“She’s left us. I know she used to come see you, she told me all about your little naps. I was jealous, but I tried not to let it show. There were thirty years between us. That’s a lot. She left us for an Italian actress, an ugly woman, thin as a stick, completely charmless and humorless. Well, that’s what I came here to tell you, hoping I could share a little of my misery with you.”
The painter offered him a drink and told him he shouldn’t beat himself up about it.
“She’s a free spirit and only does what she feels like, let’s hope she’s happy with that woman!”
XXV. Casablanca, January 25, 2003
In marriage, where one is wise, two are happy.
— Paquita, Celia’s chambermaid
He’d always been afraid of what people referred to as “hell.” He’d heard others refer to their married life as hell, that divorce was a catastrophe, that falling out of love with someone was a violent act perpetrated on that person …
Over the course of a dinner, he’d learned by chance that one of his friends who lived in the south of France, and whom he rarely saw as he didn’t like leaving his farm — he was a musician — had gotten divorced. The painter called him to find out more about what had happened.
“Yes, I got divorced, I lost everything, I gave her everything, I’m completely penniless, but in return I’ve gained something priceless: my freedom. I’m broke, but I can breathe. Besides, I’ve asked some friends of mine to help me find a studio in Paris. I’ll make some money eventually. I’ve got a few concerts lined up for next year, but I lost my house, my boat, and my car. She even asked for something on top of alimony, which I didn’t know existed, I had to pay her a sum to compensate her for her loss of standing, for the damage done to her reputation after I left her. What about me? What about my standing?
“But it’s finally over, I see my kid every other weekend and I can start a new life. As for hell, I can talk to you about that for hours, it’s better to lose everything and to be able to leave that hell behind instead of clinging on and keeping fighting. I’ve been defeated. But nobody takes me seriously. I’ve been beaten up both physically and psychologically but I don’t even have the right to complain. There we have it, my friend, since you’re a painter, why don’t you paint a fresco that depicts battered men, that would be original! Well, come to think of it, I’ve never seen a film about battered men. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give people a window onto a reality that nobody talks about. What about you, how are things going with that beautiful rebel of yours?”
He told his friend he’d decided to leave his wife. They were going to get divorced too, but their lawyers hadn’t yet reached an agreement. As he told his friend his story, the painter was suddenly overcome with a panic attack and felt an intense tightness in the middle of his chest. After hanging up the phone, he swallowed a Valium, then called his lawyer. The latter reassured him and asked him to be patient. He said that the situation was under control.
Nevertheless, a few days later some bailiffs burst into his studio completely unannounced.
“We’ve come to do an inventory of your work. We have to appraise and catalogue all the paintings you have here in your studio and elsewhere. We’ve been commissioned by your wife. Though you should know that we admire you a great deal, you do us proud. Please forgive us, we’re only doing our job.”
He let them carry on with their work. Most of the paintings in his studio were incomplete or had been left unfinished. He led them to the basement where he kept some paintings that friends of his had given him. They took note of everything and said they would come back in case …
Later that evening, he tried to talk to his wife about their visit. As he was in a hurry to finish some work for an exhibition scheduled to open at his gallery in Monaco, he contented himself with pretending to be offended and asked his wife to calm down. He couldn’t bear the idea of having another fight with her.
“I don’t trust you, and so I must take precautionary measures. If you run off with someone else tomorrow, then I’ll be left completely destitute and out on the street. I won’t let that happen. The other day I saw you drooling after that peroxide blonde who’s married to one of your dear friends even though she’s almost half a century younger than him! Anything’s possible, so I’m taking the initiative …”
“Don’t worry, just let me paint. I just need some peace and quiet so I can finish a big commission. I’m working a lot at the moment.”
“You’ll never have peace and quiet!”
The painter and his wife lived as though they were enemies spying on each other. The moment he left the house, his wife would rifle through all his things and make photocopies of any and all documents she could get her hands on. Which she would then send to her lawyer. Over the course of those weeks, the painter’s work took a new direction and acquired a certain depth and cruelty. It was like a condemned man’s last days on earth. His art thrived in the midst of that adversity. He knew that, and thought he should take a holiday once all this was over, he could go somewhere with Imane, maybe to an island. He’d never fantasized about deserted islands, but thought that once he got far enough away, he would be able to breathe a little and reflect on his work. But did he really have to go to the other side of the world in order to do that?
XXVI. Casablanca, February 3, 2003
I don’t think there is such a thing as the truth. No matter what we say or do, it will hurt.
Imane arrived in the afternoon wrapped in a blue djellaba. She’d just left the hammam. She put her things down, gave him his injection and a long massage. She smelled wonderful, but it wasn’t a new perfume, it was just her body’s natural fragrance after it had spent a few hours in those baths, where people’s tongues loosened and wagged.
“I’m going to tell you a love story,” she told him, while packing away her equipment. “I didn’t make this one up, in fact I just heard it at my neighborhood hammam earlier today. Even though women talk a lot of nonsense in those places, where the heat and the steam free their minds and imaginations, I still think the story I’m going to tell has a kernel of truth to it. So lend me your ears and judge for yourself.”
This is the story of Habiba, a woman who ate her husband.
The day after her wedding, Habiba decided to eat her husband so she could always keep him close to her. First she sniffed him, just like a cat does when it’s encircling its prey, then she started to nibble on him, then began eating him, taking care not to arouse anyone’s suspicions.
On the first day, she focused on the parts of him that were easiest to swallow. On the second day, she helped send him off to sleep by stroking him for a long time, and licking his armpits and genitals. Despite the sedatives that she’d put in a glass of almond milk, her husband would wake up from time to time. He let her carry on, and with his eyes half-shut he smiled, his penis fully erect. Habiba was so excited that she hummed to herself, pleased. She enjoyed being able to do whatever she wanted to her man, and couldn’t believe her own prowess.
Her friends had filled her with horror stories from their own wedding nights, and she’d been afraid of the violence of the sexual act, and she’d been especially terrified by the notion of those bloodied sheets. Especially since she used to touch herself as a little girl, and had found out after a doctor’s visit that she’d broken her hymen. As she’d never slept with a man, she’d refused to have her hymen restitched.