But no. Instead, she told him: “Finally someone opened my eyes. Lalla is the worthiest, noblest, and most honest woman in this city. She’s a talented artist. It’s thanks to her that I finally realized that I sacrificed my own life; from now on, I refuse to let anything upset me, I won’t put up with any more humiliations from your family, or the tricks your brother and his good wife are fond of pulling, or the schemes of your sisters, who only come to see us so they can wheedle money out of us. I’m a free woman, I can do what I want. I’m going to fulfill myself. I’m going to find a way to live that doesn’t involve being under the heel of a perverse, selfish monster, a coward, a husband who still acts like he’s a bachelor, a hypocrite who doesn’t realize he’s brought children into this world. Yes, thanks to Lalla, my eyes have been opened and I’m finally going to start living my own life, and as for you, you can go fuck yourself, you and your floozies who dance around you and your filthy money … I sent your sister packing the other day, telling her you were traveling in Asia. She believed me and went home. She was very disappointed. I told her that it wasn’t worth her while to travel all the way from Marrakech because you’ve gone bankrupt and we don’t have any money. I think she even started to cry!”
She’d made her case, and now it was up to him to draw his conclusions. Some of his friends volunteered to talk to the painter’s wife, especially since they knew of the witch’s reputation. But his wife had the ability to make people believe that she hadn’t only listened closely to them, but also agreed with them. So his friends had come away pleased with how their interventions had gone and had left feeling appeased. That’s because they didn’t know her well. His wife’s defense mechanism was simple and yet astonishingly effective. She always did as she pleased and was happily oblivious to what people thought of her.
One of the painter’s friends suggested that he try to seduce Lalla in order to drive a wedge between them. But the painter didn’t have the nerve to take part in such a farce. He wasn’t an actor. He left that kind of thing to his enemies and rivals.
Lalla’s relationship with the painter’s wife continued to be close, much to the despair of their children, who were beginning to realize how suspect that friendship really was. They’d complained to their father about it, who de-dramatized the whole affair so as not to worry them. One day, Lalla had had the audacity to meddle when they’d been planning their summer holidays with their mother. They had resented Lalla’s intrusion and had asked their mother to stop seeing her. But their mother was by then completely under the woman’s thrall, utterly bewitched, and had developed a debilitating dependence on her best friend.
Lalla had written some texts on “primal energy” and hadn’t been able to publish them. She’d had them bound and handed them out to people who deserved her trust. She said that her thoughts were so personal that she didn’t wish to share them with the wider public. She’d produced some rough drawings to accompany her texts, and the fruit of her efforts had been so ridiculous that it hadn’t been worth all the fuss she’d made over them. This was how her tiny sect of acolytes financed her lifestyle. And nobody thought there was anything wrong with that.
One day, the painter had had the opportunity to watch a film that told the story of a young beautiful teacher who had started to teach at a college. The teacher was married and had two children, one of whom had Down syndrome. The teacher eventually made the acquaintance of an older professor who taught at the college, a middle-aged woman who lived alone with her cat. They quickly forged a friendship and they gradually became inseparable. The older teacher became a mentor to the younger one and guided her steps not only professionally, but emotionally too. One evening, the younger teacher succumbed to the amorous advances of one of her pupils, a handsome teenager. The older teacher surprised them in the act and started to blackmail her mentee, who didn’t actually share the older teacher’s feelings for her. The older teacher believed that her mentee was under her thumb, but an incident involving her cat and the child with Down syndrome finally put an end to their ambiguous friendship. Feeling betrayed and abandoned, the older teacher started a rumor that the younger teacher was a pedophile and that she was having sex with one of her pupils. A scandal broke out and the young teacher was sent to prison, but this turn of events eventually freed her from that perverse woman’s clutches.
The painter couldn’t stop thinking about Lalla’s relationship with his wife. He purchased the DVD of the film and asked her to watch it. Which she did, but in the end she told him: “I don’t understand why you wanted me to watch that film!” She clearly hadn’t noticed how similar the two scenarios were, and didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned. The painter smiled and decided he would abandon all hopes of ever freeing her from that evil woman’s influence. Someone had told him: “You’ll see, she’ll get tired of it one day and leave her, you must be patient and give it a little time!”
Other problems came up and his wife’s relationship with that witch took a back seat to those. He’d understood that what mattered the most was that he save his own skin, and that he leave that relationship, where he no longer had a place or any standing.
XI. Casablanca, April 2000
Dreams, life it’s the same thing. Otherwise life isn’t worth living!
Imane wasn’t just a nurse, she was also a physiotherapist. She would massage his listless legs and arms, doing so both tenderly and energetically. The painter loved those moments and could assess the progress he was making, however tiny those improvements might have been. She was even a bit naughty, and would flirt with him using her eyes, smiles, and charm. He’d grown attached to her and had been very pleased to hear her tell him her story one day, just like she’d promised.
One morning, during the time Imane would come for her first visit of the day, the painter had seen a man and a woman wearing white coats come into the house. Their faces were lined, stern, and forbidding. The woman had told him: “I’m your new nurse, and my brother is your new physiotherapist. Your wife sent us!” He’d protested by banging his cane against the floor, but the words hadn’t managed to leave his mouth. It was the first time that his wife, with whom he hadn’t spoken since his accident, had intervened in his life without taking his condition into account. He’d sent them away, and had told the Twins to pay them and tell them to never come back. He’d also wanted them to call Imane and inform her of what had happened, but he’d been so shocked by his wife’s unexpected meddling that he hadn’t had the courage to do so, and was waiting for the storm caused by that unpleasant visit to subside.
Imane’s return, which he’d managed to bring about thanks to the loyal Twins, had both pleased and worried him. He wanted to celebrate it, there was a joy within him, which he could not show due to his deformed features. But his eyes betrayed him. Imane had told him how two days earlier she’d been visited by his wife, who’d spoken to her in a forceful and threatening manner. Imane hadn’t wanted to get into a fight with her patient’s wife and so had preferred to give him up. She’d even hoped to write him a letter expressing her sympathy and say how sorry she was. “From here on out,” he’d told her, “you’ll answer only to me! If my wife ever speaks to you, just tell her that I’m the one who hired you and I’m the one who decides.”