The Happy Marriage

The painter was assailed by another memory from their wedding. That of the clove perfume worn by all the women who belonged to his tribe. The smell of it had made him feel nauseous ever since that day when he’d first smelled it as a little boy when he’d been traveling with his parents in their car. It was as though he were allergic to it, and every time he smelled it he would experience head-splitting headaches that would torture him for hours on end.

Everything about that wedding had been calculated to put him down, and yet he’d braved it. He felt a boundless tenderness for that girl he believed was free and beyond the reach of his tribe. He looked at her and covered her with kisses, holding her tight in his arms and stroking her splendid hair, which had a blonde sheen to it. He was in love. Blindly in love. No other woman on earth seemed as charming to him, even though he’d lived the life of a seducer who’d accumulated a great many experiences throughout his travels and encounters.

He would never have imagined that this wedding celebration — which he now called a wedding damnation—would leave an indelible stain on their life, his life. The meeting of the two families had been a clash of classes, two entirely different worlds that could never be bridged. However, he hadn’t wanted to pay any attention to that at the time. He had thought that love would prove stronger than anything, just like in Douglas Sirk’s melodramas, which he adored. It was films rather than books that really influenced his imagination. In times of hardship, he’d often thought of Elia Kazan’s Splendor in the Grass or George Stevens’s A Place in the Sun, and he had identified with the young hero who found himself caught in the middle of a confrontation between two families. Nevertheless, he knew that films were only dreams based on reality.

By the time the sun had set that evening, and despite having been told to keep quiet, the painter’s aunt had been unable to restrain herself any longer and she had voiced her opinions loud and clearly to the guests around her in an incredible display of arrogance. Without mincing her words, she declared that any kind of mixing was a betrayal of one’s destiny. She had employed blunt, brutal words, accompanied by grimaces, gestures, and pouts that amplified her meaning. Her contempt had been all too obvious. How could a lady who belonged to the cream of Fez’s upper classes possibly accept finding herself in the company of peasants who couldn’t even speak Arabic that well? How could her nephew have led himself so astray? There could only be one explanation! He hadn’t decided to get married, it had been decided for him. He hadn’t chosen to do anything, and someone else did all the talking for him. It was clearly a plot. The poor groom was like a lamb who’d been delivered into the hands of ignorant people who’d jumped at this unique opportunity to claim the elegance, charm, and highest traditions that were his birthright for themselves. His aunt had wanted to both wound and warn those people from the bled that even if those lovebirds had insisted on getting married, this did not mean the two families could ever come together.

His mother had remained silent throughout the party. Her sensitivity and memory had been offended by this union, but she had swallowed her anger. She had wept in silence behind her spectacles, from time to time directing her sorrowful glance toward her son, who she thought was making a fatal mistake. His mother had been known for her kindness and wisdom, and was simply incapable of speaking ill of someone or arguing. Nevertheless, she entertained simple certitudes, which were obvious.