The Happy Marriage

Sometimes he would remember seemingly insignificant episodes from his childhood right in the middle of the day. They would dance before his eyes, like puppets at a funfair. It surprised him each time it happened. That was how he’d been able to once again see the wooden bucket his father used to take to the hammam with him. It was an old bucket, nothing special about it, it used to be brown before it had blackened with age. Before leaving for the hammam, his father would fill it with a bar of soap, a towel, and a pumice stone to scrape away dead skin. Why had that bucket appeared in his mind half a century later? On another day, he’d suddenly seen the old straw mat that his parents used to perform their daily prayers on just as clearly as he’d seen the bucket. There was nothing unique about the mat either. Still, there it was, right next to the bucket. A beggar woman whom he’d once given a piece of bread, and received a cube of sugar in exchange, also appeared before him in the same manner, complete with her wrinkly face, her toothless smile, and that star-shaped cube of sugar that she’d held in the palm of her hand.

A few days after that, he’d seen the legless cripple who used to sing out of tune in front of his school, then that sick dog who used to limp around the old alleyways of Fez that the children used to chase and throw stones at. That poor animal used to find it very difficult to walk around. The painter asked himself: “Why am I suddenly thinking about this dog?”

He could have asked himself the same question about those knickers that he’d torn at the knee after he’d fallen off a swing. That memory dated from when he’d been six years old and had gone on a swing for the first time. His older brother had given him a push and the ropes had snapped while he’d been in mid-flight, at which point he’d found himself on the ground with his face all bloodied up. Strangely enough, the torn trousers had left a deeper impression than his bruised face.

Then an old cardboard suitcase, which his father had used to store old issues of Life magazine from the days of the war, appeared before him without any warning. As a child, he’d often pulled out an issue and thumbed through it. Why could he still recall that young American soldier’s face as he cried in front of his dead friend’s body? His name was Solomon. It was a bizarre picture: Solomon on his knees, with his hands covering a face drenched in tears. What had become of that young man? He pictured him on his return home, a car salesman married to a redhead.

On another occasion, he was haunted by a moth-eaten scarf. Red, worn so thin it had become useless, just like those burned-out lightbulbs his father used to store in a drawer, hoping that they would somehow fix themselves. He also saw a paper bag filled with nails of all sizes that was kept in a corner of the kitchen, and the dirty tie that his Arabic teacher used to wear, which was covered in grease stains. And his primary school teacher, a newlywed girl who used to spread her legs a little whenever she sat down on her chair, who also came to pay him a visit. He’d also inexplicably recalled the license plate number of his uncle’s Chevrolet: 236MA2. His uncle had been the only person in the family to have a car at the time.

One day, he remembered the first time he’d ever ejaculated, which had happened while he’d been playing with his cousin. Like a pleasant electrical shock had just jolted his penis. He’d gotten up and covered the stain on his trousers with his hand. He’d been ashamed, especially since his cousin, who must have been a year older than him, had invited him into her parents’ bedroom while they’d been away on holiday. That powerful strange smell that had wafted up from his groin and the burning desire he’d felt on seeing his cousin waiting for him on the bed came rushing back to him, as intact as the day they had happened. He could see her again all too clearly, surrendering her rosy buttocks to him and saying, “Do it! Put your thingy in my bottom!”

The painter told himself that this barrage of memories had in all likelihood been caused by the paralysis that had affected his arms and legs. One day, the telephone had rung loudly when he’d been right in the middle of one of those visions. One of his assistants who’d been nearby had handed him the phone. It was his agent calling to see how he was doing. He must have been worried about losing his commissions! But the painter reassured him: he was getting better. He had to be patient, very patient.

XVII. Casablanca, October 5, 2000