The Happy Marriage

On that morning, the Twins had been unable to shave him. An outbreak of pimples around his chin had made it too difficult to do so. He wasn’t happy. He looked scruffy. Felt neglected. He couldn’t stand it. His stroke had dealt him a devastating blow, and he refused to accept any sloppiness when it came to his clothing or physical appearance. When he’d discovered that a coffee stain on his tie hadn’t been cleaned, he’d grown more sullen. The Twins had hurriedly changed it, and he was now dressed all in white, but he still grumbled under his breath.

Whenever he spoke, the Twins would guess what he was saying, even if they didn’t understand certain words. They would read his facial expressions and anticipate his wishes. They needed a sharp sense of hearing and a lot of patience. When he grew tired, he would blink his eyes several times to signify that he wanted them to leave him alone. Perhaps that was when he would allow himself to cry, he who had once been so brilliant, elegant, and celebrated wherever he went. He’d had a close brush with death, but he hadn’t completed his work. He took this as an insult, a dirty trick that fate had played on him, and a spiteful one at that. As he’d dreamed of dying in his sleep like his old, fun-loving, polygamous uncle, this was a constant source of grief for him. But what had befallen him was the same thing that had struck so many friends and acquaintances who belonged to his generation. As his physician had told him, he had reached a critical age. To be in the prime of life meant facing a few storms.

When the anger of the first months had subsided a little, he decided to begin smiling at those who came to visit him, a means for him to fight against the physical decline that sometimes caused the mind to follow suit. So he always smiled. There was his morning smile, which was subtle and sweet, his afternoon smile, which was impatient and curt, and the one he wore in the evenings, which in the long run turned into a faint grimace. Then, he suddenly stopped smiling. He didn’t want to pretend anymore. Why should he smile? Who would he smile at, and for what purpose? The illness had changed his habits. Was it an illness or was it death?

He wasn’t the same man anymore, he saw that in other people’s eyes. He had lost his presence as a great artist. But he refused to hide; he wanted to be able to leave the house before too long and show his new condition in public. It would be a painful process, but he insisted on going through with it.

Curiously enough, despite his almost total paralysis he had never contemplated giving up painting. He was convinced that the evil that afflicted him was nothing more than a little episode that was bound to be temporary. Every day, he would try to move the fingers of his right hand. And every day he would ask for a brush, which they would place between his thumb and forefinger, but he was unable to keep a grip on it for long. So he would keep repeating the exercise several times each day. The moment he could grip a brush, he would start caring less about the condition the rest of his body was in.

Ideas for new paintings swarmed around in his head. His inability to paint had put him in a constant state of excitement. He was even more impatient than usual. Eventually, those moments of disquiet and intensity would give way to long silences that came coupled with feelings of defeat. His mood would change, and he would feel as though he’d fallen into a thick fog, which seemed to foreshadow some gloomy event. A sting of drool hung from his half-open mouth. From time to time, one of the Twins would gently wipe it away. This would stir him back into consciousness, and he would feel ashamed that he’d been unable to contain his spittle, ashamed that he’d dozed off. It was these little things that bothered him the most, rather than the fact he was paralyzed.

The television was on and there was an athletics championship on. He’d always been fascinated by those magnificent, supple, perfect bodies, in fact too perfect to be human. He would gaze at them and wonder how many years, months, and days of hard work lay behind each movement those young athletes performed. He didn’t want anyone to change the channel. No, he wanted to watch that show precisely because of the state he was stuck in. He dreamed and experienced a strange sort of pleasure in admiring those young athletes’ movements. He found himself watching and encouraging them as though he knew them personally, as though he were their coach, their teacher, their adviser, or as though he were simply their father.