The Happy Marriage

When he resumed work on his painting, he felt readier for a fight than ever before, especially since he’d found a title for his canvas. It had come to him out of the blue, just like that. It pleased him. Each wrinkle on the tablecloth represented one of the conflicts he’d suffered through. Each shadow stood for a moment of sadness or melancholy. Everything on the canvas represented something whose meaning was only known to him.

As usual, he took a little nap in the afternoon. He loved to doze off after reading a book or a magazine. All of a sudden, he could clearly hear the sound of someone whispering in his ear: “You’ve screwed up your marriage, at least make sure you get your divorce right.” He woke up with a start and looked around, but there was nobody there. He called for his assistants. His left leg was hurting. He asked the Twins to lift him up and carry him to the chair situated in front of the large easel so that he could finish his painting.

When he finished painting that tablecloth late the following afternoon, he called Imane over so she could give him her opinion. Her eyes beamed so intensely the moment she’d looked at the canvas that he knew right away that he’d completed a masterpiece. He remembered that he owed his lawyer an answer. He called him around seven o’clock in the evening.

“Go ahead, I’m going to take your advice. Regardless of what happens I’ll always be considered the guilty one and there’s no way I’ll be able to save face anyway.”

After calling his lawyer, and once Imane had gone home, he suddenly felt the urge to write his wife a letter, a letter that he would never send her. He didn’t know how he should start it. Should he begin with “Dear,” just use her first name, or instead start with a simple hello? In the end he just cut to the chase.

I want you to know how sorry I am for everything that’s happened with us. I want to apologize for leaving you and to tell you that it’s neither your fault nor mine. We forced the hand of fate. We forced each other’s hand and thus it was always fated to be. I believed in love, in fact I believed in it so much that I thought it could solve impossible problems. But for a long time now I’ve lacked courage and determination and now here we are, breaking up right in front of our stunned children’s eyes. I would have truly liked for us to reach an agreement without causing all this damage, without airing our dirty laundry in public or throwing lawyers into the mix.

I hope we’ll at least be able to have a cordial relationship and act civilized toward one another since we’ll certainly see each other again because of the children, and you know that they are all that matters to me, as is the case with you. Be reasonable, I beg you, and be at peace with the fact that we don’t love each other anymore. Love isn’t a decision or something that can be forced. It comes to us and then just as easily goes away again. There’s nothing we can do about that …

XXVIII. Casablanca, February 18, 2003

— I want you to make love to me. Please? For old times’ sake.

— The best thing would be to pack my things and leave.

— INGMAR BERGMAN, Scenes from a Marriage

The painter woke up early that morning. Imane usually arrived around eight o’clock, but she was running late that day. He tried not to be impatient and convinced himself that she must have gotten held up somewhere. When she finally arrived two hours later, he immediately noticed that she’d been crying. She quickly set to her work, in silence. After a moment, he tenderly asked her if she wanted to confide in him.

“We’re friends, we can talk to one another and share our burdens. What’s wrong, Imane?”