Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

Next came the turn of those who called themselves the students, who’d come to see him because they’d been writing a dissertation or essay on painting and Morocco. They’d all accommodated his schedule and had welcomed his tactful advances. Some had come back for a few months, others instead had vanished. He’d regretted their disappearance, but then had quickly forgotten them. And now there they were, walking through his dreams, happy to revisit a shared past. He couldn’t remember their names anymore, but he still recalled the perfumes they used to wear or the way they moved. There was a pretty Asian girl among them who, after working her way through not a few men, had taken holy orders and never returned. He remembered how fiery she’d been when they’d made love. When he found out she’d become religious, he hadn’t been surprised in the slightest.

There was the one who wrote poems in Arabic and who’d dreamed of writing a book illustrated with his paintings. She’d thought of herself as intelligent and professional; she’d sent him a few of her books along with a portrait of her by the Greek painter Alekos Fassianos. A beautiful woman and a beautiful painting. The painter had known something would happen between them the moment she’d set foot in his studio. It was a matter of intuition, as well as the way she’d looked at him. She wasn’t very tall but she had splendid black hair and gray-green eyes. They talked a lot about politics. She came from a part of the world that had been ravaged by war. She didn’t say a word about her project. On her way out, she’d asked him for a favor: to let her take him to dinner.

“Or rather, why don’t you let me take you out sometime next week?”

“That’s out of the question,” she’d replied, “I insist, and besides I’ll be in Greece next week.”

They’d had dinner the following night at a small restaurant. She was the one who’d asked: “Are you free later tonight?”

He, on the other hand, had responded evasively, “I usually sleep at night, or at least I try to.”

Then she’d taken hold of his arm and whispered: “I don’t want to sleep with my partner tonight, I want to sleep with you. I’ll leave you alone after we’ve made love.”

Their sporadic affair had lasted for two years. They rarely saw one another in Paris, but made time whenever they were traveling. One day, her partner had given her an ultimatum: “It’s either me or him!” She’d opted for safety and security, and she’d married her partner a few months later.

Curiously enough, she’d appeared before him alongside her husband, who was older than her and a little bulky. He must have had hidden qualities.

There was the one whom he’d called the Angel of Brasilia, a young art history student who’d been sent to his studio by her professor, who was married to a Moroccan woman who happened to be the painter’s cousin. Her beauty had reminded him of certain Egyptian actresses: buxom. She’d fainted when he’d grabbed her hand. It was the first time he’d seen a woman faint. He’d revived her as best he could, then after she’d regained consciousness, she’d apologized and confessed: “I always faint when I’m touched by a man I admire!” He’d smiled and promised he wouldn’t touch her again. Laughing, she’d retorted: “But that’s a punishment!” She became his mistress during his time in Paris, then they met again in Buenos Aires. It was like a party each time they met. She would let herself go and talk to him in Arabic, using phrases she’d learned by heart. Their love became a kind of friendship, a tenderness that they jealously guarded in their hearts. She told him she’d never loved anyone like him, but he’d stayed silent. He liked her, but pretending to be in love was be-yond him.

The painter opened his eyes, scanned his surroundings, and then called the Twins by pressing the bell, indicating he wanted to be taken out for a little stroll. He told himself that this procession was like looking at a catalog. He hated himself and refused to content himself with the images that flashed past his mind the moment he shut his eyes.

He drank some coffee that evening, hoping to put an end to it, but his imagination placed him on a balcony from which he could admire those women as they moved past him elegantly.

There was Caroline, the woman with perfect legs whom he’d met while she was in the midst of battling breast cancer. An exceptionally intelligent, tender, and sensual being. He’d been happy to see her, to clasp her in his arms, to confide in her. Their friendship had led to a cautious love. She’d found it difficult to be naked in front of him, having recently undergone a mastectomy. Making love to someone who was disabled was difficult. How could she tell him, or warn him? She’d blushed and then she’d told him: “They removed that unlucky breast but I’m waiting for my reconstruction surgery before the summer arrives so I can go to the beach with my children!” She’d asked him to close his eyes while she’d undressed and to switch off the light. Her chest had been wrapped in bandages. He’d touched her softly and delicately. He’d licked the tears from her cheeks and pressed her against him without hurting her. They’d taken a little time to get used to things and humor had been the best medicine. They’d laughed and swapped jokes, talked about how she’d get a new breast and would be able to show it off at a nice beach. That missing breast had haunted him for a long time. He would think about her and grow angry over how such a kindhearted, beautiful soul had been struck by such an injustice.

She never managed to make it to the beach. That woman really suffered a great deal. She’d had a lot of courage and hope. In lieu of seeing one another, they’d exchanged letters. Her last had read:

I’m writing to you from a waiting room, which is terrible, just like hospital waiting rooms usually are. I’m wearing pajamas and I’ve got a scarf around my head, which is completely bald. I feel ugly, abandoned by life, but I’ve got faith. The doctor’s a friend of mine. He’s an older gentleman who continues to practice despite the stupidity of French laws. He helps me to remain optimistic and he knows just how to talk to me and the right things to say. Here I am, I think about you, but then I’m here, watching gaunt elderly people whom death has shunted into a corner, I think of you and beg you to keep fighting so that nobody can compromise your integrity as an artist and as a man; nobody has the right to trample on you, or to steal what’s most precious to you, your work, your art, your gift. I say this to you because I know how often selfish people have taken advantage of your sensitivity. Be strong, be well, and continue to amaze us, giving us the best that you have to offer .

I’m here, I’m waiting and I know that I want to live, I want to scream so that God — if indeed He does exist — can hear me and give me a little more time, so I can love again, have sex, eat a plate of lentils, drink some fine wine, and smoke a cigar with you. I long for that time, and I’ll find it wherever it’s hiding, I won’t let anyone take it away from me .

There’s a woman next to me and she’s looking at me while I write. She leaned over and said: “How lucky you are, you’ve got someone to write to, someone you love, I suppose? I don’t have anyone to write to. My children have forsaken me, my husband is dead, and my friends are all in the hospice, having completely lost their memories. Well, say something nice to that man. Tell him that Gisèle sends him a kiss. So he knows that there’s an eighty-four-year-old woman out there whom he doesn’t know but who’s sent him a kiss. Thank you.”

There we have it, my love, my tree, my music, my greatest folly. It’s my turn to see the doctor now. Don’t forget, don’t allow anyone to compromise your integrity .