The Happy Marriage полностью

“Today we’re going to walk for an hour, it’s nice outside. You’re recovering your reflexes in your left leg and arm. You can stand up on your own by leaning on a crutch.”

The walk did him a lot of good. Imane met her mother on the promenade. She introduced her to the painter. She was still young. She thanked him for all that he’d done for Imane. Once she’d left, the painter stopped and told Imane:

“What did she mean by all the good I’ve done for you? You’re the one who’s done a lot for me, you’re so patient and your hands have healing powers …”

“My mother was referring to something else, which I haven’t told you about. I lied to her and told her you’d agreed. You’re wondering what I’m talking about? Well, it’s about my brother, whose dream is to leave this country and go to Europe to look for work. My mother thought that your fame and connections might be useful to him. I didn’t dare bring it up with you, you know what Moroccan families are like.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, there’s nothing wrong with helping someone out, let’s talk about it some other time.”

Then, after a brief silence, he said:

“This idea of leaving Morocco at all costs is very new. This country has missed out on every opportunity it’s ever had, and this is the result, all its young people are leaving! I’ll try to find your brother a job, but I’ll look for it here, close to you, which will be easier for me, and besides, Europe is not the land of milk and honey that people think it is.”

While they talked, the painter tried to think of ways to keep Imane close to him. He wondered whether she might make a good assistant for him, but on the other hand he worried about being unable to keep his work and personal feelings separate.

Once they’d returned to the house, Imane massaged his legs and then sat by his feet as she so often liked to do and began telling him a story:

Once upon a time there lived a little girl who wanted to grow up faster than time would allow, mistaking herself for the south wind, which was strong and forceful. She would arrive somewhere like a storm and sweep away all in her path. They called her “Fitna,” which in Arabic means “internal turmoil” and by extension “panic.”

But by and by as she grew up, the little girl calmed down and transformed into an “evening breeze,” so people started calling her “the murmur of the moon.” In the evenings, she would stay up and walk the streets along the riverbanks, collecting the stories that were handed down from generation to generation and placing those stories inside cups of wine, which poets, especially the cheeky ones, were fond of drinking.

Once she’d grown up, the girl left for the mountains and was never seen again. A legend was born amidst the stones and the wild weeds. The young girl had become the goddess of solitude, reigning over a kingdom of the hardest rocks known to man, barring way to all illnesses that hailed from diseased, unloved countries.