The Happy Marriage

The painter had smiled, and he’d told the psychiatrist that his wife’s cultural background didn’t predispose her to take such a step. At best, she would seek out charlatans who would recommend some cockamamie ritual, like burning incense during a full moon, or some herbs to put in a corner of their bedroom, or magical formulas written on a piece of paper that she could dilute in water drawn from the wells of Mecca, or talismans to hang off one of the branches of a hundred-year-old tree, or bury next to its roots, or another talisman to throw into the sea on a day when the waves were rough …

This kind of magic was common among illiterate people deeply attached to their ancestral traditions in the mountainous regions of Southern Morocco, and it bolstered their irrationality. It was one of the reasons why his wife had become a member of the sect that followed her infamous friend Lalla, who’d continued her efforts to poison his wife’s relationship with her husband, but especially his family, and who encouraged her to go see those very charlatans, whether they were near or far.

One day, his wife had drunk an herbal infusion that Lalla had given her. The effect had been immediate. They’d been eating lunch with the children when she’d suddenly gone blank, as though she were on the verge of passing out. She’d gotten up, stumbled, and collapsed onto the bed, where she’d fallen into a deep sleep. With his children thrown into distress, the painter had called for a doctor, who’d run over and examined her, coming to the conclusion that her reaction indicated that she’d taken a strong dose of soporifics. The painter had confiscated the herbs in question and had grown angry.

“We don’t know anything about these herbs. Who can say they’re not poisoned? I’m going to wake her up and give her an enema.”

He’d shaken her, and though she could barely open her eyes, she got up and said it was nothing. Then she’d had the good sense to vomit; it made her feel better, but she refused to admit she’d done anything wrong.

Later, when he’d been discussing the incident with a friend, the painter had told him about his grave concerns:

“How can I leave my children with someone who is so irrational and irresponsible?”

This question had a double meaning. On the one hand, he was right to worry, but on the other, it was simply an excuse not to bring this ordeal of a marriage to an end.

When the painter saw his wife in social settings — being friendly, looking beautiful, loved by all, praised by other men for her charm and beauty — and when he heard her speak in a suave voice, when he looked at her without her knowing it, the painter felt torn between admiration and anger. He admired her for being so sweet to others, and yet resented her for being so bitter when it came to their relationship. He’d once believed that she had a split personality disorder, but he’d realized he’d just been deceiving himself. His wife didn’t have two personalities; she merely reserved the best of herself for others, while keeping the worst in store for her husband. She was making him pay for all those years when she’d suffered under his family’s contemptuous gaze, something she’d also experienced with some of his friends. One day, he’d overheard a friend’s wife tell her husband:

“She’s pretty and young, but our friend deserves far better: a real, beautiful woman befitting his stature and status.”

Needless to say, this was hard to hear; the friend and his wife were no longer welcome at their home.

One day, when he’d seen her looking very concerned about the well-being of her little brother, who’d been visiting them at the time, he’d noticed how attentive she’d been with him, giving him a glass of water with some vitamin C because he’d coughed the night before, then ironing his shirt, which she’d washed the day before, asking about his work, slipping some money into his pocket. After her brother had left, the painter had said to her: