The Happy Marriage

For a while, the painter had suspected that his wife’s relationship with Lalla could be a cover for a lesbian affair. He knew, of course, that his wife hated homosexuality, and that she couldn’t stand women who got too close to her in order to seduce her. However, she was so enthralled by Lalla that he couldn’t help but wonder. She would sometimes spend the whole day with her. She must have had some feelings for her because she swore only by her and repeated what she’d said word for word, reeling off her speeches forcefully and determinedly, emphasizing each sentence as though she were holding forth in court. The painter had tried to reason with his wife, tried to show her that Lalla was a bored, overexcited woman who needed to surround herself with an entourage to make herself feel alive, but it had all been in vain. His wife defended Lalla and wouldn’t tolerate the slightest criticism. It was normal for a husband to be jealous of a woman who took up all of his wife’s time, sometimes even twelve hours a day. He’d believed she would be receptive to this line of argument since she could interpret it as proof of his love. Perhaps she wouldn’t break off her ties to Lalla, but it would at least induce her to have a greater awareness of that manipulator’s emotional and mental state.

But no. Instead, she told him: “Finally someone opened my eyes. Lalla is the worthiest, noblest, and most honest woman in this city. She’s a talented artist. It’s thanks to her that I finally realized that I sacrificed my own life; from now on, I refuse to let anything upset me, I won’t put up with any more humiliations from your family, or the tricks your brother and his good wife are fond of pulling, or the schemes of your sisters, who only come to see us so they can wheedle money out of us. I’m a free woman, I can do what I want. I’m going to fulfill myself. I’m going to find a way to live that doesn’t involve being under the heel of a perverse, selfish monster, a coward, a husband who still acts like he’s a bachelor, a hypocrite who doesn’t realize he’s brought children into this world. Yes, thanks to Lalla, my eyes have been opened and I’m finally going to start living my own life, and as for you, you can go fuck yourself, you and your floozies who dance around you and your filthy money … I sent your sister packing the other day, telling her you were traveling in Asia. She believed me and went home. She was very disappointed. I told her that it wasn’t worth her while to travel all the way from Marrakech because you’ve gone bankrupt and we don’t have any money. I think she even started to cry!”

She’d made her case, and now it was up to him to draw his conclusions. Some of his friends volunteered to talk to the painter’s wife, especially since they knew of the witch’s reputation. But his wife had the ability to make people believe that she hadn’t only listened closely to them, but also agreed with them. So his friends had come away pleased with how their interventions had gone and had left feeling appeased. That’s because they didn’t know her well. His wife’s defense mechanism was simple and yet astonishingly effective. She always did as she pleased and was happily oblivious to what people thought of her.

One of the painter’s friends suggested that he try to seduce Lalla in order to drive a wedge between them. But the painter didn’t have the nerve to take part in such a farce. He wasn’t an actor. He left that kind of thing to his enemies and rivals.

Lalla’s relationship with the painter’s wife continued to be close, much to the despair of their children, who were beginning to realize how suspect that friendship really was. They’d complained to their father about it, who de-dramatized the whole affair so as not to worry them. One day, Lalla had had the audacity to meddle when they’d been planning their summer holidays with their mother. They had resented Lalla’s intrusion and had asked their mother to stop seeing her. But their mother was by then completely under the woman’s thrall, utterly bewitched, and had developed a debilitating dependence on her best friend.

Lalla had written some texts on “primal energy” and hadn’t been able to publish them. She’d had them bound and handed them out to people who deserved her trust. She said that her thoughts were so personal that she didn’t wish to share them with the wider public. She’d produced some rough drawings to accompany her texts, and the fruit of her efforts had been so ridiculous that it hadn’t been worth all the fuss she’d made over them. This was how her tiny sect of acolytes financed her lifestyle. And nobody thought there was anything wrong with that.