XVI. Casablanca, September 12, 2000
You’re a selfish old man. You’re utterly ruthless and never listen to anyone but yourself. But you hide it all behind your old-world manners and charm. Beneath your benevolent exterior, you’re as hard as nails.
— the daughter-in-law to her father-in-law
Sometimes he would remember seemingly insignificant episodes from his childhood right in the middle of the day. They would dance before his eyes, like puppets at a funfair. It surprised him each time it happened. That was how he’d been able to once again see the wooden bucket his father used to take to the hammam with him. It was an old bucket, nothing special about it, it used to be brown before it had blackened with age. Before leaving for the hammam, his father would fill it with a bar of soap, a towel, and a pumice stone to scrape away dead skin. Why had that bucket appeared in his mind half a century later? On another day, he’d suddenly seen the old straw mat that his parents used to perform their daily prayers on just as clearly as he’d seen the bucket. There was nothing unique about the mat either. Still, there it was, right next to the bucket. A beggar woman whom he’d once given a piece of bread, and received a cube of sugar in exchange, also appeared before him in the same manner, complete with her wrinkly face, her toothless smile, and that star-shaped cube of sugar that she’d held in the palm of her hand.
A few days after that, he’d seen the legless cripple who used to sing out of tune in front of his school, then that sick dog who used to limp around the old alleyways of Fez that the children used to chase and throw stones at. That poor animal used to find it very difficult to walk around. The painter asked himself: “Why am I suddenly thinking about this dog?”
He could have asked himself the same question about those knickers that he’d torn at the knee after he’d fallen off a swing. That memory dated from when he’d been six years old and had gone on a swing for the first time. His older brother had given him a push and the ropes had snapped while he’d been in mid-flight, at which point he’d found himself on the ground with his face all bloodied up. Strangely enough, the torn trousers had left a deeper impression than his bruised face.
Then an old cardboard suitcase, which his father had used to store old issues of Life magazine from the days of the war, appeared before him without any warning. As a child, he’d often pulled out an issue and thumbed through it. Why could he still recall that young American soldier’s face as he cried in front of his dead friend’s body? His name was Solomon. It was a bizarre picture: Solomon on his knees, with his hands covering a face drenched in tears. What had become of that young man? He pictured him on his return home, a car salesman married to a redhead.
On another occasion, he was haunted by a moth-eaten scarf. Red, worn so thin it had become useless, just like those burned-out lightbulbs his father used to store in a drawer, hoping that they would somehow fix themselves. He also saw a paper bag filled with nails of all sizes that was kept in a corner of the kitchen, and the dirty tie that his Arabic teacher used to wear, which was covered in grease stains. And his primary school teacher, a newlywed girl who used to spread her legs a little whenever she sat down on her chair, who also came to pay him a visit. He’d also inexplicably recalled the license plate number of his uncle’s Chevrolet: 236MA2. His uncle had been the only person in the family to have a car at the time.
One day, he remembered the first time he’d ever ejaculated, which had happened while he’d been playing with his cousin. Like a pleasant electrical shock had just jolted his penis. He’d gotten up and covered the stain on his trousers with his hand. He’d been ashamed, especially since his cousin, who must have been a year older than him, had invited him into her parents’ bedroom while they’d been away on holiday. That powerful strange smell that had wafted up from his groin and the burning desire he’d felt on seeing his cousin waiting for him on the bed came rushing back to him, as intact as the day they had happened. He could see her again all too clearly, surrendering her rosy buttocks to him and saying, “Do it! Put your thingy in my bottom!”
The painter told himself that this barrage of memories had in all likelihood been caused by the paralysis that had affected his arms and legs. One day, the telephone had rung loudly when he’d been right in the middle of one of those visions. One of his assistants who’d been nearby had handed him the phone. It was his agent calling to see how he was doing. He must have been worried about losing his commissions! But the painter reassured him: he was getting better. He had to be patient, very patient.
XVII. Casablanca, October 5, 2000
Lower-class people are simply less sensitive. They look at a wounded bull and their faces are completely emotionless!
— a middle-class lady to her friends before the play
That barrage of insignificant memories was followed by long reveries and terrifying nightmares. The doctor had warned him that this would happen, but the painter hadn’t expected such frenetic cerebral activity. The first dream had allowed him to see his wife back when he’d still been in love with her, as though she’d been standing right in front of him. He’d been very attentive toward her and she’d been gentle and considerate. She never annoyed him or disagreed with him, to the point that he’d feared she lacked self-confidence or was too submissive. He’d thanked the heavens each day that such a woman unlike any other he’d known before had fallen into his lap. After having been a bachelor for a long time, and never sticking with the women he used to meet, he’d been very moved by that young woman’s eyes. She’d made him want to become serious. Toying with her youth and innocence had been out of the question. They were almost fifteen years apart in age, but he hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Then the dream had taken him through the first two years of marriage, which had been happy. No fights, no arguments, and not a single cloud in the sky. They’d traveled, had fun, laughed, and made plans for the future. It had been marvelous. Too good to last. She’d been irresistible to him with her long brown hair and her impressive height.
But he also experienced some horrifying nightmares. In particular one in which a short, squat man had snared him in a trap and extorted a large sum of money from him, as well as a few paintings. He’d introduced himself as an art dealer, but had actually turned out to be a failed painter who’d reinvented himself as a businessman or rather a swindler who worked in cahoots with a brother of his who was a gigolo in the villas of the Côte d’Azur. Before his stroke, the painter had managed to forget him and contemptuously consign the memory of him to the trashcan of oblivion. He’d preferred to ignore what had happened instead of spending years stuck in the corridors of the law courts, especially since the only proof he had was a handful of phony receipts with made-up addresses, signed with a stolen signature stamp. But now that little man had come back again to mock him, just as he’d become physically infirm. The painter watched him as he walked around his canvases with a torch that had been soaked in alcohol and was ready to be ignited. The painter had shut his eyes, but the devil himself had appeared and burst out in hysterical laughter. The painter began to think of the ways in which he wanted to butcher him. He pictured him being crushed in a cement mixer and his bowels being spit out onto the mud, choking in the face of death after long agonizing hours.