The Happy Marriage

At first I hadn’t wanted to handle his finances, I just didn’t want to be at the bottom of his list of priorities, an afterthought, as if I was nothing, as if I didn’t mean anything to him. But he always trusted his agent more than he did his wife, even though his agent actually stole from him. I’d also started to notice that our children’s inheritance was quickly going up in smoke. I had to act and stop that hemorrhage. His family, friends, and agent almost lived off our backs. As far as I was concerned, that was simply unacceptable. It was because Foulane was weak and naïve, and always got screwed over by the first person who came along. I’ve lost track of how many times I warned him against some of his so-called friends who seduced him with their words and flattery to further their secret, shameful agendas, which he never seemed to see through. That’s how people had not only been able to steal paintings from him, but in one case also a lot of money — the little man whom Foulane wrote in his manuscript that he’d seen during one of his hallucinations, and who turned out to be an international con artist, a nasty, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed man who laughed hysterically and whose eyes often reddened with jealousy. All because he had artistic pretensions and yet nobody bought his paintings. So he opened a gallery in Casablanca, exhibited Foulane’s work, and sold out the show. He then quickly filed for bankruptcy and Foulane realized he’d been swindled and had no legal recourse. This story even found its way into the press, but by then the crook had switched trades and had opened a travel agency devoted to pilgrims wanting to go on the Hajj or the Umrah. He would sell those poor devils package tours and once the pilgrims arrived in Saudi Arabia they realized they’d been cheated and that everything they’d been promised was a lie. On their return home, they would also discover that they couldn’t file any claims because the travel agency had in the meanwhile been replaced by a butcher’s or a grocer’s. Foulane had been friends with this con artist and hadn’t even noticed how he’d been planning to make his move throughout the course of their relationship. To think that my husband had even loaned him some money to open his gallery. I’d always distrusted that guy, but Foulane had never listened to me, telling me: “You’re just jealous of my friends and you’re trying to come between us!” and so forth.

That’s why money lay behind so many of our fights. One day I told him: “You’ve got serious problems when it comes to money, you should get some help.”

I never forgot his reply, which made me cry for a long time: “I’d rather see my money go into my friends’ pockets than in your family’s.”

As if my family ever needed his moolah. What a disgrace! It was then that I understood that he was out of his mind and that his family — meaning me and the kids — would always come after his friends, his sisters, his nephews, his nieces, and his cousins.

When I filed for divorce, I did in fact try to get my revenge and get my hands on as much of his money as I could to prevent the next woman who fell into his lap from taking it all. He was simply incapable of managing the family’s finances, which was why I had to take charge once and for all.

Oh, I forgot to mention an important detail. Whenever he gave me a present, it was almost certain that he hadn’t paid for it. He didn’t buy me the traditional golden belt that Moroccan husbands usually gave to their wives; instead, his mother gave me hers. I had wanted one in a more modern style that would go with my figure and my dresses. But no, instead he asked his mother to give me hers because she’d gotten ill by then and never attended any parties or celebrations anymore. I never wore it. He also never took me on a honeymoon. Always because of money. He said that since we always got invited to go abroad, it was like being on a permanent honeymoon. He would even buy himself a business-class ticket so that his butt would be nice and cozy while forcing the children and me to fly economy because he didn’t want to pay for an upgrade. He said that it didn’t matter because we were all on the same plane and heading to the same destination. “You’re all young, but I’m not young anymore.” He would never admit he was old. He liked to pamper himself and was incredibly superstitious.

When my uncle and his wife spent some time at one of our old houses, which we didn’t use and which was all boarded up, he insisted on charging them rent. How embarrassing! How disrespectful! That he would ask my poor uncle for money when he was making millions. Whereas my uncle was actually doing us a favor by living in a house and thus helping to keep it up, since empty houses depreciate in value, not to mention the fact my uncle was a migrant worker who barely made more than the minimum wage.