The Happy Marriage

“Yes, you are, because we never finished the painting, so let’s try to complete it, and if we do, we’ll celebrate.”

The painter eventually finished that piece and the model became his mistress. Their affair lasted for a season. She didn’t talk much and didn’t ask him any questions. They quickly, and very naturally, established a ritual. She would come by once a week in the afternoon, kiss him, and undress. Sometimes he would be completely focused on his work, and so she would wait for him in bed, and if he took too long, she would say: “I’m going to start on my own.” He would join her as soon as he’d finished, and they would spend a very gratifying hour together that was unmarked by any sentimentality or conversation, just pleasure for pleasure’s sake. She would never wash at his place, she would simply hurriedly put her clothes on again, give him a little kiss behind his ear, and leave. He, on the other hand, would linger there, exhausted but satisfied. The sun would have already set. He then took a shower and went home. Nobody could have suspected anything. So long as he still made love to his wife, she didn’t have any doubts, or at least never showed it.

One day, the painter received a visitor: the man whom his model had introduced as her husband when they’d met at the market. A weary-looking man who’d aged before his time. He apologized for arriving unannounced, lowered his sad gaze to the floor, and said:

“She’s left us. I know she used to come see you, she told me all about your little naps. I was jealous, but I tried not to let it show. There were thirty years between us. That’s a lot. She left us for an Italian actress, an ugly woman, thin as a stick, completely charmless and humorless. Well, that’s what I came here to tell you, hoping I could share a little of my misery with you.”

The painter offered him a drink and told him he shouldn’t beat himself up about it.

“She’s a free spirit and only does what she feels like, let’s hope she’s happy with that woman!”

XXV. Casablanca, January 25, 2003

In marriage, where one is wise, two are happy.

— Paquita, Celia’s chambermaid

FRITZ LANG, Secret Beyond the Door

He’d always been afraid of what people referred to as “hell.” He’d heard others refer to their married life as hell, that divorce was a catastrophe, that falling out of love with someone was a violent act perpetrated on that person …

Over the course of a dinner, he’d learned by chance that one of his friends who lived in the south of France, and whom he rarely saw as he didn’t like leaving his farm — he was a musician — had gotten divorced. The painter called him to find out more about what had happened.

“Yes, I got divorced, I lost everything, I gave her everything, I’m completely penniless, but in return I’ve gained something priceless: my freedom. I’m broke, but I can breathe. Besides, I’ve asked some friends of mine to help me find a studio in Paris. I’ll make some money eventually. I’ve got a few concerts lined up for next year, but I lost my house, my boat, and my car. She even asked for something on top of alimony, which I didn’t know existed, I had to pay her a sum to compensate her for her loss of standing, for the damage done to her reputation after I left her. What about me? What about my standing?

“But it’s finally over, I see my kid every other weekend and I can start a new life. As for hell, I can talk to you about that for hours, it’s better to lose everything and to be able to leave that hell behind instead of clinging on and keeping fighting. I’ve been defeated. But nobody takes me seriously. I’ve been beaten up both physically and psychologically but I don’t even have the right to complain. There we have it, my friend, since you’re a painter, why don’t you paint a fresco that depicts battered men, that would be original! Well, come to think of it, I’ve never seen a film about battered men. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give people a window onto a reality that nobody talks about. What about you, how are things going with that beautiful rebel of yours?”

He told his friend he’d decided to leave his wife. They were going to get divorced too, but their lawyers hadn’t yet reached an agreement. As he told his friend his story, the painter was suddenly overcome with a panic attack and felt an intense tightness in the middle of his chest. After hanging up the phone, he swallowed a Valium, then called his lawyer. The latter reassured him and asked him to be patient. He said that the situation was under control.

Nevertheless, a few days later some bailiffs burst into his studio completely unannounced.