The Happy Marriage

I’ve come on behalf of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.

He said he would meet me in these deeply moving places, but he will not be coming!

— Louis Jouvet, introducing himself to the housekeeper, who opened the door for him

CHRISTIAN-JAQUE, A Lover’s Return

The painter was dozing, his head rolled forward, his legs heavy, his hands pressed against one another.

He slowly opened his eyes. The Twins were playing cars while sitting on the lawn. His wheelchair was equipped with an SOS button, a bell, but he didn’t want to bother them. He’d heard them laughing and swapping jokes. He’d never been able to play any kind of game, not cards, not bridge, and not chess either. With the exception of football, he’d never excelled in any sport. He’d once played a game of tennis, but his friends Roland and François had made fun of him. One of them had said: “You’re playing like one of the characters in Antonioni’s Blow-Up!” While the other had added: “Your aerial game is so perfect you don’t even need to hit the ball!” He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his game. He’d spent the entire time thinking about his paintings. The painter had devoted his entire life to his work. He had taught a little, but then had spent the rest of his time doing nothing but painting and sketching. Nonetheless, he enjoyed watching sporting competitions on television. He loved the challenge at the heart of sport, how those athletes aimed to be the best in their field, by sheer force of willpower, hard work, and dedicated passion. He liked to remind his children that he had achieved his success step by step. He had climbed the ladder one rung at a time and had never fallen into the trap of going after what was easiest, nor had he been swayed by fads or trends, or the social life and gossip that ended up blinding even the best.

He had first exhibited his work at the high school in Casablanca where he’d taught. He’d had a hard time convincing the principal, but he’d known how to speak to him. The principal was an old friend from college, a man who held good social standing. He had married according to his parents’ wishes, his two children attended the French Mission, he spent his holidays in the south of Spain, and he aspired to build a house on credit. His name was Chaâbi, and he’d been nicknamed “Pop”—short for “popular.” A week after the painter had talked to him about having his work exhibited in the school, Chaâbi had come to tell him some news, as if he’d been the one who’d come up with the idea: “The ministry will be very happy to support this initiative, especially these days when strikes and riots abound: you deal with the students’ rebelliousness through your art! It’s surprising, I can see no risks and I can even predict there is a promotion in store for you!” As it happened, that was the first time many kids from working class neighborhoods had ever seen any art, especially contemporary art. Before the exhibition opened, the painter had organized several after-school meetings where he’d talked for a long time about his work in the hopes of making the students more receptive to art and teaching them how to look at a work. He’d played them a short film by Alain Resnais on the life of Vincent Van Gogh, and another by H. G. Clouzot that showed Picasso at work. They’d appeared interested, impressed even.

Over the course of the following years, many other painters took his lead. The experiment had yielded conclusive results. Thanks to him, painting had made its way into schools, and painters who rarely exhibited their work were able to leave their studios. He was proud of what he’d accomplished.