The Happy Marriage

On the other hand, he had stared death right in the face. It had felt like being wrapped in a bluish-white vapor. He hadn’t been able to think, but saw a quick, chaotic montage of images flash past his eyes. He hadn’t been able to grip anything, his body had become a heavy object he was unable to command. His face wasn’t his anymore. It had been replaced by a bad sketch. He asked himself if that coarse substitute was going to stick around for a long time. Only his mind was still active. He’d heard words, or rather noises made inexplicable by the vapor around him, which was growing denser and denser, and had now become a bluish-black. He opened his eyes, saw only blips, and then shut them again. He must have thought that death would recede a little if only he could open his eyes, that it would pass him by and leave him a little more time, give him a respite. Oddly, he started thinking about his latest painting, and in the midst of that very real nightmare, had told himself: “I won’t be like Nicolas de Staël, I’m going to finish that painting, I’ll see it through to the end. I won’t throw myself out of the window and splatter into a thousand pieces on the pavement below!” See it through to the end of what? Of the madness that haunted him and that helped him to work.

But for the moment, his fate was in the doctors’ hands, and they were trying to revive him.

XIV. Casablanca, August 27, 2000

Don’t try to soften me with your troubles. Down here, everyone has to cope on their own. I don’t have any pity for the sufferings of the soul.

— Isak Borg’s reply to his daughter-in-law

INGMAR BERGMAN, Wild Strawberries

On that day, he received Imane in his studio. He still couldn’t paint, but he could look at the numerous paintings his illness had prevented him from finishing, which he’d had laid out on the floor. Some people had been ecstatic to see those so-called unfinished canvases, while others didn’t pay them any attention. The painter told himself: “If I ever decided to leave this world before my time is up, I’d make sure I left my studio in order and then I’d give my children very specific instructions, even if I wasn’t sure that they’d follow them, but you never know. Then I’d go to see a lawyer to ensure that my daughters received an equal share of their inheritance, just like the boys. I disagree with the kind of discrimination that women are subjected to, whereby they only receive half a share, while men are entitled to a full one. It makes me sad that theologians haven’t yet changed Sharia law, which might have made sense in the Prophet’s time, when women didn’t work, but which has now become outdated. There we have it, I would put all my affairs in order before I left!” The prospect delighted him, as though the idea of suicide was no longer strange to him. The very act of putting his estate in order and imagining people’s varying reactions amused him. He wanted to write, but his fingers found it difficult to grip a pen. He thought about recording his last testament in front of a video camera, the idea reminded him of a film starring Andy Garcia, who played an ex-gangster who retired in Denver and set up a company that recorded dying people’s messages for their loved ones. Some would talk about their lives, others would give advice or impart some simple truths. In particular, he remembered a very pretty girl who was courting Garcia. “Are you in love?” he’d asked her. The question had been surprising. It was a lesson in seduction that the painter had retained in his memory.