The Happy Marriage

She dreamed of long summer days spent under a tree surrounded by her imaginary friends while eating raisins and exotic fruits from distant countries.

She dreamed of being able to dream all the time.

But she would have to work harder for that to happen.

She interrupted her story because she’d noticed that the painter’s facial features had almost regained their normal composure. He listened to her and drank her words. He told her to carry on by moving his eyes. She helped him swallow some sips of tea, wiped his lips, and then resumed her seat to continue her story.

Once upon a time there lived an angry man. This man had a kind, good-hearted nature that shameful people took advantage of.

He interrupted her by banging his hand against his chair. He formed the words he wanted to tell her in his mind: “I want to hear your story, not mine!” Imane was taken aback, and promised him she would tell him that story the next time she saw him.

But the next time she’d visited him, Imane had been in a hurry. Her grandmother had fallen and shattered her femoral neck. The painter had thought about his father, who’d passed away ten days after falling from his chair. This had happened in September. The painter had been working on a tribute for Giacometti when the phone had rung. One of his friends, a doctor, had told him: “At that age, it’s a matter of days …” The painter had experienced an immense grief. That sudden death had sparked an intense anger that he’d suppressed despite shedding a great deal of tears. His wife’s behavior had been impeccable. Although the painter’s family had always underestimated her, he was stunned by how conscientiously she’d taken to her duties during the mourning period. Nobody had been able to crack any jokes or make innuendos about her lowly background anymore. He’d been happy that she’d managed to pull through such an ordeal so well.

Imane had barely had the time to give him his injections and a few massages, as well as to tell him that her real dream was for him to recover soon so that he could paint her portrait: “I’ll tell you a lot of things when I’ll pose for that portrait. You’ll be surprised!” He’d agreed by nodding his head.

After Imane had left, the Twins had come to look for him so they could groom him. He’d muttered the word “hammam” and they’d looked at one another surprised, asking themselves if it would be an appropriate thing to do given his condition. One of them called the doctor, who told him it would be best to avoid the hottest rooms and the kind of forceful massages that were typical to popular hammams. The Twins hired out a room that was moderately warm and took the painter there in his wheelchair. He had been happy to reconnect with one of his childhood memories.

The Twins were efficient and highly capable. The painter was at his ease, and ready to be rid of a lot of dead skin. A man had come and he’d scrubbed the artist as though he were a root vegetable pulled out of the ground. Another came to give him a gentler massage. He felt good, especially after he got to his living room so he could rest. He dozed off and managed to sleep a little. He decided not to take any sleeping pills that evening. He was pretty relaxed and was able to sleep without a chemical boost. That night, everyone got mixed up in his dreams: his wife, Imane, his doctor, Ava, the professor of applied mathematics, the director of his gallery, and many others still who paraded before him for the entirety of the night. In the morning he’d woken up scared, thinking his dream had been premonitory, presaging all the farewell visits people made to those about to die.

Like all men who loved women, the painter thought about the succession of women who had loved him and whom he’d loved in his turn. He even imagined how he would one day assemble them under the roof of his house in order to tell them how much pleasure and happiness they’d brought into his life. He would thank them and kiss them for one last time. Then he suddenly asked himself: “Would my wife be there? Does she belong with those who gave me pleasure and happiness?” He didn’t want to be unfair. Pleasure? Yes, she’d certainly done that. He greatly enjoyed making love to her, although they never spoke about it. That would never do. He was surprised that she’d never said anything about their sex life, except for a single occasion when she’d told him in anger: “You don’t satisfy me either sexually or financially! You’re impotent!”