‘Fez! Oh my husband, my young husband!’ she says suddenly. ‘Fez, city of cities, the most beautiful of cities, city of civilisation, home of the Muslim religion, morality and good family. Oh my husband! What a mistake it was to leave Fez. But everyone left. Its people — the ones with roots there and ancestors in El Guebeb, the most beautiful cemetery in the world — betrayed it. They went to Casablanca to make their fortunes! You’re right to regret the move. You and your business were doing badly, so one evening you came home and said: “Wife, we’re going to Tangier. My brother’s made me an offer to start up a business. There’s nothing here any more, nothing’s working. Since our king was exiled, it’s been a disaster.” I said: “Wait a little, the king will come back and business will pick up.” You shouted at me: “You can’t give me advice!” I followed you in silence, as usual, I agreed because I had no choice, and there was my other son, of course, the one you never accepted, the son I had with my first husband. The first or the second? I don’t know any more. Anyway he wasn’t yours. He came with us to help you, but it all went wrong. And there I was, far from Fez, far from the most beautiful cemetery in the world, far from Moulay Idriss, the city’s saint. And alone. I’m talking to myself, but who are you, smiling at me? Oh, you came back! But why don’t you say anything? You’ve grown younger, your skin’s soft, your wrinkles are gone. But so have your eyes. What are those white balls in place of your eyes? Answer me! Say something! You’re usually so talkative, you used to talk all the time and never let me get a word in. Well, I’m going to make the most of it, I’m going to tell you everything that’s been bothering me for such a very long time. Listen carefully: I’m not a bad person, I don’t gossip. I have a tendency to moan a bit, to complain, like children do. But now I’m going to speak to you with the respect a wife owes her husband. I haven’t been happy with you, the sun never shone when I was with you, you never called me by my name, you couldn’t say Lalla Fatma, or even Fatma. I would have been happy with just my name, and you can leave the Lalla to the princesses! I was short of money all the time. I know you didn’t have much, but you were stingy. I’m sorry if I sound brutal, but I feel I have a duty to tell you everything. Maybe stingy isn’t the right word. You were thrifty, afraid of not having enough, and of having to borrow from your brother, who was rich but even stingier than you. You never made your fortune. We didn’t go without, we just had the bare minimum. We weren’t starving but I didn’t have enough to buy caftans or jewellery. If there was a party, I’d ask my little sister if I could borrow her things. I’d cry and you’d just look nervous, putting your hand to your forehead, which was hot because you suffered from migraines. You didn’t even look at me. I was your wife and your servant too. You liked being waited on and I’d kiss your right hand the way I used to kiss my father’s. You liked that submissiveness, but you weren’t tender towards me. When I saw how my brothers and sister lived with their spouses, I couldn’t help my eyes filling with tears, thinking of my situation. Tell me the truth today: did you love me? You never showed the least sign of affection. When I talked about our life together, you’d be embarrassed, you always changed the subject. You liked entertaining and making jokes about people who weren’t there. It wasn’t very kind, but my family liked your wit, your irony. You made them laugh, but you never made me laugh. I’d have loved it if you’d made me laugh, had fun with me, making jokes … Oh, I know you said I didn’t understand your sense of humour, that it went over my head … Now that we’re nearly equal, you in the cemetery and me lying on this bed, waiting for death, we can tell each other everything. But you can’t talk any more, you’re just an apparition, a fine figure of a man, good-looking. And me wittering on. Give me something to drink — no, not milk, water; you know I can’t take milk in the mornings. Thank you. Help me to sit up or I might choke on it and that hurts. How many times you nearly died from drinking too fast, a gulp of water going down the wrong way. Panic and impatience run in the family. You want everything right now. No, husband. I’m being careful, I’m going to drink slowly. So, will you hurry up?’
‘I’m coming, Yemma, take your pill with it, it’s for your blood pressure, yes, your blood pressure’s high, like your son’s, the blood’s pressing the arteries, we have to lower it.’
‘All right, my love! I’m tired, I’m waiting. Yes, you at least I can telclass="underline" I’m waiting for the last goodbye. You’re my son, aren’t you? Your father was here just now, he came to see if I was ready. I forgot to tell him I was tired and longing to join him. I made a mess of it, all I did was blame him, I told him what was on my mind, but you I can telclass="underline" I’ve had enough of waiting, it’s as if I’d been left on a station platform and I’m waiting for the train. But I have a feeling the station’s closed down, there are no more trains coming through, it’s covered in weeds, it’s cold, there are draughts. Strange people are passing by and then they fall over. No one comes to help, they’re just left there. It’s definitely a station because I can see the rails. There’s even a lone carriage, abandoned on the track. I think it’s turned into a refuge for the poor, for people who have nowhere to stay. But I’m in my house, what can I do, I’m stuck here, staring at the wall opposite. The wall’s just a pile of stones, it doesn’t answer me, it’s not a mirror. I watch everything around me and I think of the future. Oh, not my grandchildren’s wide-open future, but my own. Leaving you, not being a burden on you any more. I know you’re patient, you don’t get annoyed, you’re here because you love me and the love I have for you fills my heart and spills over. That’s simply the way it is, I didn’t choose it, but when I think of you, my heart beats faster and fills with love till it drowns. Yes, my love is a flood. I’m sorry, I know that’s a burden, you’ve already told me that. I’m here waiting and I see the magnificent light, it’s our Prophet’s face, a dazzling light. That’s what death is, we depart on the rays of that light, we no longer suffer, we’re calm. Just thinking about it makes me feel better, less anxious. I’m feeling a little sleepy now, I might take a nap. Perhaps I won’t wake up, like my mother. She went in her sleep. She was still all there, she wasn’t crazy like me. You know I … Don’t pretend to reassure me. I just said your father was here. Well, that’s crazy. Your father died ten years, two months and three days ago! The dead don’t travel, but maybe what I see doesn’t exist. That’s what it is, I have visions, like sick people who get feverish. I see things that aren’t there, I talk to ghosts, to apparitions. Oh dear me no, your father wouldn’t have liked being called an apparition, and especially not a ghost. No, I’m making things up — it’s because of the deserted station and the pills, especially the ones that make me feel drowsy, sluggish and strange. They settle my nerves and send me off on journeys … When I go wandering, I’m not afraid of anything. I forget my pain and just walk. You see, son, that’s how we go and don’t come back. But you have to be there, with your brothers and sister. It’s important — for me and for you, because once I’m dead you’ll forget me. That’s how it is. You’ll have an image of me that’s calm and serene. Give alms on Fridays, give to the poor, recite a few verses from the Qu’ran at my grave. I know you don’t like going to graves; well then, don’t come. I know I’m in your heart and I won’t need you in the cemetery. I didn’t go to my parents’ graves much either, they’re buried in … I can’t remember if they’re buried here in Fez or over there in Tangier. But where am I? Remind me where we are. That woman’s shouting “Tangier” from the kitchen. She’s listening to our conversation, she must be working with the police, but I’m not afraid any more. So what was I talking about, my stolen jewels or your son’s circumcision? You must circumcise him or he won’t be Muslim … I’m talking too much. It’s the emptiness making me talk. When you’re here, I talk all the time. I tell you the same story for the hundredth time. I repeat myself. Yes, I say the same things again and again. Forgive me, son, you understand. The others don’t. My daughter gets upset and tells me off for repeating the same stories, she says I’m losing my mind. Then she goes off to the kitchen and leaves me all alone. So I go on talking as if she was here. I’m not crazy, I’m just tired.’