I don’t remember ever complimenting my mother, either on her cooking or her appearance. She’d often chide us for it, especially at mealtimes. She’d have liked to hear kind words, such as: ‘May God give you health and keep you, so your hands continue to feed us so well!’ Or: ‘You’re the best cook in the world.’
When my brother and I were invited to my uncle’s or to friends’, my mother insisted on knowing every detail of what we’d eaten and our opinion of the food. That was the way she fished for compliments. We were fairly sparing when it came to tender or loving words. That was the general rule: you didn’t show your feelings in public, or express them. Above all, you avoided any display of affection. I don’t remember hearing my father or mother ever talk about love. You don’t say ‘I love you,’ you don’t kiss in public, you don’t parade your private life in front of your children. Modesty and respect are all.
17
I haven’t seen my mother for a month. To her, that’s a small eternity. She said as much yesterday, on the phone: ‘You don’t realise, but you haven’t been to see me in such a long time. I’m going to die without having seen your children again. I know they’ve grown up but tell me, does your eldest daughter live with you or has she moved out? When are you coming? After Ramadan? My God, that’s such a long time! No, come before, just a little, I’m dying of this love. I know because it’s so painful. And I’m bored. I have nothing to do, I’m just here, stuck in a corner like a bag of bones that doesn’t move. Your poor mother’s mad, is what you’re thinking. Go on, say it, it doesn’t worry me. It’s true in a way — not all the time, but sometimes I lose track of time and get everything muddled. Pills aren’t always your friends; they’re deceptive, they help and they harm. Half the time they heal, the other half they attack. So, when are you coming? Tomorrow? No? Why not, son? You’re so far away, you can’t, you have too much work. Now, where is it you work? You’ve told me but I forget. Forgetting is the enemy. Your father used to say I had the forgetting disease. He’d say it to annoy me. He’d ask me to remind him what we’d had for supper the night before, and I couldn’t always remember everything. You want my blessing? But you already have it, you and your brothers and sister, you have all my blessing. You need more, I know, because you’re in the public eye. You attract so much jealousy and envy. People are spiteful; they don’t like successful people, they put the evil eye on them. But I’m watching out, making sure God protects you and shields you from all their scheming and mischief-making. I know and my heart can see black shadows swooping round you like vultures; they want to hurt you. But I know they’re wasting their time, you’re the grandson of a saint, they can’t touch you. Let them get all worked up, you’re better than them. I don’t know about spite myself; I’ve never been nasty to anyone. That’s how it is, it’s just my nature, I couldn’t even think of hurting anyone, but some people have a talent for it. You need to know that, and watch out, but when you’re good you don’t need to watch out. I was just saying that to my father. You know, he came back and his beard was all white, he put his arms around me and whispered in my ear. The house is full of guests, I wonder why they’re all here. I’m telling you: be wary of people, the ones who try to take advantage of you. They won’t succeed. Go, son, don’t forget the wishes I send with you; they’re all wholesome and good, you deserve them. But be careful. God has given you a gift; your fingers are precious. Whatever you touch, you’ll be blessed. Stone will turn to gold, gold to love, and you, who are so good and simple, you’re my son, the one who loves me so much! My father’s going, he left with our Prophet. Fez is a marvellous city at the moment. Tangier? Where is that? No, I’m telling you: I’m in Fez with my parents, and I’m playing with all the boxes of pills Sidi Mohammed left behind. You know he died, poor man, he died and never even saw his daughter …’
That still upsets my brothers, they know the youngest is often spoilt. When we were children, she treated us all equally. She loved us with the same fervour. In the mornings, before sending us to school, she’d slip ten raisins into each of our pockets, saying: ‘It’s to make you clever! They say that a plump raisin nourishes the mind, so if you eat them every morning, you’ll never be stupid. In any case, my children are never naughty. And besides, the monkey loves her little ones, however ugly they are. I love you and you are handsome. Go in God’s light and do well, so you pass all your exams.’
When we came home from school, we’d shout: ‘We’re hungry!’ before we even reached the door. Mother did her utmost to stop us shouting in the street. She was convinced the neighbours would be saying things like: ‘That family starves the children, she doesn’t give them enough to eat, those people are either mean or poor.’ The neighbours said no such thing because their own children were shouting the same as us. But my mother was careful to be discreet. That’s probably why she never raises her voice. She never shouts.
She doesn’t like strong colours or perfumes. She loves brightness, light, open spaces. She says that light makes the heart swell, deep brown darkens the horizon, black cuts us off from life, noise distances us from people, panic invites death, sleeplessness puts darkness deep in the eyes, money’s the dirt of life. God fills our heart with His presence and His light wards off evil. ‘If you buy me a headscarf, choose one with the colours of a sunny springtime. I don’t want black, I’ve never worn black.’
18
Today she’s wearing a white tchamir, a kind of long robe that serves as a nightdress. She doesn’t like this tchamir. She asks for her beautiful caftans, her mansourias and her headscarves. ‘I’m not taking them to the grave with me, I’d rather wear them now than never.’ Keltum says: ‘I’ll give them to you after you’ve had your bath.’ And then forgets.
Mother doesn’t like herself any more. She no longer wants to look in a mirror. She adjusts the scarf on her head and sighs as if she were condemned never to get dressed again. I hold out the little mirror she keeps in her handbag. She looks away, then slowly turns towards the mirror, seeking her reflection, and then hangs her head as if she’s about to cry. I put the mirror back in the bag. She starts to complain, while Keltum rolls her eyes at me to signal she’s off again. I know she’s thrown bank notes and jewellery down the toilet countless times, I know she rips her tchamir and refuses to wear incontinence pads. She won’t talk to me about it. Even in her delusions, she’s well-mannered, reserved and modest. She complains too much. Nothing new about that. It’s a way of passing the time, of having something to say.
The other day, as I kissed her hand, she held on to mine and brought it to her lips to kiss. At first I resist, then let her have her way. She keeps it in hers. Even her hands are tiny now. She speaks in a slow, soft voice: ‘I’m a beggar woman; I pick up the dead leaves of time, one day here, one week there. I’ve been gathering up the hours for a long time and putting them over there in the corner of the room. Don’t you think the room’s got narrower? It’s like a grave. Maybe that’s what death is. My room will cave in, the walls around me will close in and bury me. I was telling you I’m the beggar of time, but sometimes I no longer want to take the time God gives. I’m not picking up anything any more. I bend over and there are no more hours lying around. My eyesight’s got worse. I can’t see things or hours any more. I can see them but they’re blurry and faraway, they look strange. That’s boredom for you; it’s deceiving me, lying to me, making the days look as if they shimmer with light and splendour, and in fact they’re nothing like that. I’m not a young girl any more, for it to tease me like that. You see, son, I say whatever comes into my head and then I forget all about it. But tell me: yesterday was the start of Ramadan and I’m not fasting, the doctor forbade it. But I’m praying, and asking God for forgiveness. Although I’m not eating much, I’m not very hungry. Don’t forget to buy the sheep for Eid.’