The Happy Marriage

One day, the artist had received an invitation to attend a Southern artists’ conference that was to be held in China. He’d dreamed about visiting that country, which he’d known little about, but which fascinated and intrigued him. He’d happily accepted and had begun making preparations for that trip with a youngster’s enthusiasm. It was August. When he’d set foot on the ground at the airport in Beijing, he’d discovered a sky as white as a monochrome painting, but it was a whiteness that seemed a little heavy, a little disquieting. He’d searched for a cloud, or a sliver of blue, but it had been in vain. The Chinese sky was utterly unlike any other on Earth. He felt a migraine brew inside his head. He’d put that down to the air-conditioning and the humidity in the atmosphere, but the headache wouldn’t leave him be, despite all the painkillers he took, which usually worked their effect. Everything seemed strange. He didn’t understand what was happening. He attended a reception at the Moroccan Embassy where he saw a few familiar faces, in particular an old classmate from high school who was now the embassy’s commercial attaché: “Don’t try to look for any landmarks,” he told the painter, “everything here is different. In any case, it’s very difficult to leave embassy circles, everything is closely monitored here!” The painter nevertheless accepted an invitation from the cultural attaché of the French embassy, who knew his work well. He’d taken him to a popular restaurant where the food was prepared by a family. The painter realized that one could eat better Chinese food in Paris than in Beijing. That night, he hadn’t felt well, his head had been spinning, his vision had gone blurry, and his ribs had felt sore. He thought he’d caught a cold. He no longer wanted to be in that country, where everything was secret, rigidly controlled and surveilled. He found it impossible to visit an old Chinese painter whom a Spanish friend had recommended he go see. A simple address clearly wasn’t enough in China. Eventually, the painter had given up on his quest to meet that man. They told him: “Ah, you too want to see him! Everybody wants to see him, but unfortunately, nobody knows where he lives … There are plenty of other painters in this country, not just him, if you like we can arrange for you to visit the best painters in China. They’re great people, and while they’re not known in the West, their talent is indisputable!”