The Happy Marriage

One day, when they’d been traveling around southern Morocco, they had passed through the village where she’d grown up before moving to France. He’d found his wife had suddenly become happy again, in a way in which he hadn’t seen her in quite a long time, her movements were carefree and she’d become sweet and generous. She’d been friendly, had spoken to him of the beauty of the light, and the kindness of the people who lived in those remote regions. She’d suddenly reminded him of the young woman he’d known before their marriage and whom he’d fallen in love with. Upset, he’d even considered settling there, since that part of the world worked such wonderful effects on her mood! He hadn’t been wrong because, by rediscovering her roots, his wife had found the reassurance she’d been looking for, allowing her to relate to others positively, rather than negatively or dejectedly. She’d spent hours talking to the women of the village, who’d told her about all their problems. She’d taken notes and had proceeded with a sociologist’s meticulousness, promising those women she’d return and help find solutions to their dilemmas. She’d brought clothes for the women she knew, which she’d carefully selected, as well as toys for the children and a parcel of medicine, which she’d given to the only young girl in the village who could read.

The painter had looked at his wife while she performed good deeds and had been happy. The sky had been a spotless blue and the nights bitingly cold. She had snuggled against him to keep warm, but also because she’d felt her man belonged to her. She’d held him, pressing him against her with all her strength as if to tell him that she would be with him forever. For a moment, he wondered whether she’d brought him there so as to cast a spell on him. After all, didn’t she believe in sorcery just like all the other women in the village? He’d banished that unenlightened idea from his thoughts.

He would have liked to make love to her that evening in order to put a seal on their reunion, but they hadn’t been alone in the room. Children were sleeping next to them. She’d kissed him tenderly and whispered in his ear: “My man, you are my man …” then she’d stroked his chest for a long time.

They’d woken up early the next morning, and had a traditional breakfast. The coffee had been undrinkable, and the mixture of chickpeas grilled with some coffee beans had left an unusual taste in his mouth. He’d asked for tea, which had alas proved too sweet. Afterwards, they’d left the village to go for a walk on the road that led up the mountain. They’d held hands. She’d felt carefree, lighthearted. He’d told her that one day they would make a similar journey, to his native city of Fez. She’d told him she would like that, but on the condition that they didn’t go see his family, and especially his aunt, the memory of whom was quite traumatizing for her. He’d refrained from making any comments, fearing that the slightest slip would spoil that blessed moment that he’d wanted to draw out as much as he could. He hadn’t seen her so calm for months.

They’d walked for a long time and forgotten all about time. Having reached the top of the mountain, they’d come across a shepherd playing the flute. It had looked like something out of a picture book. They’d rested for a while next to him. After he’d left with his herd of goats, they’d found themselves alone once again. She’d kissed him tenderly on the lips. He’d wanted to have her at that exact moment, and had scanned the surroundings. Then she’d noticed a little cabin. They’d entered it, thrown themselves down on the hay, and undressed. They made love slowly. They had to come back there, he’d told himself, since his wife had been completely changed by the experience.

They had stayed in that cabin for a long time and had fallen asleep. As was the local tradition, the shepherd brought them fresh whey and some dates. It was their way of welcoming guests. The sun was setting. It was getting cold. The shepherd asked them a few questions about their life and told them that he’d never left the mountain, so was curious about what life was like in the city. Nevertheless, he had a little black-and-white television that was fueled by a gas cylinder. That window on the world pleased him a great deal. It allowed him to travel even to France, the country where his father and uncle worked.