The Happy Marriage

In the days when he’d been healthy, whenever he got bored, which didn’t happen all that often, he would stop working and examine this frame of mind, when time came to a standstill, pausing while he harped on about his set ideas. Boredom was a byproduct of insomnia, a refusal to let himself fall down the black hole of the unknown. He would go around in circles, then let it all go and wait for it to pass. He would thus contain stress in this space, situated between his sleepless nights and the stillness of his waking hours.

In the studio where he now spent all of his days, far from the noise of the city, he asked himself how the stroke could have destroyed his body to such an extent. He was having a tough time stomaching how battered his body was, which prevented him from moving freely and doing what he wanted. He had played football on Casablanca’s beaches as a teenager. He had been an excellent striker and his friends would always carry him in their arms at the end of the matches because he had scored all the goals. He might have even become a professional footballer but at the time this would have meant moving to Spain and joining one of their big teams. His parents had preferred that he took up painting instead, even if it meant he would never earn a dime. Anything would be better than living in exile among the Spaniards who hated the Moors!

He would once again observe his reflection in the mirror. He looked hideous, or better yet, banged up. He recalled the lyrics to Léo Ferré’s “Vingt Ans”: “Pour tout bagage on a sa gueule, quand elle est bath ça va tout seul, quand elle est moche on s’habitue, on se dit qu’on n’est pas mal foutu; pour tout bagage on a sa gueule qui cause des fois quand on est seul … quand on pleure on dit qu’on rit … alors on maquille le problème.”

He remembered the time he’d spent with Ferré when the latter had come to perform in Casablanca. They had drunk a cup of tea on the patio of the Royal Mansour hotel and he had observed the man’s small eyes, his mannerisms, his almost permanent bad mood, but especially the overwhelming weariness that marked his face. He had always thought of Ferré as a poet, a rebel whose songs did much good for those who took the trouble to pay close attention to them.

During the first months of his illness, he had mostly kept to himself, sheltered in the safety of his studio. Surrounded by his unfinished canvases, he had relied on himself, experiencing a feeling of supreme solitude, because suffering can never truly be shared. Needless to say, he had received many a get well soon card. This had brought him much pleasure, and he’d been stunned and moved to see some people whom he barely knew find exactly the right words for the occasion. For instance, there was Serge, with whom he’d only crossed paths from time to time because they lived in the same neighborhood. Yet only fifteen days after he’d left the hospital, Serge had come to visit him and had spoken on terms of the utmost frankness. Serge had quickly gotten into the habit of visiting him once a week, asking how he was doing, and generally helping to lift his spirits. Right up to the day that the painter learned that Serge had suddenly died. It wasn’t until Serge had died that the painter learned what had been eating away at him. He’d felt like crying. So much friendship and humility from a man who didn’t even belong to his inner circle of friends had left its mark on him. Serge had been completely different to some of the painter’s friends, who’d suddenly grown silent. They had just all vanished. Fear. The Great Funk. As though strokes were contagious! Someone had told him that one of his friends kept insisting that he didn’t want to go visit him because he was ashamed of being in good health. Of course there was no reason to suppose the man was lying. But whenever invalids feel they’re being abandoned, suffering instantly grows more insidious and cruel.

When he was a child, his father used to urge him to visit the sick and the dying. “This is what our Prophet counsels us to do,” he would say, “we must visit those who suffer and who are waiting for their appointed hour, which is slow in coming. Visiting a dying man allows you to be both selfish and generous. Giving up your time to visit a man who is nailed to his bed is a good way to learn humility, to learn that it’s the little things that really make a difference in life, and that we are but grains of sand who belong to God, to whom we will return! Those who are afraid of other people’s illnesses must overcome that dread and learn to familiarize themselves with what lies ahead for all of us. There you have it, my son. These may be platitudes, but they have a kernel of truth!”