‘But Yemma, that’s more than seven …’
‘It doesn’t matter. The main thing is that I have a dozen caftans, some of them are still brand-new. Put down two headscarves for each outfit, matching of course, five mansourias, and four belts embroidered in Fez by Maître Bennis … Then the djellabas for special occasions; I’m leaving out the everyday djellabas, they’re nothing special. So, there are five silk djellabas sewn by Maître Bennis’ son. Don’t forget the embroidered handkerchiefs I have for parties and ceremonies. There’s no point putting down underwear and pyjamas. Write the list of my jewellery in your notebook, after the clothes …’
‘But Yemma, you’ve already given your jewellery to your granddaughters and their mother. You’ve got no jewellery left, or very little.’
‘Is that right? I don’t have any more jewellery! Didn’t I tell you, I’m surrounded by enemies and thieves? My jewellery’s been stolen — that’s it, Keltum and that fat woman took it while I was sleeping or when I was in the hospital.’
‘No, Yemma, you gave it to me to look after and then I shared it out according to your instructions.’
‘Are you sure? Or are you saying that to keep me quiet? Well anyway, it doesn’t matter. Let’s say the jewellery’s disappeared. Put down the other things I own: the sitting room, more particularly the wool in the sitting-room mattresses: it’s wool I bought in Fez with my savings; your father refused to do up the house. There’s a tonne of it — no, less, maybe 400 kilos — you should take it for your house. It’s very good quality, pure wool, which makes mattresses very comfortable. Then there’s the carpets, the Rabat one as well as the one from Fez. They’re old, and very good quality. Don’t sell them off cheap. Also the tea service, which was made in London, you have to look after it …’
‘But Yemma, you gave that tea set to my brother on his wedding day, thirty years ago …’
‘Write it down, I say, don’t try to confuse me. I’m not mad. I’m well aware your brother has the tea service, but that’s no reason not to make a note of it, we can sort it out later … I don’t care about the TV — or the radio, it hasn’t worked in twenty years, but your father liked to keep everything: keys and broken locks, batteries, clapped-out lamps, everything, and the radio’s part of the job lot, it’s furniture … Ah, the curtains! I hate them. Do me a favour, take them down and give them to Keltum, she’ll know what to do with them. The old wardrobe’s heavy and cumbersome, it should stay where it is, it’s useful for storing food. It’s got woodworm and the doors don’t close, but it’s part of the house. The mirror, the huge one in the corridor, is tarnished. Take it for your house. Your father loved it, but I don’t know what to do with it. It’s so high up, and I’ve shrunk, I can’t see myself in it, so it’s no use. You know your cousin, the one who lost his wife last year, he’s over eighty and he’s just remarried. He was broken by loneliness — he told me that the other day. We’re quite close because we’re the same generation. He’s found a woman from a good family, she’s in her fifties, but his children have taken it very badly — that’s how it is, they loved their mother and can’t bear another woman to take her place; and of course the wife will have her share of the inheritance, too … You know, towards the end of his life, your father tried to take another wife, a young one, like the girl who came to give him his injections. But I wouldn’t have it — over my dead body, I told him. When I’m gone, you can marry whoever you like. Sort it out with your children. But while I still have breath, I won’t allow you to do something so disastrous. I wasn’t jealous, but I can’t bear the lack of respect. I have my dignity, my honour. So he gave up the idea … When he comes, later on, ask him to tell you about it. It was while you were studying in France. You weren’t living with us — you’d come to see us in the summer, then disappear for the rest of the year.’
‘But Yemma, Father’s dead, have you forgotten again?’
‘No I haven’t forgotten, but the dead visit us from time to time, we shouldn’t shut the door in their faces. It’s not right, and it brings bad luck. The dead are like angels, they pass by, leave a lingering scent and are gone. Your father often comes to see what’s going on in the house. He’s not always happy, he grumbles, but since the dead don’t speak, I hear sighs coming from somewhere. You know, after my death I’ll come back too. Be mindful, always leave a window open, don’t keep everything closed. In any case, the soul can pass through walls and forests, it makes its way even into your sleep, into your dreams, makes them more real, more vivid. I’m not scared of death, no, not scared at all. It’s God’s will, and anyway to die is to meet the saints, with our Prophet and with God. So I have nothing to fear, quite the opposite, I’m delighted. It’s other people dying that scares me. I don’t like seeing cold, stiff bodies, and I don’t like sleeping in the room where the dead have been washed. That’s how it is, the strange smells of the soulless body, the whiteness of the shroud, the date halves on the face. That whole ritual offends my eyes. I’m not hungry, I’m not sleepy, my water’s leaked out. How shaming. Yes, I’ve wet myself, like a child. You see, your mother’s turned into a little thing that can’t control itself. I say whatever comes into my head, I mix up all my memories and I get confused about time. But I still have my mind. Lapses: yes, I have memory lapses. Even people who are well have memory lapses. You understand, little brother. You remember when we were playing in the neighbours’ garden in Fez? You’d get caught and I’d hide. Come to think of it, it’s been a long time since you came to see me. I’m your older sister, you have a duty to your older sister, don’t you? Or is it your wife stopping you from going out?’
‘But Yemma, I’m not your little brother, I’m your son, your last child, I’m fifty-six and I’m alive. Your little brother died twenty years ago, and so did his wife.’
19
In the summer of 1953, the Fez medina was silent and lifeless. The shopkeepers were on strike. Political rallies were held in the mosques, followed by demonstrations demanding independence. Morocco couldn’t live without Mohammed V, who’d been deposed by the French and exiled to Madagascar. The face of Fez was changing, and so was its fate. People spoke of resistance and armed struggle. All commercial activity was to cease as a sign of protest. Some people took advantage of the situation, trading on the black market and then turning police informant. Shopkeepers and craftsmen came together in an effort to bring France to its knees. I remember a meeting at the house of my aunt’s husband. Allal El Fassi, the party leader, arrived, surrounded by his supporters. My sister’s husband was there too, a potter, a very humble and brave man. I heard them say our country was in danger. They spoke of freedom, the Istiqlal party, independence. My uncle had confiscated one of my toys, a spinning top. He’d even hurt me, by tugging my ear: ‘You think this is a time to play and have fun? The country’s rising up and you’re playing spinning tops!’ I couldn’t see how my top was going to hinder the country’s liberation. The streets were deserted. Fez wasn’t the same. The city had been shrouded in a crumpled sheet, no longer allowed to celebrate; there was no joy or even light. It was decaying even as it became the centre of Moroccan nationalism. All I knew was that my father was unhappy, torn between his urge to fight the French and the determination not to lose his business. After a month of striking and demonstrating, he could no longer feed his family.