I hope we’ll at least be able to have a cordial relationship and act civilized toward one another since we’ll certainly see each other again because of the children, and you know that they are all that matters to me, as is the case with you. Be reasonable, I beg you, and be at peace with the fact that we don’t love each other anymore. Love isn’t a decision or something that can be forced. It comes to us and then just as easily goes away again. There’s nothing we can do about that …
XXVIII. Casablanca, February 18, 2003
— I want you to make love to me. Please? For old times’ sake.
— The best thing would be to pack my things and leave.
The painter woke up early that morning. Imane usually arrived around eight o’clock, but she was running late that day. He tried not to be impatient and convinced himself that she must have gotten held up somewhere. When she finally arrived two hours later, he immediately noticed that she’d been crying. She quickly set to her work, in silence. After a moment, he tenderly asked her if she wanted to confide in him.
“We’re friends, we can talk to one another and share our burdens. What’s wrong, Imane?”
“I have to leave Morocco and go live with my fiancé.”
“I thought that was all over.”
“It was, but he redoubled his efforts, he also offered to get my brother a visa and find him a job in Belgium. That’s very important to my family. Despite having a diploma, my brother’s been unable to find himself a job, even though it’s fair to say he hasn’t been looking very hard, he’s frustrated with the way things are done here, corruption is rampant, and you can’t get anything done unless you bribe someone.”
“Are you in love with this man?”
“I don’t know, I barely know him. He showed up in a new car, a Mercedes, and you know that a car like a Mercedes is a door opener here and a status symbol. I don’t want to cause my parents any grief and I especially want to help my little brother get out of here.”
“But you’re sacrificing yourself!”
She lowered her gaze to avoid breaking into tears again.
The painter knew that Imane’s departure would affect him deeply. He’d grown attached to that woman, and he would miss her fervent imagination, her soothing charm, and those gifted, healing hands. He knew she’d be very unhappy in Belgium. That fiancé of hers who’d shown up in a flashy car was surely up to no good. He’d seen girls follow their husbands abroad only to discover that they had another family there. At which point they would run back to their parents in tears and wait for a man who truly loved them to show up. Some of them even wound up married to hashish smugglers who used their spouses as mules.
The painter asked Imane to promise that she’d never forget him, that she would come visit him soon and let him know how things were going. Moved, she fell into his arms and nestled her head into his shoulder, and he held her tightly against him. He didn’t want that embrace to end, even though he would have preferred to keep his distance, since he had nothing to offer her. Yet his thoughts were quickly negated by a sudden erection. He was both delighted and disappointed. He didn’t want to make love, especially not to Imane, so he restrained himself and tried to gently push her away, but she pressed herself even more tightly against him. He could feel her warm body, her little breasts pressed against his chest, and smell the scent of her hair. He wanted to speak, but then gave up on it. She was already on top of him, ready to mount him. They got up and she helped him to lie down on the bed, locked the door to his studio, pulled the curtains, switched off the lights, and drew close to him, taking off her robe. She was completely naked, warm and trembling with desire. He didn’t resist. She stroked his belly and then worked her way down to his groin, grabbing his shaft and kissing it, then got on top of him, allowing him to penetrate her slowly, then began moving forward and backward, leaning over him and brushing his face with her long hair. He mostly managed to stay hard, but whenever he felt he was going limp, her lips would make him hard again. When he came, she cried out with pleasure because she’d also climaxed and had been waiting for that moment for a long time.
They lingered for a long time with their bodies pressed against one another. She caressed his face while he thought about the pleasure he’d just rediscovered. Nevertheless, he knew that they would never sleep together again and this was her parting gift. Without a word, Imane stood up, dressed, picked up her belongings, leaned down to him, and gave him a long kiss. He felt her tears stream down and mix with his, which he was trying to conceal.
“Another woman will come to take care of you tomorrow. She’s a nice lady, very sweet and competent. I chose her. Goodbye. I’ll write to you, if you prefer I’ll call you from time to time.”
She left without looking back. He swallowed a sleeping pill and went to bed without dinner. He tried to keep those heavenly perfumes in his lungs to help him persevere down the long road of recovery.
XXIX. Tangiers, September 23, 2003
— I gave you a good home.
— Yes, but it smells of paint. I can’t stand the smell of paint, and your pictures cluttering up the hall, if you don’t rid of that trash I swear I’ll give it to the junkman. I swear I will. Go ahead and eat, and then do the dishes.
Taking his doctor’s advice, the painter left Casablanca behind and headed to Tangiers with the Twins to spend a few restful days at his friend Abdelsalam’s house on the outskirts of Tangiers. It was the end of September, and more than ten months had passed since he’d told his wife he was leaving her.
Whenever it rained in Tangiers, the Chergui winds would join the fray, they would blow and make the hills of the Old Mountain tremble. The winds would continue blowing even after the rains had stopped, shaking even the tallest and sturdiest trees. It was said the winds helped sweep the city clean of diseases and its mosquitoes. Others insisted that it made people crazy, and that madmen needed those winds to get excited, sing, dance, and laugh.
His friend’s villa held steady against the winds, even though its doors and window shutters shook, allowing the coldness of that untimely visitor to seep through the house. The Chergui would leave no stone unturned and stir everything in the city out of the lethargy into which its inhabitants had so happily slipped. Those who loved hot drinks would snuggle into their thick djellabas and sip glasses of mint tea. The fishermen didn’t go out to sea, the fish market was closed, and the bars would fill with people while they waited for the winds to exhaust themselves. When they finally stopped, everything would be still for a while and one could hear the silence, and appreciate it. The storm left a sense of peace and sleepiness in its wake. The painter loved those moments of renewed calm, and he called that kind of silence Mozart-like.
The painter compared his wife to those forces of nature. One moment she would be violent, brutal, and menacing, and then miraculously become suddenly sweet, calm and kind. Imane’s departure in February had plunged the painter into a strange sort of melancholy. “She was my last wife” he told himself, convinced that in his enfeebled state, he was unlikely to ever meet anyone else again. He hadn’t felt good since then. From a physical point of view, he’d begun feeling heavy again, just like in the early days of his convalescence. His heart rate slowed. He’d entered a decline.