She’s confusing Eid al-Fitr, the festival that marks the end of Ramadan, with Eid al-Adha, the festival of the sacrifice that takes place seventy days later. Of course, I’ll buy a sheep and we’ll give the meat to the poor. Keltum looks at me as if afflicted. She’ll have her mutton to eat with her children.
I usually give my mother a copy of each book I publish. I bring it to her, put it in her hands and summarise the story for her. She opens it, leafs through, either the right way round or back to front, then says a prayer to bless it. She often starts an argument over some detail. For her, a book is the truth. Facts must not be twisted.
The other day, she had a visit from one of her nieces, Sumaya, who’s married to a billionaire. This woman once phoned me to lecture me on literature: ‘Stop writing books that aren’t at all Moroccan, that treat our religion irreverently. God will punish you because you take liberties with our beautiful religion. You should dedicate your pen to the service of Islam and the Muslim nation and stop writing stories that are of no interest to Morocco, books for the Christians. You’re betraying your country and your religion, and what’s worse, you don’t even write in Arabic. You should start learning the language of the Qur’an and devote yourself to good causes — just causes, which defend Islam and banish infidels. You paint a negative picture of our country, you ought to be ashamed …’ etc.
This girl, who was married off very young by my uncle because she was such a hussy, now goes around proselytising. Every time she visits my mother, she gives her a bound copy of the Qur’an and asks her to urge me to change the subject of my novels. My mother says she’ll be sure to pass on the message. ‘You know, son, your cousin Sumaya gave me another holy book. Look, it’s beautiful. You ought to write a book like this one. She’s right; if you write a book like this, you’ll be a holy man, and your enemies won’t be able to say a word!’
Write the Qur’an! I don’t know whether mother’s joking or delusional. ‘Yemma, the Qur’an is the Word of God, no one can rewrite it or say they have written it. It’s a miracle book, unique, sacred and eternal, how can your son compete with God?’
‘Ask God for forgiveness, son! I didn’t suggest you write the Qur’an, but a book in the same spirit. That’s what Sumaya’s asking, and she’s right. But do what you want to do, you’re a grown man and responsible. You know, sometimes I’m afraid of the people who want to hurt you. They’re jealous, their eyes bore holes in whatever they look at. They’re bad people, and you should watch out for the ones who say they’re your friends. It’s the people close to you who can do you the most harm; the ones further away, who hardly know you, can’t hurt you. They can talk, but no one will necessarily believe them. The ones who know you are more credible. You’re too trusting, you should be carefuclass="underline" success is like a very bright light, it dazzles the people in front of you, it makes them weak and resentful, jealous and covetous. And the worst of it is that they put the evil eye on you. They think you don’t deserve success. But God has placed you above those who want to harm you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. My father was a saint — light radiated from his face. He’s the one who taught me that natural goodness is a gift from God. I am good, I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone, even the people who are jealous of you, I leave them to God. You know, your father wasn’t always kind — he envied shopkeepers who did well. I often told him to stop being jealous. He would curse and shout but he had no defence. I saw him yesterday, you know, he came to visit me. He was wearing a white djellaba and a bright red tarbouche, and he smelled of paradise. He was smiling. He’s got younger.’
‘But Yemma, Father died more than ten years ago!’
‘Oh, I see, he died and no one told me! In any case, I saw him. Death suits him: his skin was clear and his eyes were calm. Death puts things in their place. His soul is travelling. That’s it — it was his soul I saw. It smelled good. You know your father never dressed well, he always wore those dark-brown djellabas I hated. He didn’t like changing his shirt every day, he said that appearances didn’t matter. He was clean, but he didn’t care for fine clothes. Luckily you’re not like him. You dress very well. That annoys people too, they can’t bear other people looking good. Envy … It’s incredible how jealous people can be. I worry when I see you on television because your image is everywhere, it goes into every house. I don’t like you being on television too much, being seen so much, it all stirs up your enemies’ hatred, and they start spreading gossip the moment your back is turned. They all want to be in your shoes. Watch out for the ones who are always smiling at you, the ones who flatter you and tell you you’re the best. They’re the ones who’ll ambush you, son — like your father’s friend, that businessman who claimed to be juggling millions — you know, the one who got your father to hand over all his savings, which he put in a fake bank account, and your father never got the money back — that one. I’ve prayed to God to punish him and keep him away from trusting people so he can’t steal from them any more. Watch out! Wait, I can’t see anything, where are my glasses? It’s all gone dark. Help me look, maybe I dropped them. Look under the bed …’
‘But Yemma, you’re wearing them, it’s a power cut. The light will come back on soon. Take my hand and we’ll pray together for the light to come back!’
‘What was I saying? Remind me what I was talking about. I can’t remember recent things, but I remember old things very clearly. It’s strange, the oldest memories are the most faithful, they don’t leave me, whereas this morning’s, I didn’t keep them, I don’t know what I did with them. Maybe they fell on the floor, like the glasses. Old memories stay with us till the grave. What happens to them afterwards? I have no idea. Sometimes I imagine a big shop, a kind of warehouse that the dead pass through before they’re buried, where they leave their old memories and then go off to the house of God, feeling lighter. I can’t wait to go there. I mean it, I’m tired, I’m worn out, and I can’t bear these two women skulking around. They look at me with hyena eyes. They’re waiting for me to go, so they can take all my things. I can read their expressions, I learn things even when they don’t say anything. You remember our neighbours, the old French couple? The husband died first. Their housekeeper took advantage of the wife’s illness to steal everything from her. She even had a lorry come to take it all away. The next day, we found out that the old woman had died. In fact, she’d died very early that morning. The housekeeper didn’t tell anyone, she used that time to clear the place out. The police came and the housekeeper made a deal with them. I’m scared those two will steal everything I have left. That’s why we have to watch out. I know possessions aren’t important to you. You say we shouldn’t get attached to things, but they’re all I have, and I don’t want anyone to steal from me, either now or after I die. Get a pencil and a piece of paper and write down: seven caftans embroidered in the seven colours I love: white, beige, pale yellow, sky blue, mauve, light green, pink, midnight blue, off-white …’