Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

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!”