The Happy Marriage

The girl went back to her village a month later. The painter felt relieved. But two weeks later, another girl took her place. This new girl had just finished high school and had begun to study biology. He hadn’t been told about her arrival either. Any kind of discussion or protest had been useless. He only asked his wife a single question: “And what about the gardener, when is he coming?” She hadn’t answered him.

The village of Khamsa looked like a dry red spot from the mountain’s summit. There were no oases in its surroundings, nor any greenery or shrubbery of any kind. The painter had told himself that it was a cursed douar, nothing but rocks and thistles. Brek agreed. He talked a lot about the village where he’d been born: “God has forgotten us! We don’t have anything! Very little water, no electricity, no schools, no doctor, nothing, nothing grows here, but we have a lot of cats and dogs who are just as hungry as we are. They come here because we let them go wherever they like. So you see, brother, Clirmafirane is a lot better than this! Do you know why Madame Nicole never wrote to me or replied to any of my letters? And what about your cousin, do you think she’ll keep her word?”

When the painter thought he’d taken enough photos and produced enough sketches, he and Brek had returned to the village, where a sumptuous dinner awaited them. The tajine with mutton and olives had been very greasy. He hadn’t been able to eat, and had instead eaten some couscous that was just as greasy as the tajine. He’d been ashamed to be unable to enjoy the dishes that the women had spent the whole day preparing. Fortunately, the other guests had gobbled everything up. He’d slept in the room reserved for prayers. Stomachache and heartburn had prevented him from getting a wink of sleep. He’d left the house early the next morning and discovered a light that was incredibly soft and subtle. He took a few photos in order to remember it. On his return to Paris he’d immediately started to work on paintings about everything that he’d seen and which had affected him during that trip.

His wife had stormed into his studio and recognized her village. The two canvases were still unfinished. She’d looked at them and on her way out she’d said:

“The money you make from those paintings will go to Khamsa. You don’t have the right to exploit those poor people. They don’t even know that you’re profiting from their misery. You’re just like your photographer friend who shoots workers in the mines and then exhibits them so he can make a pile of cash. This kind of thing should be forbidden.”

Even though he didn’t know whether she’d heard him, he’d said:

“They’re not for sale.”

IX. Casablanca, 1995

Some people say that you can tell what the souls of the dead have transformed into by looking at how the color of their hair has changed.

— LUIS BUÑUEL, The River and Death

One day, by which time they were living in their beautiful new house in Casablanca, his wife had come up to him and told him in a laconic tone: “I know you’re cheating on me, and I even know with who!”

The time of suspicions had begun. She would never stop. She would spy on him and never trust anything he said, and was skeptical of every woman in his entourage. Her jealousy knew no bounds. While he’d been preparing to leave for Berlin to appear on a panel about art and literature with Anselm Kiefer, his wife had told him that the trip had been canceled.

“How is that possible?” he’d asked. “Who did that?”

“Why, I did, who else? A girl called to ask what time your flight was going to land in Berlin, it was a North African girl, someone called Asma … I could tell from her voice that she was a little slut, and so I told her my husband wasn’t interested in that so-called symposium and that he was going to stay here with his wife, then I hung up on her.”

That episode had made the painter furious. He tried to remedy the situation, but it was too late — his wife had ripped up the invitation and he didn’t have the organizer’s name. He was very embarrassed by it all, and he discovered how dangerous his wife could be for him. He tried to call one of his friends in Berlin but nobody had answered. It was the day before the conference. He found it impossible to cool down. He slept in the living room that night and decided he would go see his sick mother.