Tahar Ben Jelloun - The Happy Marriage

He already suffered from migraines, high blood pressure, tachycardia, and a host of other nervous disorders by the time I met him. They were congenital and I had nothing to do with them. You’ll have noticed that before describing the scene that caused his stroke — which I must stress was the sheer product of his artist’s imagination, which was intoxicated with his own success — he devoted a number of beautiful pages to me, even going so far as to say that he loved me. Don’t fall for any of it — he was utterly incapable of the slightest praise, he never had a kind word to say in the morning, no tenderness before going to bed, nothing, he lived in his own world, and I had to dwell in his shadow and cower in it. Oh, that ubiquitous shadow, it was bleak and heavy, followed me everywhere, harrying me and overwhelming me to the point that it immobilized me. It pushed me into a corner and kept me there. A shadow doesn’t speak: it hovers over you menacingly and crushes you. I would wake up exhausted and empty in the mornings. The shadow had haunted me all night. I didn’t have anyone to talk to, and besides, who would have believed me? Struck by a shadow! People would have thought I was crazy, which would have played into his hands. It must have taken a lot of effort for him to ever say anything sweet. So he avoided it and closed in on himself. He would reach his hand out and rub my knee whenever he wanted to make love. That was the sign, his way of asking me to welcome his advances, as though I should be constantly at his disposal, willing and available, all so Foulane could reassure himself that he could still get it up. He was always in a hurry to satisfy his needs. He would push himself inside me a little forcefully and fuck me in a robotic manner for a few minutes until he came, at which he’d puff out, like a toy whose batteries had gone dead.

For instance, he never once bought me some roses. Buying someone flowers is easy, it makes them happy, it makes a statement. But he never bought me any. When he came back from his trips abroad, he would occasionally bring me a piece of jewelry, a necklace or a watch, as though to ask my forgiveness. But he always managed to find a way to tell me how much it had cost him. That’s just how he was, petty and miserly. He lived in his own world, inside the bubble of a famous artist, except that he always forgot he only started getting successful after we met. He never admitted that his career prospered thanks to our marriage. I brought him stability, inspired him, and even had a hand in the development of his radical new style. Before we met, his paintings adhered to a bland, unimaginative realism. He just copied whatever he looked at. Simply improved on photographs. But, as you might have guessed, nobody could tell him that lest he fly into a fury. Yet once he was with me, he found the courage to develop his style and technique. His paintings became lively, surreal, flavorful, and human. He never had the honesty to admit that my presence and sensibility had enriched his work. I looked after everything when we lived in Paris, the house, the children, everything, while he would lock himself up in his studio, which was situated in a different neighborhood. Was it really a studio? Yes and no. I knew that he used it as a pad where he could meet with his other women, whores and those innocent young girls who swooned when they looked at his paintings. One day I asked him: “Why did you set up a bed in your studio?” “Why, it’s obvious, so the artist can rest,” he’d replied. But he never slept alone. His circle of acquaintances always included at least one or two women who would jump in a taxi whenever he called so that they could have a little “siesta” (as he put it). I knew all of this and yet made a superhuman effort not to burst in on them and make a scene, like any normal wife would have done in my stead. I was dimwitted and naïve. I was never scared of what I might find, I’ve never been afraid, instead it was an undefinable feeling. I just didn’t want to bother him. Yes, that was my intention, I knew that he worked hard, and I didn’t want to burst into his studio because I knew my wrath would be difficult to control. But one day when he was abroad on a trip, I noticed that he’d forgotten his keys to the studio in his satchel. I couldn’t resist the temptation to visit the lair that he used to cheat on me all the time. I went in, I was ill at ease, shaking a little, steadying myself to be slapped in the face by a reality that I’d hitherto refused to see. The bed was unmade, there was a painting that he’d barely begun, and a half-empty bottle of wine on the bedside table with two glasses next to it, one of which was stained with lipstick. A banal and clichéd snapshot of adultery in all its splendor, and as a bonus I also found a bottle of my own perfume, which he must have sprayed on his women in order not to stray too far outside his comfort zone. As though guided by my instincts, I went over to the trash cans and found two condoms filled with sperm. Instead of flushing them down the toilet or putting them in a trash can outside his studio, the idiot had instead left irrefutable proof. I wanted to save a little of his sperm inside a bottle so I could give it to one of my sorcerers, but how could I do that? Some of his sperm would have been perfect for a potion that would make him impotent. I also went through his drawers. I found quasi-pornographic love letters, various photos, presents, dried flowers pressed between two leaves of paper that also bore the imprint of a kiss, and scented Chanel No. 5. I sat down in his armchair, lit a cigarette, opened one of his bottles of wine (far superior vintages than those he brought home), and began to reflect. I couldn’t just pretend as though I’d never been in his studio or forget what I’d discovered. I wasn’t going to forgive him or act oblivious, agreeing to share my life with a man who led his real life in that filthy shithole. I needed to react. Calmly. React so I could put an end to that abnormal situation. He was mocking me, and had been doing so since day one. I’d always known that, but seeing the undeniable proof made me want to throw up. I had to act as quickly as possible. I said to myself: “For once I’m going to plan things out and be rational about it. The wine is good, I’m calm, and I need to have a precise idea of what I’m going to do next. I can already picture him on his return, wearing that grin of his, with his potbelly, his raffish air and arrogance. I feel like putting out his eyes, or better yet cutting off his hands, just like they do to thieves in Saudi Arabia. A painter without any hands, now that would be a sight! No, it would be far better to slice off his prick, not that there would be much to slice off, but at least it would hurt. I should stop babbling since I’m not actually going to shed his blood. The best thing to do would be to keep quiet about what I’ve discovered so I can destroy him all the more when the time is right. I don’t know whether I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut. I’m hot-blooded. But one thing’s for sure, he’ll never touch me again! First I’m going to put the fear of God in him, and that fear will gnaw away at him, wreaking havoc in his life. I spent the first ten years of my life ridding myself of fear. It was a matter of life and death, so I know all about fear, one could say it’s my specialty. I’ve endured droughts, thirst, hunger, I survived them during heat waves and glacial winters, and while fighting off snakes, scorpions, and hyenas … I had no other choice. I tamed my fears and now I know how to instill them in both men and animals.”

I picked up all the proof that I’d found and went to see a lawyer to ask him if this was enough to ask for a divorce. I also called my mother, who suggested I travel to the south of Morocco to consult one of our ancestors who was endowed with extraordinary powers: “He’ll know how to punish Foulane, loyalty matters before everything else in our family!” I told everybody. I had to avenge the insult and the shame. He had to pay. One of my brothers offered to slash all his paintings; another offered to send a couple of tough guys to teach him a lesson. I told them not to. If anyone was going to do anything it was going to be me, and only me.