Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

“But it’s finally over, I see my kid every other weekend and I can start a new life. As for hell, I can talk to you about that for hours, it’s better to lose everything and to be able to leave that hell behind instead of clinging on and keeping fighting. I’ve been defeated. But nobody takes me seriously. I’ve been beaten up both physically and psychologically but I don’t even have the right to complain. There we have it, my friend, since you’re a painter, why don’t you paint a fresco that depicts battered men, that would be original! Well, come to think of it, I’ve never seen a film about battered men. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give people a window onto a reality that nobody talks about. What about you, how are things going with that beautiful rebel of yours?”

He told his friend he’d decided to leave his wife. They were going to get divorced too, but their lawyers hadn’t yet reached an agreement. As he told his friend his story, the painter was suddenly overcome with a panic attack and felt an intense tightness in the middle of his chest. After hanging up the phone, he swallowed a Valium, then called his lawyer. The latter reassured him and asked him to be patient. He said that the situation was under control.

Nevertheless, a few days later some bailiffs burst into his studio completely unannounced.

“We’ve come to do an inventory of your work. We have to appraise and catalogue all the paintings you have here in your studio and elsewhere. We’ve been commissioned by your wife. Though you should know that we admire you a great deal, you do us proud. Please forgive us, we’re only doing our job.”

He let them carry on with their work. Most of the paintings in his studio were incomplete or had been left unfinished. He led them to the basement where he kept some paintings that friends of his had given him. They took note of everything and said they would come back in case …

Later that evening, he tried to talk to his wife about their visit. As he was in a hurry to finish some work for an exhibition scheduled to open at his gallery in Monaco, he contented himself with pretending to be offended and asked his wife to calm down. He couldn’t bear the idea of having another fight with her.

“I don’t trust you, and so I must take precautionary measures. If you run off with someone else tomorrow, then I’ll be left completely destitute and out on the street. I won’t let that happen. The other day I saw you drooling after that peroxide blonde who’s married to one of your dear friends even though she’s almost half a century younger than him! Anything’s possible, so I’m taking the initiative …”

“Don’t worry, just let me paint. I just need some peace and quiet so I can finish a big commission. I’m working a lot at the moment.”

“You’ll never have peace and quiet!”

The painter and his wife lived as though they were enemies spying on each other. The moment he left the house, his wife would rifle through all his things and make photocopies of any and all documents she could get her hands on. Which she would then send to her lawyer. Over the course of those weeks, the painter’s work took a new direction and acquired a certain depth and cruelty. It was like a condemned man’s last days on earth. His art thrived in the midst of that adversity. He knew that, and thought he should take a holiday once all this was over, he could go somewhere with Imane, maybe to an island. He’d never fantasized about deserted islands, but thought that once he got far enough away, he would be able to breathe a little and reflect on his work. But did he really have to go to the other side of the world in order to do that?

Imane arrived in the afternoon wrapped in a blue djellaba. She’d just left the hammam. She put her things down, gave him his injection and a long massage. She smelled wonderful, but it wasn’t a new perfume, it was just her body’s natural fragrance after it had spent a few hours in those baths, where people’s tongues loosened and wagged.

“I’m going to tell you a love story,” she told him, while packing away her equipment. “I didn’t make this one up, in fact I just heard it at my neighborhood hammam earlier today. Even though women talk a lot of nonsense in those places, where the heat and the steam free their minds and imaginations, I still think the story I’m going to tell has a kernel of truth to it. So lend me your ears and judge for yourself.”

This is the story of Habiba, a woman who ate her husband .

The day after her wedding, Habiba decided to eat her husband so she could always keep him close to her. First she sniffed him, just like a cat does when it’s encircling its prey, then she started to nibble on him, then began eating him, taking care not to arouse anyone’s suspicions .

On the first day, she focused on the parts of him that were easiest to swallow. On the second day, she helped send him off to sleep by stroking him for a long time, and licking his armpits and genitals. Despite the sedatives that she’d put in a glass of almond milk, her husband would wake up from time to time. He let her carry on, and with his eyes half-shut he smiled, his penis fully erect. Habiba was so excited that she hummed to herself, pleased. She enjoyed being able to do whatever she wanted to her man, and couldn’t believe her own prowess .

Her friends had filled her with horror stories from their own wedding nights, and she’d been afraid of the violence of the sexual act, and she’d been especially terrified by the notion of those bloodied sheets. Especially since she used to touch herself as a little girl, and had found out after a doctor’s visit that she’d broken her hymen. As she’d never slept with a man, she’d refused to have her hymen restitched .

On her wedding night, she’d offered herself up to her man, just like a traditional woman should, acting submissively and shy, keeping her gaze lowered, and letting him be in charge. Whereas in fact she had a plan: she would lure him into a sense of false security so she could prepare him for the following day. Her husband had ripped her satin sarouels off, spread her legs, and penetrated her unceremoniously. In pain, she’d pulled him closer to her and kept his member inside her for a moment, preventing him from moving. He quickly ejaculated and pulled out, proud of himself. They didn’t exchange a single word. Which was not the done thing in those cases. When she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, he’d seen her in all her splendor and had gotten hard again. Then he’d pounced on her, grabbing her by the arm, and tossed her onto the bed. Then, once more without stroking her or kissing her, he penetrated her and came, emitting a groan which she thought sounded like he was thanking God and his mother for having given him that woman. It was at that moment that she’d slipped the sedatives into the big glass of almond milk, which her husband had drunk in a single gulp. By the time she came back, he’d fallen into a deep slumber .

Thus on that second day, Habiba had observed her husband while he slept for a long time. The idea of eating him piece by piece excited her. Her desire for him grew and grew. She was sweating and shaking. She drew close to him, started stroking his arms and then moved onto his hands. She sucked his fingers, one by one, and gleefully munched on them. On the third day, she started eating his arms. On the fourth she ate his feet and most of his legs. On the fifth, she severed his head and placed it in a crystal jar, which was a gift from her uncle, who’d made his fortune working in the Gulf. Finally on the sixth she ate what was left of him, taking care not to damage his genitals, which she placed in a magic box. By the seventh day, there was nothing left of the man she’d married. Or rather, every part of him was still there, just inside her. Habiba hadn’t even put on any weight. She felt happy and proud of herself .