‘No, she’s not ill and she’s not old.’
‘And why would I want to leave here? You’re planning to sell the house? That’s what it is. You can’t wait to inherit.’
‘No, I was joking. I just wanted you to know that in other countries, like France or Spain, they put old people in special homes. I knew you’d react like that.’
‘My house is good enough for me, I don’t need a special home. I won’t ever leave it. I’ll go to my grave from this room, and then you can do what you like. You can even demolish the house, or turn it into a block of flats. But I like it here and I’m staying.’
Mother wasn’t joking. Even when she was well, she’d only reluctantly agree to go and spend a few days with her daughter in Fez or her son in Casablanca. She’s deeply attached to the house, the symbol of essential and indisputable rootedness. Whatever my father’s financial difficulties, he’d always insisted on owning his house. You can go hungry, but you mustn’t be on the streets, without a roof over your head. In Fez, growing up, everyone had to own their own house. The people who rented were from the country, they weren’t city-dwellers. I remember we used to rent out part of our house in Makhfiya to people from Fasjdid, on the outskirts of Fez. A sheet was hung in the hallway to separate the two families. We were on the ground floor and they had the upstairs and the terrace. It was a big house, but we all took care not to cause problems. We couldn’t make ends meet without the rental income. Renting rooms was frowned upon in bourgeois families, but my father wasn’t ashamed to admit that we were humble people, poor even.
Yesterday, for the first time, my mother didn’t recognise my voice on the phone, and worse, she started ranting. She took me for her younger brother, Moulay Ali, who’d died twenty years before. She was furious:
‘Aren’t you ashamed, Moulay Ali? Your sister’s ill and you’ve never come to see her? Where are you? You’re hiding! Your wife’s still giving the orders and she won’t let you come and see me. That’s not right.’
‘But Yemma, this is your son, Tahar!’
‘No, Tahar’s gone to give his daughter’s hand in marriage. He’s not in Morocco. And you, who are you? Ah, you’re Mustafa, the son who went away, who abandoned me …’
‘No, Yemma, Moulay Ali died a long time ago.’
‘Oh, I see! He died and no one told me. That’s not very nice.’
She didn’t remain a widow for long. Her uncle, Sidi Abdesslam, spoke with her father. ‘She’s so young, so innocent and beautiful, and her hands are exquisite. She mustn’t stay cloistered in your house, she should go out, accompany her mother to the weddings she’s invited to — that’s where she’ll be noticed. The other day I had a visit from Sidi Abdelkrim, a wealthy man who’s married but his wife is ill. He has four grown-up children with her, but he’s still in his prime. He asked me to approach you. He would be delighted if you offered him Lalla Fatma’s hand. I know you’ll tell me he’s old enough to be her father, that she’ll have to live with the sick woman, maybe even look after her, but let me tell you it will be quite the opposite: she’s young and beautiful, she’ll be the favourite, she’ll be the only one. The other wife, poor thing, is so ill she isn’t even aware of her surroundings. The boys are grown-up, they’re all traders and they look after Sidi Abdelkrim’s assets. What do you think? What answer should I give?’
And that was how she remarried. It was a discreet ceremony, there were no festivities. The two families gathered in Sidi Abdesslam’s big house. The aduls drew up the new marriage certificate on the same sheet of paper. After the death of Sidi Mohammed — may God bless him and show him mercy — after the end of the waiting and mourning period, after discussions between the families, Moulay Ahmed consented to give the widow Lalla Fatma in matrimony to Sidi Abdelkrim, who was already married and the father of four children. The 5,000-rial sadaqah was handed over to the father of the bride. They all agreed there should be no celebrations. The widow Lalla Fatma would move into her new husband’s house once the marriage was registered. May God Almighty protect them and give them His blessing.
Fatha.
Amen.
She moved to a different neighbourhood and it took her a while to adjust to her new life. She thought about her first husband all the time and prayed to God that her life would no longer be dogged by misfortune.
Sidi Abdelkrim treated her like a princess. He made a fuss of her, gave her servants, and asked her not to wear herself out or to go into the kitchen, which was the preserve of Ghita, the black cook brought back from Senegal by Sidi Abdelkrim’s father some time around 1915.
Pregnant again, she allowed herself to be pampered and did not exert herself. Life went quietly by. The other wife liked her and advised her on ways to please and always satisfy Sidi Abdelkrim: ‘My illness has me bedridden. These days I can hardly move. Luckily, Ghita takes good care of me: I couldn’t let the house go uncared for, every morning she comes to my room and I give her instructions. I am fond of you, you know. You’re from a very good family. Thank you for being here, for consenting to marry an older man, especially one who’s already married. It was I who asked him to find another wife, as our religion demands: that is Sharia law. I said to him, “My dear Sidi Abdelkrim, you can’t go on without a woman in your bed. God allows you up to four wives, you absolutely must remarry. If I enjoyed good health, I wouldn’t ask it of you, but like this I’m no use to you, I’m just a worthless old thing. My children have grown up — may God bless them and keep them — they won’t oppose a second marriage. Take a wife — a widow or a divorcee. Typhus has killed so many young men, there must be a pretty young widow to share my beloved husband’s bed!”
‘You know, he kissed both my hands then went off to speak with your uncle. You are welcome here, may you bring us the goodness and health we have lacked for some time. Lalla Fatma, can you help me sit up? Take my hand, pull, gently, that’s right, put this pillow behind me. My back has to be supported or I’ll be in pain. All my muscles hurt, it’s difficult to move my hand, especially my fingers. Usually it’s Ghita who cares for me, who bathes and dresses me, and feeds me like a baby … I’m happy to have some company. So give us a fine boy. And be quick about it, the house needs new life and the laughter of children. My adult sons are married, they come and see me every day. But their wives drag their feet, they don’t like it here, which means I don’t see my granddaughters very often.
‘No one knows what this illness is called. Drissi, the nurse, tells me it’s a kind of rheumatism, because of the cold and damp in Fez. I worked like a slave for years, I ruined my health in that enormous kitchen. My husband, our husband — may God keep him — loves to entertain. He was always inviting friends to lunch and would only ever tell me the same morning. Can you imagine how hard that was? Everything had to be done in a hurry, rushing around, not forgetting to make the bread. Ghita helped, but my husband insisted I do the cooking myself. He’d say: “Your hands work miracles, don’t deprive us of their creations.”
‘So tell me, what did your husband die of?’
‘Of the disease with a name I don’t want to utter in this happy household. He was carried off in a matter of weeks. I watched him waste away day after day. Only his big, very dark eyes stayed the same. I was pregnant, I had morning sickness, I didn’t feel well, and I said to myself that my arrival in this family hadn’t kept misfortune at bay. I couldn’t sleep, spent all my time crying. When my daughter was born, my mother took her from me. I was too weak and too unhappy to care for her. I left her with my mother. My little sister’s only eighteen months older than her. It was my mother who nursed her. It’s as if I hadn’t had a child.’