The Happy Marriage

“—I’m going to let you in on a secret, something I’ve rarely done and which is hardly professional. My name isn’t Jean-Christophe Armand, I’m just as Moroccan as you or your wife. My name is Abdelhak Lamrani and I was born in Casablanca. I attended medical school in Rabat and specialized in Paris. I had wanted to practice in my own country, in Morocco, but there are too many misconceptions about my field over there. Too many people think that going to see a psychiatrist means you’re crazy. But let’s get back to your case. Your wife didn’t come here because she wants to change things. She came because she thinks you’re deranged, while she’s in perfect mental health. She’s completely wrong, of course, but I’m unable to help people who aren’t yet ready for therapy. For that reason, couples’ therapy isn’t advisable at this present moment. So, what should I advise you to do? Divorce? Separate? Resign yourself? Run away? You’re going to have to be the one to make that choice. It’s yours and yours alone. The problems will always be there. People never really change. That’s not my opinion, it’s the wisdom of the ancients. Good luck.”

VIII. Marrakech, April 3, 1993

Three bourgeois women swap stories of their hallucinations:

— I lifted the lid and saw a great precipice and the limpid waters of a stream.

— Before sitting down an eagle flew over me!

— The wind hurled dead leaves in my face.

— LUIS BUÑUEL, The Exterminating Angel

The painter had always promised himself he would one day retrace Delacroix’s footsteps in Morocco. The spring had been bathing the country in its light when he’d decided to buy a plane ticket for Marrakech. He’d brought pencils and brushes with him, just as he’d done as a young man. No other luggage. He got himself a room in a little hotel not far from Jamaa el Fna square and telephoned one of his friends, who was a writer and lived in the medina. The writer immediately invited him to come over. He introduced the painter to two cultivated women, who were also staying in town for a while. One of them was in her fifties, and she was slender and a chain-smoker. The other was clearly a lot younger, and what was more, she was pretty and voluptuous. She didn’t talk much, but the other one talked for her. The first was called Maria and the other Angèle. There were at least thirty years between them. Maria worked for a multinational company and was always traveling. The painter had liked talking to her almost immediately, as she knew a lot about Morocco. When they’d parted ways, they’d agreed to meet the following day at the hotel where they were staying. The women wanted to give him a book they’d written, The Origins of Indian Art in Latin America, which was bound to interest him. Maria was from Argentina, while Angèle was a Catalan living in Guatemala.

He asked to speak to Angèle the next day at the hotel, but it was Maria who answered. He thanked her for the book and suggested taking them to visit a village in the South, which they didn’t know about, but would surely like. However, they had to catch a plane the following day. They exchanged addresses and promised to meet up the next time they passed through Paris.

That evening, he’d tried once again to reach Angèle, who seemed embarrassed by his approaches and had answered the phone rather tersely. He cut the conversation short and regretted calling her in the first place. Ten minutes later, she’d called him back: “I’m out on the street and can speak freely. We’ll write to one another as soon as I’m back, all right? I understand French but I can’t speak it that well!” He’d replied: “My written Spanish isn’t great, but I can try to speak it!”

His instinct hadn’t been wrong. There was a chance something might happen between them. A fling, an adventure, an affair, what did he know?… He felt available, open to any propositions, even the most extravagant. He was trying to free himself from his wife’s clutches. They hadn’t slept together for several months. He felt as though he’d already left her spiritually, even though things were just as they’d always been. He rented a car, abandoned his idea of following Delacroix’s footsteps and headed toward his wife’s ancestral village. He’d kept his room at the hotel in Marrakech in case he changed his mind again. He still nursed both terrible and wonderful memories of that little village in the middle of nowhere.

He got lost several times before coming across the sign that read “Khamsa.” The village was called that because it had five trees, five mosques, and five thousand inhabitants.