Wedding Bells… Not! - Part IV
I married well known Czech photographer, Werner Forman, on a dark rainy day at a registry office in London, largely because my mother, who had a crush on him, insisted. Her feelings for Werner, her desire to keep him in the family, were what led to his proposal of marriage and everything that followed.
THIS IS PART 4 of a NINE-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
Photo: Arvin Kh
I was twenty-three years old, a slim girl with a narrow face, dark eyes, long black hair and a generally exotic look. In other words, I could easily pass for Moroccan. Up until now, I had traveled with Werner as a companion, with no real involvement in his work. But in Morocco I became useful as a model since he could not easily photograph native women up close… or, to be a little clearer, he could use his camera in secret, artful ways, no problem, but why do that if there were an easier method?
So one of the first things we did, arriving in Marrakech, was buy me a light-colored, cotton djellaba, which I slid over my clothes and wore proudly. This, unfortunately, caused problems. Werner needed a young Muslim woman for a certain photo, so he situated me several yards away at the end of a long, narrow street and told me to just stand there as if I were part of the landscape. Okaaaay. But eventually I got bored and had to pee and he was so far from me that I couldn’t see his face or what he was doing -- had he perhaps already finished the shoot? “Hey!” I called to him, raising my voice above all the street noise. “Are we done? I have to pee!”
Everyone around me turned to stare. Why was this Moroccan woman yelling at the top of her lungs in English? Werner immediately started gesticulating. I sensed from his body language he was angry, but I didn’t know how angry until he marched up to me and said I’d ruined the shot, which he’d set up perfectly, everything exactly as he’d wanted it, perhaps one of the best pictures he’d get on the whole trip.
Photo: Esteban Palacios Blanco
This was the first time I’d seen Werner angry. Up until this very minute, he’d been kind, courteous, a well-mannered, older, European gentleman, always quick to see to my needs and make sure I was okay.
Not only was he angry, but he wouldn’t talk to me; for the rest of the day, I received the silent treatment, and it was awful -- Werner with a pained look on his face, as if there were a horrible smell in the room, refusing to say a word. He lay on the hotel bed with his back to me, and the more I did to try and make him talk or placate him, the worse it became. I’d never experienced anything like this. I didn’t know what to do. And of course, I was sure it was all my fault and felt guilty as hell.
The thing I didn’t understand at the time was that Werner’s silent treatment formed a pattern that I would have to endure for years. If I was seated next to another man at a dinner party, he wouldn’t talk to me for hours afterward even though I’d been punctilious about ignoring the man. If I went for drinks with girlfriends, stayed out too late, there’d be days of silence. The incident in Morocco was just the beginning.
Cover photo: Calin Stan