The Happy Marriage

I picked up all the proof that I’d found and went to see a lawyer to ask him if this was enough to ask for a divorce. I also called my mother, who suggested I travel to the south of Morocco to consult one of our ancestors who was endowed with extraordinary powers: “He’ll know how to punish Foulane, loyalty matters before everything else in our family!” I told everybody. I had to avenge the insult and the shame. He had to pay. One of my brothers offered to slash all his paintings; another offered to send a couple of tough guys to teach him a lesson. I told them not to. If anyone was going to do anything it was going to be me, and only me.

After he’d returned from his trip, Foulane pretended to be tired, using the usual excuse that he had a migraine. I asked him where he’d been and he told me: “You know exactly where I’ve been, in Frankfurt, so I could talk to my gallerist about the coming exhibition. It was a difficult trip, the people were nice but I didn’t like the city, so I tried to get everything done quickly so I could back home. So, what’s for dinner tonight?”

Without hesitating I replied: “English condoms in rotten white sauce to be followed by angel hairs cooked in sweat and a few drops of Chanel No. 5.”

He wasn’t amused. He remained frozen in his chair. He picked a magazine up from the floor and began flipping through it. At which point I threw a large glass of water at his head, although I would have preferred vinegar, but that’s what I had in my hand at the time. I hated him for not reacting to it. He just stood up, coolly wiped his face, and left the house. He came back five minutes later and just as coolly packed some changes of clothes, stuffed them in his suitcase, which he still hadn’t unpacked, and left again. Later I called him at his studio and hurled a bunch of insults at him. I was in tears and threatened to sue him. In fact, I said whatever went through my head at the time. I was hurt, really hurt. Betrayal is a terrible thing, an unbearable humiliation. Just unacceptable. The children heard me shouting and crying. They slipped into my bed and slept beside me, murmuring: “We love you, mummy.”

He spent the next three months living in his studio, or rather his brothel, to be more exact. During that time he received a letter from my lawyer, which was intended to scare him. Something else that he was careful to avoid mentioning in his manuscript. Then one day I cracked, went to his studio, and slipped inside his bed, because I was still in love with him, that’s right, I admit it. I remember it all very well, he was watching television, and he didn’t push me away, we made love without exchanging a word, and the next day he was mine again, he came home and our lives went back to the way they were. A grave error. My mother disapproved of my decision. She had to go seek out our illustrious ancestor in the southern reaches of Morocco to stop him in his tracks. If you’re going to get back together with your husband, he might as well be in good shape, she told me.

I thought Foulane had understood, that he’d realized he would have to start behaving properly from then on. But he very quickly reverted to his old bachelor habits, without caring about how that might make me feel. He traveled, went out in the evenings for dinner—“work dinners”—only returning late at night and smelling of another woman’s perfume. I kept my mouth shut and swallowed the bitter pill of humiliation. I would look at my children and weep in silence. When he slept with another woman, he would rush into the bathroom on his return and take a shower. Although he usually only showered in the morning just like everyone else. Whenever I tried to get close to him, he wouldn’t even get hard. He’d used up all his energies on someone else. His balls were all floppy and his pecker was in a pitiful state. He was depleted, completely depleted. It was intolerable! I put up with it for years. I was incapable of doing anything else. My morals, ethics, and upbringing forbade me from cheating on him. In our culture, a woman who cheats on her husband no longer has any rights, everyone thinks badly of her, even if she was victimized by a lying, violent husband. Everyone in our village knew the story of Fatima, the only women in our village who ever dared to have a lover. She was banished and spent a few years begging on the streets of Marrakech, until one day she threw herself under the wheels of a bus not far from Jamaa el Fna. Poor Fatima! May God rest her soul and forgive her!