Mother hasn’t cooked for some time. Even when ill, she’d position herself next to Keltum and dictate what to cook. These days, she’s given up any involvement with food. But in her mind, she’s the one who cooks, through Keltum. It’s hard to tell her the tagine’s no good or the minced meat is too spicy. She takes it badly, convinced that Keltum is the extension of her culinary skills. I don’t like Keltum’s cooking. It’s too oily, and has no subtlety. I refuse to believe I’m eating my mother’s food. I pretend. I ask for simple things: grilled meat and salads. For my mother, to eat her food is to love her. If I sometimes didn’t finish what was on my plate, she’d sigh and fret. To eat is to celebrate a strong, indissoluble emotional bond.
Over the past few months, Mother’s lost interest in eating. She merely picks at the food on her plate. She says she eats so she can swallow her many pills. Only Keltum knows her drug regime. Although she’s illiterate, she has her own little tricks to help her tell the packets of tablets apart and give my mother her medication at the right time. She says: ‘The little pink pill is for your heart, to be taken every morning. The two white ones are for your blood pressure, to be taken before lunch. At night, there’s the green box, then the blue one, and half a red pill to help you sleep.’ Mother trusts her completely. She’s just afraid that Keltum will fall ill and make a mistake in the dosage, or simply forget altogether.
Mother claims she no longer dreams. She forgets, that’s all. On the other hand, she cherishes her hallucinations. For over a month, she hasn’t stopped telling us the story of the sparrow that came to her window one night and began to call out the different names for Allah. She interpreted this visit as a sign from heaven telling her she should prepare to depart this life. Mother repeated the names after the sparrow and the prayers it sang. She said it came, tapped on the window and spoke to her directly. My sister Touria confirmed the vision and there was nothing more to say.
Ever since Touria lost her husband in a car accident, she can suddenly faint, fall to the floor and lie unconscious, with her eyes open. Completely gone. The doctor mentioned hysteria. When she comes to, she reassures us: ‘It’s nothing, it’s always happening, just like that, out of the blue. It comes from up above, from God, there’s nothing to be done. Even the doctors agree, we just have to wait for the moment to pass. In the beginning, the children were frightened, they thought I was dying, but now they’re used to it. I keel over and no one notices me, that’s just how it is, no need to panic. I simply need to rest, maybe to go to Mecca again, but how would I manage it? Without him, I couldn’t. We always did everything hand in hand, with never a cross word. We never argued. I listened to him and he listened to me. We got along as if we were made of the same stuff. The truth is, I can’t live without him, even though I have my children and they look after me. Well, you have to forget, make as if you’re carrying on.’
Mother is aware her daughter’s behaviour has grown increasingly strange: ‘It got worse when her poor husband died. He loved me like his own mother. He was a good man, generous and principled. If a little rigid. When he said no it was no. What a disaster, such a cruel, brutal death! It was written. He died on impact. A lorry pulled out from a line of cars and ploughed straight into him. If he’d agreed to put off leaving until the next day, the lorry would have driven into another car. Dear God, forgive me. It was written, since the day he was born. He was stubborn. If he’d listened to me, he wouldn’t be dead. Oh Lord, forgive me, I’m rambling. It’s all in Your hands: life, death, joy, tears, everything. We’re nothing on this earth. I must pray now. I haven’t done my ablutions. Where’s the polished stone for washing myself? They’re stealing everything, they’re robbing me while I’m still alive. Even what’s-her-name, she took my gold earrings and the necklace with the pendant. It’s unbelievable, people’s greed. As if God doesn’t give us enough of His goodness. Where was I? Oh, Mother’s in Fez and she’s refusing to drive to see me. But where are we? What city are we living in? Tangier, you say? But Tangier was another time, I wasn’t yet married. I’m getting it all muddled up. My mother won’t come! Although I’m her daughter, she’d rather stay with my little sister. She’s always preferred Amina. Her husband’s rich. I’m the eldest and still she neglects me. It’s isn’t nice.’
All day she called her daughter ‘Yemma’.
On the phone, Mother easily recognises me. The voice must be imprinted deeper in the memory than the face. In fact, she sometimes mistakes me for one of my brothers. The other day, she commented that my voice had broken: ‘You have a man’s voice. You’ve grown up fast. You’re my little one, my little youngest one. I love all my children but with you there’s something more. That’s just the way it is, I don’t know why. You mustn’t be angry with me. When are you coming to see me? Be careful how you walk, don’t forget you’re only a child!’
My mother’s sent me back to childhood. In her eyes, I haven’t grown up. I’m still the child she adored in Fez when I was ill and wasting away right before her eyes. She’s returned to the time when she was afraid of losing me to a mysterious disease. I tell her I’m over fifty, I have four children and she must be confusing her son with her grandsons. She only half-believes me: ‘That’s right, tell me I’m crazy, I’m losing my mind, your mother’s inventing things. Yes, give me a sign if you agree. Maybe you’re right, I’m raving. You know, pills don’t just do good, they destroy what they don’t heal. So you aren’t my little boy and we aren’t in Fez. But what’s this new house then? I don’t know it. Take me back home. You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’
My sister has left. She ran out of patience, looking after Mother. She just snapped. I understood, and told her to take care of her health. She replied that all is in God’s hands. I said nothing and looked down. What can you say to those who believe in fate, who think everything is written in advance and that we are on earth only to follow the path traced for us by God? Mother’s less fatalistic than her daughter. She’s convinced that God determines human actions but that we shouldn’t sit idly by, just waiting for things to happen.
15
The cardiologist has come this morning. He asks me to help him raise my mother up so he can examine her. She’s not very heavy. As I lean over, I catch a glimpse of her left breast. Withered, emptied, flabby skin. I look away and wish I hadn’t seen it. I shouldn’t have stayed in the room. My mother always had beautiful breasts. One of my sunniest childhood memories comes back to me. We were in Fez. I was playing on the terrace when my mother suddenly appeared: she was looking for me, thinking I’d run off somewhere. She didn’t have much on, and I clearly saw her magnificent breasts. I must have been five or six years old. She hugged me to her and kissed my head. My eyes were buried in her chest. I pressed against her; it was soft and soothing.
That memory is far more vivid than the ones from the hammam. Of course, I’ve seen my mother naked several times, but mostly in the steam and semi-darkness of the Turkish baths. There were other women, other shapes that assailed me at night: I often had nightmares in which my head was being crushed by two immense breasts, or my puny body trapped between heavy, sticky thighs. No, I don’t have good memories of those times in the hammam. I was relieved when l’Assise, the woman who always sat at the door, stopped me going in. My mother tried to protest, but I was too old to be innocent. That’s what l’Assise said. So I waited outside. I loved watching the women coming out, smelling of soap, henna and perfume.