The Happy Marriage

As they were laying him on the bed so he could take a nap, the painter recalled a conversation he’d had not long ago with his oldest son: “Where do you want to be buried, Dad, in France or in Morocco? Do you want to be wrapped in a white shroud or put into a coffin while wearing a nice black suit? Do you want people to visit your grave, or do you not care one way or the other? In any case, you won’t know anything, won’t know who comes to see you or not, so I guess it’s all the same to you, eh? I wouldn’t want you to be cremated, I’ve seen that in films, it’s terrible. Regardless, I think cremation is against Islamic tenets, isn’t it? Well, I’ve asked you a lot of questions, but you know that I want you to live for a long time, a very long time. I love you, Dad. But please let me know about your choice of country and the shroud, all right?”

The painter had replied: “There’s nothing to think about, my son, I’ll be buried in Morocco. But no black suit! What bothers me is how dirty our cemeteries are, you saw them when we went to visit your grandparents’ graves, how disgustingly unhygienic they are. There were empty bottles and plastic bags everywhere, as well as dead cats, dog droppings, beggars, charlatans … in short, the dead are not respected during their eternal sleep. You’ll probably say that the dead have nothing to do, and you’d be right, but they deserve our respect anyway, it’s a matter of principle. In any case, my son, the important thing is to remember those who are not of this world anymore. Because whenever you remember someone, they’re not really dead, they remain alive in our thoughts and our memories. So whether you come visit my grave or not doesn’t really matter, but if you completely forgot all about me, that would be bad. In the meanwhile, live your life!”

Remembering those words, the painter fell asleep, at peace with himself.

VII. Paris, August 1992

I’m no longer the same man who first came in. How time flies! I don’t like tulips. The flowers I’m going to offer you now are Parma violets. One day I would like anemones.

— CHRISTIAN-JAQUE, A Lover’s Return

A year and a half had passed since the trip to Morocco, where their bickering had come to an abrupt halt. They had continued to get along on their return to Paris. He’d managed to paint, had looked after the children, and spent quality time with his wife. That getaway had allowed them to recover their equilibrium, and their fights had begun to seem like a bad dream. Thanks to the trips he’d made to exhibit his work, the painter had been able to spend some time away, and this had certainly contributed to their newfound harmony. She never held his absences against him, since this allowed her to spend some time on her own, too.