Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

That day finally arrived in the middle of November of 1999. He’d been in the middle of work when she’d burst in like a Fury and thrown his laptop in his face. The laptop had broken into two, and she had then thrown a heavy bronze paperweight at him, which had struck his left shoulder. She was hurling abuse at him in three languages — Berber, French, and Arabic — unleashing a torrent of insults:

“You’re going to pay, you’re going to pay, I’m going to destroy you, I’m going to ruin you, I’ll burn all your shitty paintings and throw them in the trash, you’re nothing but a monster, a pervert, a miserable husband, a shit father, and a cheat, you’re just like your father, a loser, a two-faced bastard!”

At which point he felt truly shocked — both physically and psychologically — and was overcome by a sudden fever. His blood grew hot and began circulating rapidly, his face moved as though his skin were being stretched, the brush fell from his hand, and his arm became stiff, everything went blurry, then he’d fallen on the floor, hitting his head on a space heater, scraping his skin, which started to bleed. Worse: his eyes had rolled back in his head and he couldn’t move his legs or his arms.

She panicked and called the emergency services. He was taken to the nearest hospital. He’d had a stroke. That was the diagnosis. A cerebrovascular accident. Hemiplegia in his left side, with complications on his right side too. They would have to wait before confirming the extent of the damage.

The doctor had spoken very quickly. He was very moved. He knew the painter by reputation and had thoughtfully asked the secretary in the department not to inform the press.

His wife had asked for another bed in the room so she could sleep next to him. The doctor had told her: “It’s better if he sleeps alone, just as a precaution, we’ll be here, don’t worry, we’ll call you as soon as he wakes up.”

Luckily, he couldn’t remember anything about that day. It was as if it had never happened.

On the other hand, he had stared death right in the face. It had felt like being wrapped in a bluish-white vapor. He hadn’t been able to think, but saw a quick, chaotic montage of images flash past his eyes. He hadn’t been able to grip anything, his body had become a heavy object he was unable to command. His face wasn’t his anymore. It had been replaced by a bad sketch. He asked himself if that coarse substitute was going to stick around for a long time. Only his mind was still active. He’d heard words, or rather noises made inexplicable by the vapor around him, which was growing denser and denser, and had now become a bluish-black. He opened his eyes, saw only blips, and then shut them again. He must have thought that death would recede a little if only he could open his eyes, that it would pass him by and leave him a little more time, give him a respite. Oddly, he started thinking about his latest painting, and in the midst of that very real nightmare, had told himself: “I won’t be like Nicolas de Staël, I’m going to finish that painting, I’ll see it through to the end. I won’t throw myself out of the window and splatter into a thousand pieces on the pavement below!” See it through to the end of what? Of the madness that haunted him and that helped him to work.

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

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 .