He’d refrained from making any comments, fearing that the slightest slip would spoil that blessed moment that he’d wanted to draw out as much as he could. He hadn’t seen her so calm for months.
They’d walked for a long time and forgotten all about time. Having reached the top of the mountain, they’d come across a shepherd playing the flute. It had looked like something out of a picture book. They’d rested for a while next to him. After he’d left with his herd of goats, they’d found themselves alone once again. She’d kissed him tenderly on the lips. He’d wanted to have her at that exact moment, and had scanned the surroundings. Then she’d noticed a little cabin. They’d entered it, thrown themselves down on the hay, and undressed. They made love slowly. They had to come back there, he’d told himself, since his wife had been completely changed by the experience.
They had stayed in that cabin for a long time and had fallen asleep. As was the local tradition, the shepherd brought them fresh whey and some dates. It was their way of welcoming guests. The sun was setting. It was getting cold. The shepherd asked them a few questions about their life and told them that he’d never left the mountain, so was curious about what life was like in the city. Nevertheless, he had a little black-and-white television that was fueled by a gas cylinder. That window on the world pleased him a great deal. It allowed him to travel even to France, the country where his father and uncle worked.
They’d stood to leave, fearing the night would overtake them. The nights were long and dark in January. The shepherd had been pleased by their unexpected visit. To thank him, the painter had offered him his sunglasses as a present: “You need them more than I do! You’re always out in the sun, you must protect your eyes!” The thought of wearing fashionable sunglasses had seemed to make the shepherd mad with joy. He put them on immediately and said he couldsee the mountain and the valley in a different way, claiming that even his sheep had a different color to them. He’d laughed, all the while showering a thousand blessings upon them. The painter’s wife had slipped a hundred-dirham note in his pocket. Then the shepherd had kissed her hand, which had been embarrassing.
During their descent, their tiredness made itself felt, but it had been a good kind of tired, the kind that would lead them to their bed, where they would fall asleep immediately. They had been hungry and had dreamed of a piece of buttered bread, just like in Paris. But the lady with whom they’d been lodging had prepared couscous with seven vegetables for them. They’d stuffed themselves like foreign tourists. He’d had some difficulty stomaching rancid butter. Yet her eyes had ballooned and she’d told him: “It’s good, darling. It’s very good for your health, for your eyes, the memory, the imagination, and your creativity!” He hadn’t had the time to do any sketching, but everything had left a strong imprint on his memory. He would often think about the very specific color of the sky there; he’d asked himself how he would replicate its effect on the canvas later. The sky in the south had nothing in common with the one in Casablanca, which was whitish, and even less so with Paris’s, which was rather gray. There, in the deepest depths of Morocco, far away from all the pollution, the sky was a soft, subtle blue. Contrary to what one might expect, Delacroix had never painted anything while in Morocco. He’d merely taken some notes and drawn in his notebooks. It was only on his return to France that he’d found that country’s colors and figured out how to reproduce them in his paintings.
The following day, they had taken some pictures of the village. The children had rushed toward them to pose so they could be in the shot. The women had refused to let themselves be photographed. They said they were afraid the machine would capture their
They’d walked for a long time and forgotten all about time. Having reached the top of the mountain, they’d come across a shepherd playing the flute. It had looked like something out of a picture book. They’d rested for a while next to him. After he’d left with his herd of goats, they’d found themselves alone once again. She’d kissed him tenderly on the lips. He’d wanted to have her at that exact moment, and had scanned the surroundings. Then she’d noticed a little cabin. They’d entered it, thrown themselves down on the hay, and undressed. They made love slowly. They had to come back there, he’d told himself, since his wife had been completely changed by the experience.
They had stayed in that cabin for a long time and had fallen asleep. As was the local tradition, the shepherd brought them fresh whey and some dates. It was their way of welcoming guests. The sun was setting. It was getting cold. The shepherd asked them a few questions about their life and told them that he’d never left the mountain, so was curious about what life was like in the city. Nevertheless, he had a little black-and-white television that was fueled by a gas cylinder. That window on the world pleased him a great deal. It allowed him to travel even to France, the country where his father and uncle worked.
They’d stood to leave, fearing the night would overtake them. The nights were long and dark in January. The shepherd had been pleased by their unexpected visit. To thank him, the painter had offered him his sunglasses as a present: “You need them more than I do! You’re always out in the sun, you must protect your eyes!” The thought of wearing fashionable sunglasses had seemed to make the shepherd mad with joy. He put them on immediately and said he couldsee the mountain and the valley in a different way, claiming that even his sheep had a different color to them. He’d laughed, all the while showering a thousand blessings upon them. The painter’s wife had slipped a hundred-dirham note in his pocket. Then the shepherd had kissed her hand, which had been embarrassing.
During their descent, their tiredness made itself felt, but it had been a good kind of tired, the kind that would lead them to their bed, where they would fall asleep immediately. They had been hungry and had dreamed of a piece of buttered bread, just like in Paris. But the lady with whom they’d been lodging had prepared couscous with seven vegetables for them. They’d stuffed themselves like foreign tourists. He’d had some difficulty stomaching rancid butter. Yet her eyes had ballooned and she’d told him: “It’s good, darling. It’s very good for your health, for your eyes, the memory, the imagination, and your creativity!” He hadn’t had the time to do any sketching, but everything had left a strong imprint on his memory. He would often think about the very specific color of the sky there; he’d asked himself how he would replicate its effect on the canvas later. The sky in the south had nothing in common with the one in Casablanca, which was whitish, and even less so with Paris’s, which was rather gray. There, in the deepest depths of Morocco, far away from all the pollution, the sky was a soft, subtle blue. Contrary to what one might expect, Delacroix had never painted anything while in Morocco. He’d merely taken some notes and drawn in his notebooks. It was only on his return to France that he’d found that country’s colors and figured out how to reproduce them in his paintings.
The following day, they had taken some pictures of the village. The children had rushed toward them to pose so they could be in the shot. The women had refused to let themselves be photographed. They said they were afraid the machine would capture their
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