The Happy Marriage

He went to Madrid for a few days to buy the equipment that he needed, and took the opportunity to go see a few friends. He met up with Lola, a woman he’d been in love with before he’d gotten married. She’d changed, she’d gotten married too and had had a couple of children. He observed her, sometimes unwittingly, and had noticed how often our memories betray us. He’d remembered her as an incredibly sensual young woman with an amazing body and yet the woman he now had before his eyes was a mother who’d let herself go. It was a sad evening. He kissed her goodnight and accompanied her home. It was better never to revisit old memories. When he got back to Casablanca, his driver cum assistant — who handled all the administrative duties, ran all the errands, settled all the bills, and spared him having to cope with any practical problems, which in Morocco tended to be both numerous and absurd — hadn’t been there waiting for him. Which was strange. Tony — whose name was Tony, although it was in fact Abderrazak, but whose old Italian employer had nicknamed him Tony — had never missed a meeting, was never late, was always meticulous, punctual, and showed up early. The painter decided to call him: “I’m sorry, sir, but your wife took the car keys away from me and fired me. I wanted to call but I didn’t know what time your flight was landing!” The painter called his wife and she told him: “Good riddance! That parasite was stealing money from my children and was taking us for a ride. You’re so naïve, he fools you all the time and you swallow all his lies. Your Tony is gone! Let him steal somewhere else. You don’t really need him, he was just leeching off us, and now he can go back to work for his Italian pedophile … In any case, it’s kind of fishy that you’re so fond of him. Fine, I won’t say anything else, I fired him because I found out he was stealing — your Tony is a thief!”

While she was screaming those insanities, the painter had felt an irrepressible rage swelling inside him. He could no longer control himself and people kept starting at him while making their way to the check-in desks. He hurled the bag containing his laptop to the floor and started shouting, too. He walked in circles like a madman around the airport lobby and hung up on his wife while cursing and fulminating against her. He was a wreck, and his saliva had started to taste bitter and unusual. It was a sign that something bad was about to happen. He looked for a glass of water. While drinking it, he swallowed the wrong way and started coughing, went all red in the face, put the glass down and then placed his hand on his chest. Someone had picked up his bag and brought it to him. As he’d been about to thank this person, he began to feel a stabbing pain in his chest. He started feeling really bad and his legs began to tremble, so he sat down. He was shivering, broke out in a sweat, and experienced a headache that was stronger than usual. Some airport employees who knew him rushed to his aid and used the loudspeakers to ask if there were any doctors among the travelers. A Swedish man came over right away and said: “He must be taken to the hospital right now!” They kept him under observation for twenty-four hours and then a taxi took him home the next day.

It had only been a warning. The children were at school and his wife had gone out, or maybe she’d left altogether. The painter felt greatly relieved since what could they possibly say to one another after what had happened at the airport? Not saying anything would be a way of expressing consent. So it very much suited him that she wasn’t there. It would mean one less fight. She hadn’t even been worried when he hadn’t come home after their argument on the phone. She must have thought he would get on another flight or get himself a hotel room with one of his mistresses. Tony, on the other hand, had come to see him and begged him not to blame his wife, saying that he would continue to work for him anyway. It pained Tony to see his friend and employer in such a sorry state.

X. Casablanca, 1995

Cruelty between a man and a woman is essential.

— Matsuko, the killer’s wife

NAGISA OSHIMA, Violence at Noon