The Happy Marriage

Some of his friends volunteered to talk to her, to try and bring her to her senses since she was being so unreasonable. They wanted to help them reach a solution that would be mutually beneficial, without any more damage being caused and without involving the kids. Poor friends! They spent hours talking to her, which was a complete waste of their time. She listened to them, smiled, thanked them for their friendship and their concern. But it was like she had a thingamajig, a blender situated between her ears that pulverized their words into nothingness. Sometimes she swore that she would call her lawyer and withdraw from the divorce proceedings, then she would return home and ask their children to act as witnesses: “Your father wants a divorce, he wants to leave us, he’s found a girl who’s got her clutches on him and who wants to steal our money. I will have to ask the girls to lend me some money.”

When one of the children told her that it was the driver who always went out to do the shopping and run errands, and that their father still gave him money for that, she dodged the question and said: “I know, but he doesn’t want to anymore … Regardless, I wonder what kind of woman could possibly want him, considering the state that he’s in. He’s just a wreck, a vegetable, he’s good for nothing, he can’t paint anymore and his agent told me that he’s very worried because the price of his paintings have dipped lately!”

She was ready to do anything so long as it accomplished her aims.

One morning, after a sleepless night, the painter finally managed to doze off and had an erotic dream, something that hadn’t happened to him in a long time. He found himself at a party, where he met a young, sexy woman, with laughter in her eyes, and a slender, well-proportioned body, who was married with two children. She had come to the party without her husband. She worked as an official at the Ministry of Sports, and was away from home for work. As he’d been about to leave the party, she’d caught up to him and said: “Are you driving home? No? In a taxi or on foot? I have a car, why don’t you let me give you a lift?” To thank her, he’d placed his fedora on her head. It suited her really well. “Keep it!” In the elevator, she unbuttoned her blouse and pounced on him. When they got to the ground floor, she dragged him to a dark corner and pulled her skirt down. She wasn’t wearing any panties. Their excitement had reached its zenith, and they made love right there on the spot, standing up, the fedora fell off her head and tumbled onto the floor, then a rat passed by below. On seeing the rat, the painter had screamed and woken up with a start. “Damned rat!” he’d exclaimed.

Who was that young woman, where had he seen her? Where do the faces we see in our dreams come from? She resembled a French actress whose name he’d forgotten. Perhaps he’d watched one of her films on television or somewhere else. The painter smiled, but it turned into a grimace when he saw the lawyer’s crumpled-up letter in regards to the uncontested divorce lying on the bedside table amidst a jumble of medicine bottles. Without wasting a moment, he called his lawyer to check in with him and ask him to speed up the proceedings.

When the painter was ready and had washed and dressed, he called the Twins so he could start his physical therapy session. It now consisted of a series of gymnastics exercises and little walks. His assistants took him to a gym and helped him with his exercises. As he wanted to chat a little, he asked one of them:

“Are you married?”

“I am, sir.”

“Are you happy?”

“Let’s say it’s fine.”

Then he turned to the other.

“What about you, are you married?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not?”

“Have you seen what Moroccan women are like these days? Freedom, equality, they’re the ones in charge now. I see how much my poor brothers suffer …”

“But a lot of Moroccan women aren’t liberated, besides, that’s a good thing, they work, they can contribute to the family budget …”

“One day, my mother got tired of my father never talking to her and so she asked him if they could have a conversation — she was bored. Without taking his eyes off the television, my father told her, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll talk to you.’ The next day, my mother was very happy and impatient to have that conversation with him. But my father remained silent. ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked him. After a long silence, my father told her: ‘This is what I’m thinking about: if I’d killed you eighteen years ago, I’d only have two years left of my jail sentence right now!’ ”

“But that’s horrible.”