The Happy Marriage

It seems that in order to hate someone, you have to really love them first. Maybe that applied to me too. I loved Foulane, but very reluctantly. My mother once told me: “Love comes with time, little one, I only met your father on our wedding night, I learned how to live with him, to get to know him, and we gradually realized we were made to be with one another. So be patient, my daughter, love is life, and it’s better for life to be calm and pleasant.” Like all girls my age, I believed her. I idolized him, thought of him as a prince, a strong man I could rely on, someone I could lean on. At first, we had some truly happy times. He took care of me, was attentive, especially when I got pregnant. He was fantastic. Those are some of the happiest memories I have of us. He was loyal, never left me alone for a minute, took care of all the errands, and when the maid didn’t come, he did all the dishes, took the laundry to the dry cleaner’s, vacuumed, and left me all the time to relax. I would look at him and tell myself: “Now look at that, the famous artist washing the floor, I should take a picture of him and send it to the newspapers!” I’m kidding, of course. He was like a different man. I later understood that he’d been so nurturing during my pregnancy because he and his family simply saw me as an incubator. Besides, his family always looked at me as though I were a stranger. I was told that one of his sisters had said: “You should pay her to leave and we’ll take care of the little one!” I wanted to throw acid in her face. But I cooled off. “It’ll pass,” I told myself. Not, “It’ll get better.” No, I knew it would never get better. He just let them talk and never stood up for me. I’m certain of that.

But nowadays I hate him, I admit it. I don’t just want to hurt him, I want to do more than that. I’m only calm when he isn’t there. The moment I can feel his presence, even in his current condition, I get all tense and nervous. One day he told me: “Hate is easy, love is more complex, we must lower our guard and just let it happen.” What a bunch of mumbo jumbo. He always used those kinds of explanations to belittle me, as though he just wanted to remind me that he’d studied philosophy whereas I hadn’t. Just like that story about the embroidered tablecloth he’d insisted on covering the round table in the living room with. I’m not as stupid as he thinks I am. If I took it away it’s because I knew that it was so precious that it deserved to be framed, and not left on top of a table where it could get dirty or torn to pieces. If he wants proof he can go look inside the big chest in our bedroom and see for himself how carefully I stored it away.

I started to wish he would just disappear. We’ve all felt those kinds of desires at one point or another, if only for a few seconds. But once, during a party when he wouldn’t stop buzzing around a flirty blonde, I suddenly realized I couldn’t stand him anymore. I picked up my purse and left the party. He followed me out into the parking lot, grabbed the door handle, and wouldn’t let go. I sped off and he fell, but I didn’t stop, I just kept driving. If there had been a car behind me, he would have been run over. He got up and his face was covered in blood. Nothing serious, just a few scrapes, I later found out. I still remember that evening down to its slightest detail. He reproached me for it for a long time afterwards, blaming me for not having taken him to the hospital and for having left him behind. But after all I’d had to endure from him, I certainly wasn’t going to let him open the door and talk with him as though nothing had happened. It wasn’t that dissimilar to when I refused to be his chauffeur on his return from China. I had wanted to punish him for refusing to take me with him. I suspected he’d gone there with someone else. So, sick or not, I wasn’t in the mood to drive him around.

I admit it, I’m a violent woman. So if he knew that, why would he keep provoking me?