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coffee sets that imitated the English style but were almost certainly made in China, bouquets of plastic flowers made to last forever, and a whole host of other trifles whose only purpose was to sit on a shelf and serve as a reminder that the wedding had been a nice party, while one wisely waited until the dust wrapped them up in two thick layers of dirt.
    On his return home one evening he’d discovered that the cloth was missing. His wife had tossed it into the laundry basket. The painter fetched it out, folded it carefully, and put it in one of his closet’s drawers. He thought about the dainty hands that had spent weeks embroidering that little piece of cloth, about the man or woman who’d designed those flowers and picked the colors. The painter was very upset. To think that cloth had survived two World Wars, the French Protectorate in Morocco, and the country’s subsequent independence, and had belonged to three or four different families before winding up in the window display of a sophisticated antique dealer so that one of his friends could buy it and offer it to them as a wedding present! In the face of all of that, it was difficult to interpret his wife’s gestureas anything other than crudeness, at best, or, at worst, even ignorance. He had wanted to find her so he could speak to her about the importance he attached to those objects from the past. However, he had noticed that his wife hated lessons. She might even make some kind of disingenuous retort like: “But what is that old rag? My house isn’t some bazaar!” At first he thought he could forgive her, talk to her tenderly, explain himself, teach her how to admire a work of art, tell her that one could read an embroidery as though it were a poem, that one could decipher an old carpet just as one follows the footsteps of an ancient civilization, and so forth.
    He’d withdrawn into his study and had asked himself why that whole affair over the cloth had so profoundly hurt his feelings. Up until that moment, their love had always been stronger than that. Some elements of his wife’s behavior had shocked him, but he’d been able to overcome them. But he couldn’t stomach this; it just wouldn’t do. It would be impossible to forgive her. What she had done was irreparable, and it was the first time he’d thought they could one day separate. The evening went by and the painter didn’t broach the subject with his wife at dinner. Later that night, he laughed at himself for how angry he’d been.
    Once their son was born, his wife gained a great deal of confidence and her attitude and behavior underwent a vast transformation. The cloth incident was followed by daily disputes. Each time this happened, he would leave the house and go for a walk around Paris. He hated going to bars. Instead, he roamed the streets muttering to himself with his clenched fists in his pockets.
    Late one evening, he stopped in front of the window display of a television store, where the screens were broadcasting a documentary on music from the High Atlas Mountains. The audio was muted, but the sight of those women in multicolored robes and those men in white djellabas tapping on bendir drums while others played the flutewas so intense that he was unable to avoid wanting to hear that shrill, disharmonious music that they’d played just before their marriage. It was a memory he’d tried to forget, but which resurfaced at that exact moment.
    He’d never liked folk music, regardless of whether it came from his country or anywhere else. But when the planning for their wedding had been under way, nobody had wanted to take his opinion into consideration. There couldn’t be a party without music and there couldn’t be a great banquet without a lot of noise. Even though the painter had dreamed of a small wedding attended only by friends or at most a few relatives, he’d found himself caught in a whirlwind of hullabaloo.
    Throughout that evening, despite the happiness the painter had