The Happy Marriage

There was Caroline, the woman with perfect legs whom he’d met while she was in the midst of battling breast cancer. An exceptionally intelligent, tender, and sensual being. He’d been happy to see her, to clasp her in his arms, to confide in her. Their friendship had led to a cautious love. She’d found it difficult to be naked in front of him, having recently undergone a mastectomy. Making love to someone who was disabled was difficult. How could she tell him, or warn him? She’d blushed and then she’d told him: “They removed that unlucky breast but I’m waiting for my reconstruction surgery before the summer arrives so I can go to the beach with my children!” She’d asked him to close his eyes while she’d undressed and to switch off the light. Her chest had been wrapped in bandages. He’d touched her softly and delicately. He’d licked the tears from her cheeks and pressed her against him without hurting her. They’d taken a little time to get used to things and humor had been the best medicine. They’d laughed and swapped jokes, talked about how she’d get a new breast and would be able to show it off at a nice beach. That missing breast had haunted him for a long time. He would think about her and grow angry over how such a kindhearted, beautiful soul had been struck by such an injustice.

She never managed to make it to the beach. That woman really suffered a great deal. She’d had a lot of courage and hope. In lieu of seeing one another, they’d exchanged letters. Her last had read:

I’m writing to you from a waiting room, which is terrible, just like hospital waiting rooms usually are. I’m wearing pajamas and I’ve got a scarf around my head, which is completely bald. I feel ugly, abandoned by life, but I’ve got faith. The doctor’s a friend of mine. He’s an older gentleman who continues to practice despite the stupidity of French laws. He helps me to remain optimistic and he knows just how to talk to me and the right things to say. Here I am, I think about you, but then I’m here, watching gaunt elderly people whom death has shunted into a corner, I think of you and beg you to keep fighting so that nobody can compromise your integrity as an artist and as a man; nobody has the right to trample on you, or to steal what’s most precious to you, your work, your art, your gift. I say this to you because I know how often selfish people have taken advantage of your sensitivity. Be strong, be well, and continue to amaze us, giving us the best that you have to offer.

I’m here, I’m waiting and I know that I want to live, I want to scream so that God — if indeed He does exist — can hear me and give me a little more time, so I can love again, have sex, eat a plate of lentils, drink some fine wine, and smoke a cigar with you. I long for that time, and I’ll find it wherever it’s hiding, I won’t let anyone take it away from me.