The Happy Marriage

On his return to Paris, the painter had locked himself away in his studio and spent weeks working in a feverish state of excitement. Ava had come to visit him, look at him, admire him, kiss him, and bring him fruit and wine. They hid away, living in fear of being discovered and their love being shattered. She had wanted a child but he had put off that notion without directly telling her no. She was thirty years old and wanted to become a mother with or without him. This fueled their first dispute. She realized that he was incapable of leaving his wife, that he was afraid of her carrying out the reprisals she’d threatened, and that he wanted to try to reconcile the opposing forces in his life. Ava was more self-assured and braver. That applied to his wife too. He wanted to keep the two women in his life at arm’s length from one another. It was his most detestable character trait: the desire to please everyone, to be friends with everyone, avoid all conflicts, be a mediator, and he always struggled to avoid making choices, so that he’d never have to cut anyone off. Apparently, he preferred to endure a faint but lasting ache over an intense pang of pain, even though the latter would be short-lived. He hated fighting. He’d never understood the concept of power or those who fought to the death trying to attain it. It just didn’t interest him. He’d never left a woman, it was always women who got angry with him and left him. He always tried to remain friends with them, and unfortunately for him he usually succeeded. He would be happy to see them again and occasionally resumed his former relationship with them. He was pleased with the ambiguity of these situations and how flexible they were, even though deep down he knew he couldn’t keep that artificial and unhealthy balancing act going forever.

The painter had kept Ava’s love letters locked in a safe to which he alone possessed the combination. He would occasionally pull them out and read them, just like a teenager. He told himself that they gave him the strength he needed to paint.

The road of regrets is strewn with promises and reflections. A love lost in the embrace of the night, a love drenched by rains concealed within the clouds, a love that becomes a most exalted pain, a faint star that digs its grave besides those of lovers who were ruined by the long wait.

I went to the Centre Pompidou this morning and spent a long time looking at the only painting of yours exhibited among other contemporary artists. I was very proud. It was the painting you were finishing around the time we first met. I remember how you told me: “It’s a strange piece, a harbinger of happiness to come, even though the colors aren’t happy!” This painting exudes a kind of energy that borders on dread. Do you remember how you told me that you thought dread exercised a tremendous hold on your body and mind? I quoted Kongoli to you by way of reply: “She was just like me, incapable of committing suicide, and so she tasted death throughout her life.”

This may seem strange to you, but that sentence truly summed me up before I met you. Today I’m going to go out and enjoy my life, you are a part of my life and my life is a part of love. Love and its flowers: desire, laughter, sweetness, abandon, the act of sharing; there are also thoughts, the gold button/buttercup.

You’re my love, my everything, my joy.

He’d kept everything, including the last letter she’d sent him after they had broken up.