When the painter was ready and had washed and dressed, he called the Twins so he could start his physical therapy session. It now consisted of a series of gymnastics exercises and little walks. His assistants took him to a gym and helped him with his exercises. As he wanted to chat a little, he asked one of them:
“Are you married?”
“I am, sir.”
“Are you happy?”
“Let’s say it’s fine.”
Then he turned to the other.
“What about you, are you married?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Have you seen what Moroccan women are like these days? Freedom, equality, they’re the ones in charge now. I see how much my poor brothers suffer …”
“But a lot of Moroccan women aren’t liberated, besides, that’s a good thing, they work, they can contribute to the family budget …”
“One day, my mother got tired of my father never talking to her and so she asked him if they could have a conversation — she was bored. Without taking his eyes off the television, my father told her, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll talk to you.’ The next day, my mother was very happy and impatient to have that conversation with him. But my father remained silent. ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked him. After a long silence, my father told her: ‘This is what I’m thinking about: if I’d killed you eighteen years ago, I’d only have two years left of my jail sentence right now!’ ”
“But that’s horrible.”
The painter had always been horrified by crimes of passion. He simply couldn’t understand why killing one’s partner could ever be seen as a solution. He’d never entertained such notions. He worried every time his wife was late in coming home, or when she was out driving. He couldn’t bear to see her ill and would look after her and counsel her. Truth be told, even though he didn’t love her anymore, he still felt somewhat devoted to her, a kind of affection he couldn’t explain. One day, she’d broken her arm when she’d slipped on some snow. They’d been in Switzerland at the time. He’d run around like a madman to look for help, and needless to say he’d taken her to the hospital and had slept on a cot in the same room as her. However, the next morning they’d had another argument and she’d nearly thrown a cup of steaming coffee in his face. No, he’d never wanted to harm her, or prevent her from fulfilling herself and accomplishing whatever she wanted. He’d helped her put on a showcase of musicians from her village, even though he hated that kind of music. He’d also found her a producer and a venue. His wife had then spent a year promoting a troupe of Berber musicians in France, Belgium, and Switzerland. He’d made all his contacts available to her and had called on his friends to help and ensure that her project was a success. When she’d been busy working, she’d left him alone. So he’d told himself: “She must always have something to keep her busy!” After her musical project had come to an end, he’d suggested she put on an exhibition of handicrafts from her region. This new project hadn’t gone as well as her previous effort. Once again, she’d heaped endless reproaches on him. So he redoubled his efforts and put together a charity auction, asking his friends to donate paintings. It took some effort because he would have had to set up a foundation, but someone else hosted the event under the aegis of their foundation instead. Thanks to that auction, his wife raised enough money to brighten up the village, build a school, and above all improve the inhabitants’ living conditions.
Her chief virtue was that she was willful and direct; her worst trait was that she never saw what she started through to its end. So he got tired of helping her and gave up. Perhaps it was a mistake. One day he’d told her: “You see, darling, if you’d married a boy from your village, someone who spoke your language and understood your silences, then you would have been a lot happier.”
He was profoundly certain that this was the case. As a result of his experiences, he’d stopped praising the concept of multiculturalism; he stopped believing that the confluence of cultures was enriching, and without being seduced by the stupid notion of endogamy, he’d reached the conclusion that leaving one’s tribe was no guarantee of success.
As he so often said, there was no such thing as a clash of civilizations, only a clash of ignorances. He’d admittedly ignored every aspect of his wife’s Berber heritage. It had just never interested him. His wife knew nothing about the Morocco that lay beyond her ancestral village. Thus, it was no surprise that the resulting clash turned out to be violent, and that it inflicted a lot of damage on both their married life and their families. But he’d fallen in love with her — and love, whether blind or levelheaded, couldn’t be held accountable for people’s actions.
The painter thought about Imane and was looking for a way to keep her close to him for good, despite her having admitted she was fond of him. Her presence always dispelled the fog that occasionally brooded in his mind. He looked at her as though she were a painting, or at a push a model who didn’t want to leave his studio. This had actually happened to him once, at a time when he’d still devoted himself to portraits. The woman in question had been a young student who posed in order to pay her way through school. She was graceful, professional, and knew how to sit still and didn’t talk. One evening, after she’d finished sitting for him, she’d asked him for a glass of wine. He’d offered her a choice of red or white. Once she’d drained her glass, she’d drawn close to him and kissed him. He’d gently pushed her away. He had a rule about never sleeping with his models. But the young woman insisted. He rejected her a second time, explaining that the painting wasn’t finished yet and that it would ruin everything if they slept together, that it was a matter of principle. She’d then left and slammed the door behind her. He’d never seen her again. A year later, he’d run into her at the market on Rue Daguerre in the company of an older man: her husband. He’d told her, “You should come by the studio, you never picked up your check, and besides it would be a good opportunity to finish the painting.”
“It would be my pleasure, but I’ll call ahead.”
She came by the next day.
“I’m not your model anymore.”
“Yes, you are, because we never finished the painting, so let’s try to complete it, and if we do, we’ll celebrate.”
The painter eventually finished that piece and the model became his mistress. Their affair lasted for a season. She didn’t talk much and didn’t ask him any questions. They quickly, and very naturally, established a ritual. She would come by once a week in the afternoon, kiss him, and undress. Sometimes he would be completely focused on his work, and so she would wait for him in bed, and if he took too long, she would say: “I’m going to start on my own.” He would join her as soon as he’d finished, and they would spend a very gratifying hour together that was unmarked by any sentimentality or conversation, just pleasure for pleasure’s sake. She would never wash at his place, she would simply hurriedly put her clothes on again, give him a little kiss behind his ear, and leave. He, on the other hand, would linger there, exhausted but satisfied. The sun would have already set. He then took a shower and went home. Nobody could have suspected anything. So long as he still made love to his wife, she didn’t have any doubts, or at least never showed it.
One day, the painter received a visitor: the man whom his model had introduced as her husband when they’d met at the market. A weary-looking man who’d aged before his time. He apologized for arriving unannounced, lowered his sad gaze to the floor, and said: