Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

Despite his wife’s suspicions, the painter told himself that he’d been right to suddenly decide to flee Paris and its grayness to settle in Casablanca. The city’s light had left its mark on him and its effects could be detected in his new style of painting. The place where they lived was quite something. Built by a gay English couple in the 1920s, their house had a beautiful garden that looked out onto the old port and the sea beyond. Yet that splendid house grew somber every time another conflict erupted between him and his wife.

The painter had always had a hunch — or strange intuition — that he would one day fall victim to some sort of seizure or attack, or something like that. He had consulted a cardiologist friend who’d told him what he should try to avoid: stress, first and foremost, as well as arguments, constant outbursts of anger, and explosive reactions. “Be smart,” he’d told him, “act indifferent, don’t let her overwhelm you or manipulate you. We’re the same age, my friend, so I know what I’m talking about, take a trip, spend some time away, if you feel tensions are rising in the house, then go to your studio, we need you to stick around because you’re our friend, but also because you’re an artist, you’re widely respected and famous, you’re also very talented, and your work has been recognized all over the world, so don’t let her get you down … Good, so your EKG came back fine, and so did the stress test, you’ve got uncontrolled hypertension, so you need to keep an eye on that, get some exercise, be stricter about your diet, and above all, take some time off!”

The painter knew all that. His friend had merely confirmed it. He looked after his hypertension and avoided eating fatty things. He stopped smoking, except the odd cigar now and again, and he went out for a daily walk. Ever since they’d gone back to live in Morocco and had escaped Paris and his bustling life there, he’d had more time to look after his health. Each morning he went walking along the seaside promenade in Ain Diab with a friend whom he’d nicknamed Google because he was so incredibly erudite that you only needed to ask him a question to launch him into a brilliant speech that would last for the entirety of their walk. He would exercise while his friend rambled on, and this would go on for a couple of hours. Afterwards, he would take a dip in the sea and head back to the villa, where he’d set up a studio.

In the spring, his Spanish art dealer came to see him and was particularly adamant that the painter be ready for the big exhibition that he’d been preparing for the beginning of next year. He’d also been visited by two art critics who’d been writing a book on his work. It wasn’t the first book that had been dedicated to his work, but it was the most important one yet, and it was due to be published in three languages to coincide with the opening of the exhibition. It was going to be a big deal. The painter was modest, but deep down he was proud and so had been flattered by all the attention; yet he betrayed none of these emotions and felt a kind of energy brewing inside him, which would allow him to complete a series of paintings that he’d planned and done some preliminary sketches for. For this series, he had decided to paint the trees in his garden. Each canvas would be both similar and different to the others, but the precision of his lines and the balance he’d struck between the real and the imaginary were truly outstanding — almost perfect, in fact. They were large canvases with neutral backgrounds where the trees were isolated and yet had been reinvented in a singular manner. He hated the expression “still life” because art wasn’t something rigid or fixed. His canvases depicted life itself and there was nothing “still” about them. He’d always been wary of labels and categories. He had nothing to do with realism, that was for sure! One of his writer friends had told him how difficult it had been to write about his work, because the right words he could use to describe it were both rare and vague. So he’d had to rule out all inappropriate expressions.

He went to Madrid for a few days to buy the equipment that he needed, and took the opportunity to go see a few friends. He met up with Lola, a woman he’d been in love with before he’d gotten married. She’d changed, she’d gotten married too and had had a couple of children. He observed her, sometimes unwittingly, and had noticed how often our memories betray us. He’d remembered her as an incredibly sensual young woman with an amazing body and yet the woman he now had before his eyes was a mother who’d let herself go. It was a sad evening. He kissed her goodnight and accompanied her home. It was better never to revisit old memories. When he got back to Casablanca, his driver cum assistant — who handled all the administrative duties, ran all the errands, settled all the bills, and spared him having to cope with any practical problems, which in Morocco tended to be both numerous and absurd — hadn’t been there waiting for him. Which was strange. Tony — whose name was Tony, although it was in fact Abderrazak, but whose old Italian employer had nicknamed him Tony — had never missed a meeting, was never late, was always meticulous, punctual, and showed up early. The painter decided to call him: “I’m sorry, sir, but your wife took the car keys away from me and fired me. I wanted to call but I didn’t know what time your flight was landing!” The painter called his wife and she told him: “Good riddance! That parasite was stealing money from my children and was taking us for a ride. You’re so naïve, he fools you all the time and you swallow all his lies. Your Tony is gone! Let him steal somewhere else. You don’t really need him, he was just leeching off us, and now he can go back to work for his Italian pedophile … In any case, it’s kind of fishy that you’re so fond of him. Fine, I won’t say anything else, I fired him because I found out he was stealing — your Tony is a thief!”

While she was screaming those insanities, the painter had felt an irrepressible rage swelling inside him. He could no longer control himself and people kept starting at him while making their way to the check-in desks. He hurled the bag containing his laptop to the floor and started shouting, too. He walked in circles like a madman around the airport lobby and hung up on his wife while cursing and fulminating against her. He was a wreck, and his saliva had started to taste bitter and unusual. It was a sign that something bad was about to happen. He looked for a glass of water. While drinking it, he swallowed the wrong way and started coughing, went all red in the face, put the glass down and then placed his hand on his chest. Someone had picked up his bag and brought it to him. As he’d been about to thank this person, he began to feel a stabbing pain in his chest. He started feeling really bad and his legs began to tremble, so he sat down. He was shivering, broke out in a sweat, and experienced a headache that was stronger than usual. Some airport employees who knew him rushed to his aid and used the loudspeakers to ask if there were any doctors among the travelers. A Swedish man came over right away and said: “He must be taken to the hospital right now!” They kept him under observation for twenty-four hours and then a taxi took him home the next day.

It had only been a warning. The children were at school and his wife had gone out, or maybe she’d left altogether. The painter felt greatly relieved since what could they possibly say to one another after what had happened at the airport? Not saying anything would be a way of expressing consent. So it very much suited him that she wasn’t there. It would mean one less fight. She hadn’t even been worried when he hadn’t come home after their argument on the phone. She must have thought he would get on another flight or get himself a hotel room with one of his mistresses. Tony, on the other hand, had come to see him and begged him not to blame his wife, saying that he would continue to work for him anyway. It pained Tony to see his friend and employer in such a sorry state.