The Happy Marriage

Habiba had listened closely to her grandmother and had kept her lessons closely in mind. After a year of married life, however, Habiba started to get bored. She was no longer attracted to her obedient husband. Habiba only had to make a gesture and he would start to please her right away. She even started to throw up. She wasn’t pregnant, she was just fed up. A man who did whatever she wanted, was always at her mercy, and was only devoted to her was like a dish without any spices, completely devoid of surprises.

Habiba chose to act, and to make changes to the wonderful world of the women who’d eaten her husband. Her mother suggested throwing him up a little. She thought it was time for the next stage of the plan: to give him a little freedom, let him go somewhere on his own, perhaps go on some adventure, and to let him sleep with another woman to put the spark back into their relationship.

Habiba listened to her mother’s advice and spent the entire day throwing up. She felt lighter that evening. After a few days, her man was standing right in front of her, completely free, but she couldn’t bear to look at him. She wasn’t interested in him anymore. She felt better whenever he wasn’t around. She told him that he was free to leave and that she wouldn’t try to keep him anymore.

Habiba decided to gobble up another man. She set her heart on a man who had been married to one of her cousins, who was an invalid, thereby ensuring her new man would come out of a marriage that hadn’t worked. Before her death, Habiba’s cousin had told her: “I’m warning you, he’s tough. Brutal. Don’t try to swallow him on the first night, otherwise you’ll get indigestion. That’s how I got sick. Trust me, take care!”

But Habiba’s legendary beauty triumphed over that young man and overcame his resistance. She ate him up, turned him into her plaything, and did whatever she liked with him. Other women followed her example and that’s how the tribe of man-eaters was born. Ever since then, peace has prevailed in this country where the swallowed men no longer have a say.

After a moment’s silence, Imane burst out laughing, as did the captain.

“Did you really hear that story at the hammam?” he asked her, “I actually think you made it up yourself. You should write it down, work on it and turn it into a novel. I’m sure it would be very successful.”

Imane had wanted to be a writer ever since she’d been a little girl. She never dared to talk about her ambitions, but always told people her stories whenever she had a chance. When she couldn’t sleep at night, she would let her imagination run free. She would look out of her window at the sky, count the stars, give the clouds names and think up characters and plots featuring them.

On her way out, she leaned down toward him and said:

“You’re right, I didn’t hear that story at the hammam, but I didn’t make it up entirely. Isn’t that what artists, what writers do? See you tomorrow, captain.”