Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

A writer friend of his seemed to live an exceptionally peaceful life. Not only did his wife not vex him, but she actually supported him, fawned on him, and took it upon herself so that nothing or nobody ever bothered him. The painter had asked him for his secret. After a deep sigh, the writer had told him: “I don’t have secrets to share, I simply gave up. She controls everything. I don’t even know my bank account number. I never travel without her and I never see anyone outside our close circle of friends. She’s got access to my phone, my e-mails, and my post … she answers them for me. Journalists are afraid of her and so I’ve rid myself of all the bother of having to deal with them. I don’t even remember the last time I saw a naked woman. So from time to time I watch some pornos while she sleeps. I leave our bedroom on the tips of my toes to feast my eyes and occasionally jack off. There’s my secret. If you want peace, now you know the price you have to pay for it!”

Give up? One may as well disappear! What good would it do to become so small that people wouldn’t even notice you anymore? Was married life impossible unless one of the two transformed into a shadow? The painter reread a book that his friend had written. Dedicated to his wife, the novel told the story of an official who worked at the Ministry of the Interior in a country ruled by a dictator who spent his days torturing political activists but became a perfect husband and father the minute he returned home each night. He would drop off his kids at school in the morning, kiss them, button up their shirt collars so they wouldn’t catch a cold, and fifteen minutes later he would be taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves so he could start torturing his detainees in the basement of his office building. He had a clear conscience.

The allusions to the writer’s personal life were unmistakable. The painter hadn’t mentioned any of this to the writer. But as far as the painter was concerned, living like this would be unthinkable.

Tired of mulling over his dark thoughts on what was a hot midsummer afternoon, the painter closed his eyes and decided to reminisce about the women he’d known in his life. As though in a dream, the vision at first blended in with the horizon, then took on the colors of the sunset.

They suddenly flashed past his eyes simultaneously. He could see them without being seen himself. Some were dressed in black, others in white, but all were in mourning. But he wasn’t dead yet. Could they have misinterpreted that mysterious invitation for a ceremony of goodbyes?

Only Criss was dressed in a variety of colors. She had almond-shaped eyes and a vivacious face, and her arms were burdened with presents. She was looking for him but hadn’t managed to find him. When she turned around, she saw the other women walking toward the horizon without speaking to one another. She thought it wasn’t a dream, but it wasn’t hers, it belonged to the man whom she loved, although she’d never lived with him.

It had been a story like no other. They had suddenly fallen in love, and then just as brutally fallen out of it. She’d fulfilled a fantasy, or even a wish, because she’d loved the artist before she’d even met the man behind that artist. Their love had been strong, then she’d gotten up one morning and said, “It’s over!” He’d looked at her, made a gesture to indicate this was against his wishes. But she’d been serious, her face had changed, and even her way of moving. She’d become unrecognizable and, over the course of a single night, had transformed into a woman who was too busy for him. She’d confessed that she was afraid of men and that he’d confirmed those fears, thanking him as though he’d been a plumber or an electrician who’d just repaired something in her house.

Before shutting the door behind him, she’d said: “I’ll always be your friend, we just won’t be having sex anymore. I love solitude, and sometimes I betray that solitude by spending time with men who are much like you, artists who are famous, but not too tall. Then I go back to my solitary life and my work, which I’m very passionate about and which gives me a great deal of satisfaction. When I get horny, I pleasure myself and occasionally use a vibrator to orgasm. There we have it, darling. Know that we had something very beautiful and very intense. Goodbye!”

He’d lingered there a moment, rooted in his spot. Seeing someone change from one kind of person to another in the space of a single season had left a big impression on him. Criss hadn’t had a sense of humor and had been immature when it came to her dealings with men. Maybe she preferred women but didn’t want to admit it? Nevertheless, she’d said that she’d loved sleeping with him. He didn’t argue: he’d torn up the photos they’d taken on a few trips they’d taken together and he’d decided to turn over a new leaf.

Then it was Zina’s turn. She was the first woman he’d ever fallen in love with. He’d nursed the memory of her throughout his life without ever having laid eyes on her again. He’d never stopped looking for her in other people’s faces: a brunette with dark skin and a body sculpted by desire and sensuality. Their affair had come to a dramatic end and it had been responsible for the greatest frustration he’d endured in his sentimental life. He’d never actually made love to Zina, or at least not fully, since they’d decided to wait for the wedding night that never took place for a series of complicated reasons. It was a time when virginity wasn’t something that a woman could compromise, and when they’d been happy just to touch each other, their bodies rubbing against one another until they orgasmed, wiping up the mess with handkerchiefs that she washed in her sink after she got back home. They’d flirted with one other in the dark alleys of the city, or in cemeteries, right up until the day when they were chased out by the groundskeeper who threw stones at them. She’d been struck on the head by one of them, which had left a little gash on her temple. She’d had to cover herself with a veil until the scar had faded. They used to meet at the house of a friend whose parents had left to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. They’d loved that time of their life, when they’d felt safe and away from prying eyes, but they still hadn’t had sex. That time of clandestine rendezvous had left a deep impression on him. Then one day he’d seen her walking down the street hand in hand with an older man. It had all come to an end, and it had been worse than a disappointment, it had been a disaster. Looking back on it, the painter smiled because the jealousy had made him do ridiculous things.

And there she was again thirty years later, walking through the white space while the painter took stock of his love life. She was wearing a veil and fingering a string of prayer beads. She’d become a believer and was said to frequent the circles of Sufi mystics.

All of a sudden, he saw Angelika gracefully break away from the group and come toward him. She was a Greek acrobat, incredibly beautiful, but also terribly fickle. She would affect naïveté, but actually always had her head screwed on right. Angelika had merely been interested in him. She’d never loved the painter, but had let him love her. She’d suggested taking him for a tour of her country’s most remote regions in the depths of winter. Utterly in love, he had spent the little money he’d had to travel to where she was. Her beauty was an enigma, her body graceful, and she was prone to mood swings, but her voice had always been suffused with sensuality. He’d walked out on her the day another man had come knocking on her door, looking for his girlfriend. The painter had felt betrayed, used, and cheated by an actress who’d merely pretended to love. He still felt bitter about it to this day, even though he’d managed to erase all memories of her. He hadn’t invited her, but she’d shown up anyway, looking like someone who’d stumbled onto the scene by accident. Angelika had always had a certain flair.