The moments when the painter was attacked by something but couldn’t fight back were the ones he feared the most. He tried to resist falling asleep as best as he could, doing everything he could to stay awake, but unfortunately his medications and his boredom would finally overwhelm him and he would fall asleep. Never one to give up, whenever this happened he would press the bell and call for coffee, “Yes, coffee! Even if the doctor forbade me to drink it, I want to be wide awake!”
The painter loved coffee, especially good Italian espresso. He always started his day with a ristretto and then followed it up with a lungo. He always felt better after that. At which point he could look behind him, where just a moment earlier he’d seen the dark tube and the trap that harassed him. He knew he was being stalked by the specter of depression, and that any moment now, the same thing that had happened to his friend Antonio Tabucchi could happen to him. He too could fall into a depression that could last three years. One day, Antonio had been reading his newspaper as usual just before getting up to go to work in the next room, but when he’d tried to get up, nothing had happened. His wife later found him in the same armchair she’d left him in that morning. But nothing obvious had happened to trigger that depression. He and his wife were happily married — they had stuck together and knew how to make common cause. The doctor had told the painter: “Depression is a real illness, it’s not a mere question of gloominess or melancholy or a passing cloud. It’s a serious condition and one must be cautious. Insomnia is a serious indicator.”
His recurring nightmares worried him to the point that he decided to redouble his efforts when it came to his physical therapy. He went out into the city every morning. The Twins took him to the seashore, where he walked while leaning on them and breathed in the salt air, insisting on doing all his exercises. At first he hadn’t wanted to show his face in public to avoid noticing people looking at him or even running into certain individuals who would take pity on him. One day, he bumped into Larbi, his frame-maker, a talented guy who’d been trained in Spain and whom he liked a great deal. He’d always liked speaking to him because this man, who was twenty years older than he was, had decided to keep working instead of slipping into lethargy like all his other colleagues. He had a keen intellect and loved to tell funny stories. The painter had asked him to come visit him in his studio so they could chat, just like in the old days.
The following day, Larbi came to see him and brought some kif and a couple of pipes. They smoked it and drank some tea. Larbi would hold the pipe for him and then help him to drink. Just two old friends who used to party together back in their foolhardy days. Larbi asked him if the “boss” was “still in business.” The painter nodded to say yes, while raising his eyes to the ceiling to indicate that all his women had distanced themselves from him.
“You need to do something about it. If the Boss stops working then he might never wake up!”
“I know.”
At that moment, Imane entered the room wearing a djellaba and a matching headscarf. It was the first time that the painter had seen her covering her head. She told him that she did it in order to avoid being harassed by men in the street. She then pulled her scarf and djellaba off, revealing tight jeans and a pretty blouse, loosened her long hair, and brought the oils she used to massage him. In awe of her beauty, Larbi excused himself and made to leave, reminding the painter on his way out that he needed to look after the “boss.”
“So, captain, must I call you ‘boss’ now?” Imane asked.
He smiled.
“Captain suits me just fine,” he said.
He remembered how his wife would go out in the evening when he used to suffer from his yearly bout of angina — despite having been vaccinated, he would spent two to three weeks floored by a flu that would eventually develop into angina — and how he would stupidly wait for her to come home. He’d get all worked up and be unable to fall asleep until she’d returned, or he would call her and only get her voicemail. He would look at his watch: 2:10 a.m., 3 a.m., 4:05 a.m., and then he would hear the gates of the villa open to let her car through. He would close his eyes, he didn’t want to talk to her or find out where she’d been. Besides, she would simply tell him: “I was with the girls, and we talked and talked and I didn’t notice how time flew by!” She would reek of alcohol. He hated that smell on her breath. He would curl up in bed and try to get some sleep, while she would doze off the moment she laid her head on the pillow. While that young woman was busy taking care of him, he would measure the differences between her and his wife. Needless to say, Imane was his employee and he paid her a salary, but there was something else to her, she exhibited a kindness and charm that had nothing to do with work.
He had feelings for her — but he kept them in check. He missed her whenever she wasn’t there. And whenever she came back, he suddenly sprang back to life. He didn’t want to label his feelings, but it was a discreet kind of joy.
Once, a magazine had asked him how he defined happiness. Without even thinking about it, he’d replied: “Lunching with friends under a tree on a summer day in Tuscany.” Despite a few betrayals, he loved friendship; he also loved Italy, and felt happy while sitting in the shade of a huge tree, as though it protected him or blessed him, recalling his parents, or his devotion to spirituality.
XX. Casablanca, November 2, 2002
Katarina thinks I’m a spineless lump of jelly.
— Peter, to his friends Johan and Marianne
It had been nearly three years since his stroke. Thanks to his doctors’ and Imane’s talents, the painter had recovered the use of his hand. He could now hold a brush and paint on small formats without his hand trembling. His leg still hurt him, but he could get around by himself in a wheelchair. He had recovered his power of speech, and he could talk fairly normally and sustain a conversation. An exhibition of his new works had been planned. His preparations for it were meticulous because it had assumed a special significance: it marked his triumph over his illness. In addition, his style had also gone through yet another transformation. His canvases had acquired a spareness and simplicity, exuding a feeling of profound serenity. The experts dedicated to his work had been quite struck by this new development.
His wife had grown closer to him. Although they hadn’t seen much of each other in two years, she’d started to visit him in his studio; at first she only did so from time to time, but then her visits had become more regular when they’d started being able to talk to one another again. She was the first person to congratulate and encourage him when he went back to work and put the finishing touches on his first new painting. She even organized a little party to mark the occasion. They were able to resume some semblance of married life in both the house and the studio. The painter would use his wheelchair to go see his wife after he’d finished working his studio in the afternoons. He took his meals with his wife and children and spent his evenings with them. Yet even though his body was recuperating, he quickly realized that his marriage would never heal. Soon enough, arguments began to creep back into their daily lives, to the point that he started to yearn for those months when he’d been paralyzed and confined to his bed and his wheelchair, but at least far removed from her.