and did whatever she liked with him. Other women followed her example and that’s how the tribe of man-eaters was born. Ever since then, peace has prevailed in this country where the swallowed men no longer have a say
.

After a moment’s silence, Imane burst out laughing, as did the captain.

“Did you really hear that story at the hammam?” he asked her, “I actually think you made it up yourself. You should write it down, work on it and turn it into a novel. I’m sure it would be very successful.”

Imane had wanted to be a writer ever since she’d been a little girl. She never dared to talk about her ambitions, but always told people her stories whenever she had a chance. When she couldn’t sleep at night, she would let her imagination run free. She would look out of her window at the sky, count the stars, give the clouds names and think up characters and plots featuring them.

On her way out, she leaned down toward him and said:

“You’re right, I didn’t hear that story at the hammam, but I didn’t make it up entirely. Isn’t that what artists, what writers do? See you tomorrow, captain.”

She left the trail of her perfume behind her, and since the painter was a daydreamer, he became melancholic.

His feelings for that young woman were unlike any he’d experienced before. He’d desired other women and had done all he could
to be with them, and for a time, be it a few days or a few weeks, he’d fallen in love with them; but none of that had happened with Imane. He needed her, and not just so she could look after his health. He needed to see her, to hear her tell her stories, to confide in her. It was all he wanted.

XXVII

Casablanca

February 12, 2003

I believe we can save our marriage. We could make a fresh start. You must give me a chance! Let us face this together.

—
INGMAR BERGMAN
,
Scenes from a Marriage

By the time his lawyer came to see him, so they could take stock of how the divorce proceedings were going, the painter was fully immersed in his work. He was painting a crinkled linen tablecloth that he’d reproduced in all its minutiae with a painstaking attention to detail. It was impressive work.

“If you didn’t replicate the pleats and folds with such accuracy, nobody would know the difference. Besides, you’re the one who rumpled it up, right?”

“That’s right, I did, I realize that, but that’s not the way I do things, it would be like tricking people, and I wouldn’t even need a tablecloth in front of me to paint it. I can paint any kind of tablecloth,
but this painting depicts this particular tablecloth and you couldn’t confuse it with any other tablecloth on earth. And once I’ve finished painting it, what you see in front of you won’t be a tablecloth, it will have transcended it and become something else.”

“I see. So you could call your painting ‘This is not a tablecloth.’ ”

“That’s not very original.”

“Forgive my impertinence.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that. Look at it this way, it would be as if you reused the same defense speech that got your client acquitted in one case in a completely different case, that wouldn’t do, now, would it?”

“No, you’re quite right.”

“So, is there any news? I’m ready to hear the good and the bad.”

“Well, truth be told I don’t think your wife wants to get divorced.”

“That’s the last thing I needed!”

“Given what her lawyer has asked for, one would think she’d made such shocking demands in order to change your mind about the divorce. Going by the last letters I was sent, her requests are nothing short of exorbitant. She’s asked for literally everything that you have, for the children’s sake, in addition to a compensatory allowance of several million dirhams. If you accept her terms, you might as well buy yourself a little tent and find a little nook sheltered from the winds where you can spend your last days.”

“Do you think I’ll have enough left to buy that tent as well as a few things to keep me from dying of cold in the winter?”

“Well, I’ll buy you one if you like! But jokes aside, you need to take action. I can see only one way out of this. If you trust me, we’ll file a request for divorce here in Morocco, where you’ll have the upper hand. We must act quickly since the way this will pan out will depend on the laws of the country where the request is first lodged. It’s a matter of precedence. Ever since the new Moudawana came into effect, the rulings of Moroccan courts have gained international recognition,
so you won’t be running any risks from a legal point of view. Try not to worry too much. You know, I’m fully aware that you were planning to offer your wife—the mother of your children—a comfortable pension, as well as the house and even a hefty lump sum. The courts will recognize that your offer is more than reasonable.”

“Let me have a little more time before I give you my decision. First I must finish this painting. If I have the strength to work all day tomorrow then I think I’ll be able to complete it, then when my nurse Imane comes over she’ll be the one to say whether I’ve pulled it off or not. In fact, my decision on this matter rests on this particular painting, which unlike my other paintings will have a name:
Break Up
.”

The lawyer couldn’t understand why such a famous painter would rely on a simple nurse’s advice, but he didn’t let on what his thoughts were. He lowered his voice and whispered:

“Please reassure me, nothing happened between you and this girl, right?”

“Nothing at all. She’s good at her job and I trust her taste because she’s neither an art critic nor a historian. She’s just a simple girl, charming and efficient. I’ve been able to feel alive again ever since she started taking care of my therapy.”

“Does your wife know?”

“Of course, she’s already tried to fire her twice.”

When he resumed work on his painting, he felt readier for a fight than ever before, especially since he’d found a title for his canvas. It had come to him out of the blue, just like that. It pleased him. Each wrinkle on the tablecloth represented one of the conflicts he’d suffered through. Each shadow stood for a moment of sadness or melancholy. Everything on the canvas represented something whose meaning was only known to him.

As usual, he took a little nap in the afternoon. He loved to doze off after reading a book or a magazine. All of a sudden, he could clearly
hear the sound of someone whispering in his ear: “You’ve screwed up your marriage, at least make sure you get your divorce right.” He woke up with a start and looked around, but there was nobody there. He called for his assistants. His left leg was hurting. He asked the Twins to lift him up and carry him to the chair situated in front of the large easel so that he could finish his painting.

When he finished painting that tablecloth late the following afternoon, he called Imane over so she could give him her opinion. Her eyes beamed so intensely the moment she’d looked at the canvas that he knew right away that he’d completed a masterpiece. He remembered that he owed his lawyer an answer. He called him around seven o’clock in the evening.

“Go ahead, I’m going to take your advice. Regardless of what happens I’ll always be considered the guilty one and there’s no way I’ll be able to save face anyway.”

After calling his lawyer, and once Imane had gone home, he suddenly felt the urge to write his wife a letter, a letter that he would never send her. He didn’t know how he should start it. Should he begin with “Dear,” just use her first name, or instead start with a simple hello? In the end he just cut to the chase.

I want you to know how sorry I am for everything that’s happened with us. I want to apologize for leaving you and to tell you that it’s neither your fault nor mine. We forced the hand of fate. We forced each other’s hand and thus it was always fated to be. I believed in love, in fact I believed in it so much that I thought it could solve impossible problems. But for a long time now I’ve lacked courage and determination and now here we are, breaking up right in front of our stunned children’s eyes. I would have truly liked for us to reach an agreement without causing all this damage, without airing our dirty laundry in public or throwing lawyers into the mix
.

I hope we’ll at least be able to have a cordial relationship and act civilized toward one another since we’ll certainly see each other again because of the children, and you know that they are all that matters to me, as is the case with you. Be reasonable, I beg you, and be at peace with the fact that we don’t love each other anymore. Love isn’t a decision or something that can be forced. It comes to us and then just as easily goes away again. There’s nothing we can do about that …

XXVIII

Casablanca

February 18, 2003

—I want you to make love to me. Please? For old times’ sake.

—The best thing would be to pack my things and leave.

—
INGMAR BERGMAN
,
Scenes from a Marriage

The painter woke up early that morning. Imane usually arrived around eight o’clock, but she was running late that day. He tried not to be impatient and convinced himself that she must have gotten held up somewhere. When she finally arrived two hours later, he immediately noticed that she’d been crying. She quickly set to her work, in silence. After a moment, he tenderly asked her if she wanted to confide in him.

“We’re friends, we can talk to one another and share our burdens. What’s wrong, Imane?”

“I have to leave Morocco and go live with my fiancé.”