The Happy Marriage (6 page)

Toward midnight, having made every possible effort to shield his wife from these hostilities, he had found her huddled in a corner crying. He’d dried her tears and consoled her. Had she heard his aunt’s malicious gossiping, or had the fact she was leaving her parents to start a family with him suddenly upset her? The painter recalled his sister’s wedding, where everyone had cried because her husband had come to take her away forever. That wedding had taken place in Fez a long time ago, and it had lived up to the purest of traditions, which his aunt worshipped. The two families had come together then. Everything had taken shape without anything being spelled out; everyone had known their role by heart, and the play couldn’t have failed because everything had been planned and calculated in advance, the ritual had unfolded without any hitches, the families had mingled and there had been no bad surprises, and nobody had made any inappropriate or tasteless speeches. Whenever anyone had made the slightest slip, there had always been someone who’d intervened and restored the balance.

Yet on that day, the painter knew why his wife was crying and could not answer him. The attitude both families had adopted had
rekindled a feeling of rejection that she’d believed she’d overcome once she’d started living with the painter. The memories of those unbearable humiliations she’d suffered during her childhood due to the modesty of her background, as though a secret wound had suddenly ripped open again.

The painter had told himself that he should have defended her more. That he should have laid the ground before their marriage. Told her that he loved her regardless of what anyone in his family said, which he couldn’t have cared less about. He could have easily proven to her that their love was stronger than any bump in the road they might face. But he hadn’t taken those precautions, believing that his love was so obvious and visible that it would silence those malicious tongues. This marriage was like screaming his love from the rooftops, shouting to anyone who would listen that he loved that girl from the bled, publicly declaring how proud he’d been to defy a whole social caste for love.

Alone on the street, his fists in his pockets, his mind dwelled on those old stories as he vainly tried to find the means to bring their arguments to an end and recover the essence of the love they had for one another.

V

Marrakech

January 1991

It would be terrible to have to depend on you in any way.

—Marianne to Isak Borg, her seventy-eight-year-old father-in-law

INGMAR BERGMAN
,
Wild Strawberries

One day, when they’d been traveling around southern Morocco, they had passed through the village where she’d grown up before moving to France. He’d found his wife had suddenly become happy again, in a way in which he hadn’t seen her in quite a long time, her movements were carefree and she’d become sweet and generous. She’d been friendly, had spoken to him of the beauty of the light, and the kindness of the people who lived in those remote regions. She’d suddenly reminded him of the young woman he’d known before their marriage and whom he’d fallen in love with. Upset, he’d even considered settling there, since that part of the world worked
such wonderful effects on her mood! He hadn’t been wrong because, by rediscovering her roots, his wife had found the reassurance she’d been looking for, allowing her to relate to others positively, rather than negatively or dejectedly. She’d spent hours talking to the women of the village, who’d told her about all their problems. She’d taken notes and had proceeded with a sociologist’s meticulousness, promising those women she’d return and help find solutions to their dilemmas. She’d brought clothes for the women she knew, which she’d carefully selected, as well as toys for the children and a parcel of medicine, which she’d given to the only young girl in the village who could read.

The painter had looked at his wife while she performed good deeds and had been happy. The sky had been a spotless blue and the nights bitingly cold. She had snuggled against him to keep warm, but also because she’d felt her man belonged to her. She’d held him, pressing him against her with all her strength as if to tell him that she would be with him forever. For a moment, he wondered whether she’d brought him there so as to cast a spell on him. After all, didn’t she believe in sorcery just like all the other women in the village? He’d banished that unenlightened idea from his thoughts.

He would have liked to make love to her that evening in order to put a seal on their reunion, but they hadn’t been alone in the room. Children were sleeping next to them. She’d kissed him tenderly and whispered in his ear: “My man, you are my man …” then she’d stroked his chest for a long time.

They’d woken up early the next morning, and had a traditional breakfast. The coffee had been undrinkable, and the mixture of chickpeas grilled with some coffee beans had left an unusual taste in his mouth. He’d asked for tea, which had alas proved too sweet. Afterwards, they’d left the village to go for a walk on the road that led up the mountain. They’d held hands. She’d felt carefree, lighthearted. He’d told her that one day they would make a similar journey, to his native city of Fez. She’d told him she would like that, but on the condition
that they didn’t go see his family, and especially his aunt, the memory of whom was quite traumatizing for her. He’d refrained from making any comments, fearing that the slightest slip would spoil that blessed moment that he’d wanted to draw out as much as he could. He hadn’t seen her so calm for months.

They’d walked for a long time and forgotten all about time. Having reached the top of the mountain, they’d come across a shepherd playing the flute. It had looked like something out of a picture book. They’d rested for a while next to him. After he’d left with his herd of goats, they’d found themselves alone once again. She’d kissed him tenderly on the lips. He’d wanted to have her at that exact moment, and had scanned the surroundings. Then she’d noticed a little cabin. They’d entered it, thrown themselves down on the hay, and undressed. They made love slowly. They had to come back there, he’d told himself, since his wife had been completely changed by the experience.

They had stayed in that cabin for a long time and had fallen asleep. As was the local tradition, the shepherd brought them fresh whey and some dates. It was their way of welcoming guests. The sun was setting. It was getting cold. The shepherd asked them a few questions about their life and told them that he’d never left the mountain, so was curious about what life was like in the city. Nevertheless, he had a little black-and-white television that was fueled by a gas cylinder. That window on the world pleased him a great deal. It allowed him to travel even to France, the country where his father and uncle worked.

They’d stood to leave, fearing the night would overtake them. The nights were long and dark in January. The shepherd had been pleased by their unexpected visit. To thank him, the painter had offered him his sunglasses as a present: “You need them more than I do! You’re always out in the sun, you must protect your eyes!” The thought of wearing fashionable sunglasses had seemed to make the shepherd mad with joy. He put them on immediately and said he could
see the mountain and the valley in a different way, claiming that even his sheep had a different color to them. He’d laughed, all the while showering a thousand blessings upon them. The painter’s wife had slipped a hundred-dirham note in his pocket. Then the shepherd had kissed her hand, which had been embarrassing.

During their descent, their tiredness made itself felt, but it had been a good kind of tired, the kind that would lead them to their bed, where they would fall asleep immediately. They had been hungry and had dreamed of a piece of buttered bread, just like in Paris. But the lady with whom they’d been lodging had prepared couscous with seven vegetables for them. They’d stuffed themselves like foreign tourists. He’d had some difficulty stomaching rancid butter. Yet her eyes had ballooned and she’d told him: “It’s good, darling. It’s very good for your health, for your eyes, the memory, the imagination, and your creativity!” He hadn’t had the time to do any sketching, but everything had left a strong imprint on his memory. He would often think about the very specific color of the sky there; he’d asked himself how he would replicate its effect on the canvas later. The sky in the south had nothing in common with the one in Casablanca, which was whitish, and even less so with Paris’s, which was rather gray. There, in the deepest depths of Morocco, far away from all the pollution, the sky was a soft, subtle blue. Contrary to what one might expect, Delacroix had never painted anything while in Morocco. He’d merely taken some notes and drawn in his notebooks. It was only on his return to France that he’d found that country’s colors and figured out how to reproduce them in his paintings.

The following day, they had taken some pictures of the village. The children had rushed toward them to pose so they could be in the shot. The women had refused to let themselves be photographed. They said they were afraid the machine would capture their souls! One of them had even turned their back to them. She’d laughed and said: “I’m very attached to my soul!” She’d worn a flower-patterned
robe. It looked like a scene out of one of the paintings of Jacques Majorelle, the painter of Marrakech.

It was finally time for them to leave. They had said goodbye to everyone, climbed inside their car, and taken the road to Agadir. They’d spent the night in a pretty hotel on the beach. The painter tried to picture the city as it had once looked. Before the earthquake of February 29, 1960. He had seen one of his primary school teachers cry when it happened. The teacher had lost his entire family.

Agadir had been entirely rebuilt since then. There were rows of hotels that stretched out into infinity. The city now devoted itself only to tourism. Its soul had been buried. In 1960, the painter had only been six years old, whereas his wife hadn’t even been born yet. He had kept a vivid memory of that distraught teacher alive in his mind. His father had been so dismayed that he’d even doubted the goodness of God. People had spread rumors that the earthquake had been a form of divine retribution. All of this had left a fuzzy impression in that six-year-old boy’s mind. But the memory of that catastrophe had accompanied him for the rest of his life.

They had walked around the city’s various markets. People in Agadir were very different to the Marrakechis. Their natural sense of dignity commanded respect. But would he have been able to live in a city that had been rebuilt as though it had undergone several rounds of plastic surgery? Nothing spoke to him there. He’d remarked to his wife that she looked sad. They went back on the road early the next morning, before her mood could grow somber again. She had taken over at the wheel and started driving very fast. He’d observed how adroitly she’d learned to handle that big car. It was as if the person next to him had transformed into a woman he didn’t know, a woman who was determined and fearless.

The police stopped her for speeding. The painter was almost relieved that she’d been pulled over. At first, his wife had tried to bribe them. Then one of the two policemen had given her a lecture. Then
his wife had spoken to the policeman in Tamazight, and he’d replied in the same language. He gave her back her license and told her to drive carefully.

The painter had been dumbstruck. It appeared that tribal solidarity was more powerful than any highway code.

VI

Casablanca

March 24, 2000

I’ve come on behalf of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.

He said he would meet me in these deeply moving places, but he will not be coming!

—Louis Jouvet, introducing himself to the housekeeper, who opened the door for him

CHRISTIAN-JAQUE
,
A Lover’s Return

The painter was dozing, his head rolled forward, his legs heavy, his hands pressed against one another.

He slowly opened his eyes. The Twins were playing cars while sitting on the lawn. His wheelchair was equipped with an SOS button, a bell, but he didn’t want to bother them. He’d heard them laughing and swapping jokes. He’d never been able to play any kind of game, not cards, not bridge, and not chess either. With the exception of football, he’d never excelled in any sport. He’d once played a game
of tennis, but his friends Roland and François had made fun of him. One of them had said: “You’re playing like one of the characters in Antonioni’s
Blow-Up
!” While the other had added: “Your aerial game is so perfect you don’t even need to hit the ball!” He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his game. He’d spent the entire time thinking about his paintings. The painter had devoted his entire life to his work. He had taught a little, but then had spent the rest of his time doing nothing but painting and sketching. Nonetheless, he enjoyed watching sporting competitions on television. He loved the challenge at the heart of sport, how those athletes aimed to be the best in their field, by sheer force of willpower, hard work, and dedicated passion. He liked to remind his children that he had achieved his success step by step. He had climbed the ladder one rung at a time and had never fallen into the trap of going after what was easiest, nor had he been swayed by fads or trends, or the social life and gossip that ended up blinding even the best.

He had first exhibited his work at the high school in Casablanca where he’d taught. He’d had a hard time convincing the principal, but he’d known how to speak to him. The principal was an old friend from college, a man who held good social standing. He had married according to his parents’ wishes, his two children attended the French Mission, he spent his holidays in the south of Spain, and he aspired to build a house on credit. His name was Chaâbi, and he’d been nicknamed “Pop”—short for “popular.” A week after the painter had talked to him about having his work exhibited in the school, Chaâbi had come to tell him some news, as if he’d been the one who’d come up with the idea: “The ministry will be very happy to support this initiative, especially these days when strikes and riots abound: you deal with the students’ rebelliousness through your art! It’s surprising, I can see no risks and I can even predict there is a promotion in store for you!” As it happened, that was the first time many kids from working class neighborhoods had ever seen any art, especially contemporary art. Before the exhibition opened, the painter had organized several
after-school meetings where he’d talked for a long time about his work in the hopes of making the students more receptive to art and teaching them how to look at a work. He’d played them a short film by Alain Resnais on the life of Vincent Van Gogh, and another by H. G. Clouzot that showed Picasso at work. They’d appeared interested, impressed even.