souls! One of them had even turned their back to them. She’d laughed and said: “I’m very attached to my soul!” She’d worn a flower-patternedrobe. It looked like a scene out of one of the paintings of Jacques Majorelle, the painter of Marrakech.
It was finally time for them to leave. They had said goodbye to everyone, climbed inside their car, and taken the road to Agadir. They’d spent the night in a pretty hotel on the beach. The painter tried to picture the city as it had once looked. Before the earthquake of February 29, 1960. He had seen one of his primary school teachers cry when it happened. The teacher had lost his entire family.
Agadir had been entirely rebuilt since then. There were rows of hotels that stretched out into infinity. The city now devoted itself only to tourism. Its soul had been buried. In 1960, the painter had only been six years old, whereas his wife hadn’t even been born yet. He had kept a vivid memory of that distraught teacher alive in his mind. His father had been so dismayed that he’d even doubted the goodness of God. People had spread rumors that the earthquake had been a form of divine retribution. All of this had left a fuzzy impression in that six-year-old boy’s mind. But the memory of that catastrophe had accompanied him for the rest of his life.
They had walked around the city’s various markets. People in Agadir were very different to the Marrakechis. Their natural sense of dignity commanded respect. But would he have been able to live in a city that had been rebuilt as though it had undergone several rounds of plastic surgery? Nothing spoke to him there. He’d remarked to his wife that she looked sad. They went back on the road early the next morning, before her mood could grow somber again. She had taken over at the wheel and started driving very fast. He’d observed how adroitly she’d learned to handle that big car. It was as if the person next to him had transformed into a woman he didn’t know, a woman who was determined and fearless.
The police stopped her for speeding. The painter was almost relieved that she’d been pulled over. At first, his wife had tried to bribe them. Then one of the two policemen had given her a lecture. Thenhis wife had spoken to the policeman in Tamazight, and he’d replied in the same language. He gave her back her license and told her to drive carefully.
The painter had been dumbstruck. It appeared that tribal solidarity was more powerful than any highway code.
VI
Casablanca
March 24, 2000
I’ve come on behalf of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.
He said he would meet me in these deeply moving places, but he will not be coming!
—Louis Jouvet, introducing himself to the housekeeper, who opened the door for him
CHRISTIAN-JAQUE , A Lover’s Return
The painter was dozing, his head rolled forward, his legs heavy, his hands pressed against one another.
He slowly opened his eyes. The Twins were playing cars while sitting on the lawn. His wheelchair was equipped with an SOS button, a bell, but he didn’t want to bother them. He’d heard them laughing and swapping jokes. He’d never been able to play any kind of game, not cards, not bridge, and not chess either. With the exception of football, he’d never excelled in any sport. He’d once played a gameof tennis, but his friends Roland and François had made fun of him. One of them had said: “You’re playing like one of the characters in Antonioni’s Blow-Up !” While the other had added: “Your aerial game is so perfect you don’t even need to hit the ball!” He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his game. He’d spent the entire time thinking about his paintings. The painter had devoted his entire life to his work. He had taught a little, but then had spent the rest of his time doing nothing but painting and sketching. Nonetheless, he enjoyed watching sporting competitions on television. He loved the challenge at the heart of sport, how those athletes aimed to
It was finally time for them to leave. They had said goodbye to everyone, climbed inside their car, and taken the road to Agadir. They’d spent the night in a pretty hotel on the beach. The painter tried to picture the city as it had once looked. Before the earthquake of February 29, 1960. He had seen one of his primary school teachers cry when it happened. The teacher had lost his entire family.
Agadir had been entirely rebuilt since then. There were rows of hotels that stretched out into infinity. The city now devoted itself only to tourism. Its soul had been buried. In 1960, the painter had only been six years old, whereas his wife hadn’t even been born yet. He had kept a vivid memory of that distraught teacher alive in his mind. His father had been so dismayed that he’d even doubted the goodness of God. People had spread rumors that the earthquake had been a form of divine retribution. All of this had left a fuzzy impression in that six-year-old boy’s mind. But the memory of that catastrophe had accompanied him for the rest of his life.
They had walked around the city’s various markets. People in Agadir were very different to the Marrakechis. Their natural sense of dignity commanded respect. But would he have been able to live in a city that had been rebuilt as though it had undergone several rounds of plastic surgery? Nothing spoke to him there. He’d remarked to his wife that she looked sad. They went back on the road early the next morning, before her mood could grow somber again. She had taken over at the wheel and started driving very fast. He’d observed how adroitly she’d learned to handle that big car. It was as if the person next to him had transformed into a woman he didn’t know, a woman who was determined and fearless.
The police stopped her for speeding. The painter was almost relieved that she’d been pulled over. At first, his wife had tried to bribe them. Then one of the two policemen had given her a lecture. Thenhis wife had spoken to the policeman in Tamazight, and he’d replied in the same language. He gave her back her license and told her to drive carefully.
The painter had been dumbstruck. It appeared that tribal solidarity was more powerful than any highway code.
VI
Casablanca
March 24, 2000
I’ve come on behalf of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.
He said he would meet me in these deeply moving places, but he will not be coming!
—Louis Jouvet, introducing himself to the housekeeper, who opened the door for him
CHRISTIAN-JAQUE , A Lover’s Return
The painter was dozing, his head rolled forward, his legs heavy, his hands pressed against one another.
He slowly opened his eyes. The Twins were playing cars while sitting on the lawn. His wheelchair was equipped with an SOS button, a bell, but he didn’t want to bother them. He’d heard them laughing and swapping jokes. He’d never been able to play any kind of game, not cards, not bridge, and not chess either. With the exception of football, he’d never excelled in any sport. He’d once played a gameof tennis, but his friends Roland and François had made fun of him. One of them had said: “You’re playing like one of the characters in Antonioni’s Blow-Up !” While the other had added: “Your aerial game is so perfect you don’t even need to hit the ball!” He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his game. He’d spent the entire time thinking about his paintings. The painter had devoted his entire life to his work. He had taught a little, but then had spent the rest of his time doing nothing but painting and sketching. Nonetheless, he enjoyed watching sporting competitions on television. He loved the challenge at the heart of sport, how those athletes aimed to
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