Sidi Abdelkrim was very attentive to his new wife. He forbade her from setting foot in the kitchen, saying: ‘I don’t want these pretty little hands to be ruined by work. You are my princess, my gazelle, a gift from God, I want you to be happy. I can feel your body’s changing. Is it carrying another gift from God? I hope so.’
She gave birth to a boy: seven days of celebrations. Sidi Abdelkrim’s sick wife wept with joy. The child was named Abdel Aziz. The father wanted to call him Abdel Razzaq, as a reminder that this gift from God was precious.
My mother thinks she had twins: she talks of Hassan and Houcine. Her son Abdel Aziz laughs at her and tells her she’s thinking of her cousin, who did in fact give birth to twins the same week.
Now she’s asking for her husband, who died over fifty years ago. She says she needs to speak to him. We remind her that he’s no longer with us. ‘Oh, I see! You’re hiding things from me!’
Abdel Aziz was brought up in that huge house by a mother who was too young and a stepmother who was ill. As soon as he was old enough to go to school, his older brother took him to live in his house. His father, who was elderly and ailing, no longer went out. Now Drissi the nurse almost never left the house. They brought in Hammad, their blind cousin, who was famous for his beautiful recitation of the Qur’an. In the family, they knew the arrival of Hammad meant that death was approaching. Sidi Abdelkrim passed away in his sleep. Two months later, screaming in pain, his first wife died. A widow again, my mother appealed to Moulay Idriss, whose mausoleum she visited every Thursday. She’d bring offerings, and would stay there for hours, praying and entreating God to show her His great mercy and compassion. She returned to live in her parents’ house and was reunited with her daughter, by now aged eight. Marrying again was out of the question — she was convinced she was a harbinger of doom, of death, a victim of fate and the evil eye. She’d gaze up at the sky, tracking and talking to the stars.
13
This morning she’s beaming, asking for a mirror and lipstick. ‘Quick, quick, Keltum, all three of them are coming for lunch. They met at the Moulay Idriss mausoleum at Friday prayers, and decided to come and eat a mrouzia tagine, one of my specialities. Quick, Keltum, bring me the pot. Have you marinated the meat? Don’t forget the seven spices, it’s getting late …’
Out of curiosity, Keltum asks her who are these people coming to lunch. ‘My three husbands, of course. Yes, my three men, they’re here in Fez. They’re coming after midday prayers and the house isn’t ready. I’m starting to worry. Nothing’s ready, I’m so ashamed. What am I going to do? What will I tell them?’
Luckily, a moment later she forgets, and takes up the usual thread of her life. She asks for her medication, complains about Keltum’s laziness, adjusts her clothes and begins to pine for the days when she was stylish and beautiful. Then, driven by the devil, she’s off again:
‘Last night, before I went to bed, I opened my suitcase and counted my dresses and caftans. There were seven of them. I put them there, by my pillow. I wanted to sleep knowing my things were there, within reach. In the morning, they’d gone. Yes, gone. I’m surrounded by wicked people, by thieves. My dresses and caftans are nowhere to be found. Keltum must have sold them at auction. It’s like the pills — especially the expensive ones — she steals them and sells them. I don’t have proof, but I know how greedy country people can be; they’re never satisfied. They’re jealous. You see, son, the moment you go, they do exactly as they please; they leave me here, all alone. I cry out, I shout, but they don’t come. I can’t say a word to them; at the least little thing, they just drop everything and leave. It frightens me. You, you understand me. Do something, so they won’t abandon me. Now, where did my shoes go?’
‘But Yemma, you’ve got a bad foot, it’s covered in a dressing and won’t fit in your shoe.’
‘No, I want to be sure my shoes haven’t been sold.’
‘No one’s sold anything.’
‘Oh good. I’m so tired. Can you give me some money, to buy … What do I need to buy? I’ve forgotten. Oh lord, my memory’s gone, I’m forgetting everything. Your father used to tease me, saying I couldn’t even remember what we’d had for supper the night before. He was exaggerating, but sometimes I did have trouble remembering things.’
Keltum’s curiosity got the better of her again. That afternoon, while we were having tea, she asked: ‘Is it true you had three husbands?’
‘I don’t know. My foot hurts. I need a painkiller and you’re talking to me about marriage. No, I’ve decided I won’t marry again.’
She won’t marry again, she’ll never get married again …
The Diwane is the heart of the medina in Fez. That’s where all the shops are huddled together. That’s where Moulay Abdesslam, my mother’s uncle, would meet my father and become his closest friend. My father imported spices wholesale: crates and jute sacks were brought to the Diwane on the backs of mules. Sacks of coriander seeds, cumin from Africa, saffron from Spain, ginger from Asia, paprika, chilli pepper, white pepper, black pepper, tea from China, green tea, black tea … Moulay Abdesslam, who sold babouches, liked to come and smell the spices: he helped my father put away the stock, chatting all the while. That was how he learned that my father was neither happy nor satisfied with his wife, who was unable to bear him children.
‘You need a wife, a proper wife, one who’s already had children!’
‘Not so easy to come by, Moulay Abdesslam. My mother, who could have looked for a new wife for me, is no longer with us, alas, so I suffer in silence.’
‘We must remedy that, my dear friend!’
‘How?’
‘Leave it to me. I won’t say anything now. I’ll ask around, and let you know.’
That was how Moulay Abdesslam persuaded his brother, who had to persuade his wife, who had to speak to my mother and ask if she’d agree to be the second wife of a fine man, a spice merchant from a good family.
I don’t know which of the four had the idea of laying down a proviso for the marriage: the wedding would go ahead on condition that he divorce his first wife as soon as Lalla Fatma fell pregnant.
The agreement was concluded and a token dowry arranged. There was a small celebration, and my mother came to live with the first wife, who was convinced her husband was impotent. He’d spend one night with one wife, one night with the other, until the day ululations echoed through the house: my mother was pregnant. She had her first morning sickness, her first cravings; she was crowned queen and the other wife left of her own accord. My father sent her his ‘letter’, in other words his repudiation.
The house seemed bigger, immense. My father, who was very solicitous, never came home empty-handed.
The traders in the Diwane learned the news. Si Hassan is expecting a child, and his first wife is seeking another husband. Maalem Zitouni, the butcher of the Rcif neighbourhood, was tired of being single. A young divorcee wouldn’t turn up her nose at him. No easy matter, a woman agreeing to share the bed of a butcher, who, whatever he did, would always smell of fat and blood. Moulay Abdesslam agreed to act as go-between. There was a big wedding, a big celebration, and a good dowry was arranged.