I listened to her, not saying a word. I was intrigued, and afraid: ‘But Yemma, I’m barely fifteen! I still play with dolls.’
‘Daughter, did you know that the last wife of our beloved Prophet — his favourite, Aisha — was only twelve when he married her? You’re the daughter of a man as important and respected as a saint. You’re the daughter of a Cherif, a descendant of the Prophet. I myself was given to your father by my parents when I was sixteen.’
‘How old is he, this boy from a good family?’
‘Are you crazy? Your uncle Sidi Abdesslam spoke so highly of him to your father that we wouldn’t dream of questioning his judgement. All I know is that he’s a fine young man, from an excellent family, well known to us, and that he works with his father in the Diwane. That’s it, you’ll find out more on your wedding night, just as I did. Do you imagine I’d seen your father before the wedding? It was a mutual discovering, and I’ve been the happiest woman in the world.’
‘So he must be young!’
‘Oh yes! It’s his first marriage; he’s not one of those old men looking for a second or third wife.’
‘Yemma, I’ll never go against your wishes, I’ll do everything you tell me to as long as I have your blessing.’
‘Since I want only what’s best for you, you have nothing to fear! You know, daughter, my heart is a little heavy. Every marriage is a gamble, you never know how things will turn out, which is why we find out about the family, about their background — that’s very important, because it gives us some idea of the boy’s upbringing. The problem arises where there is dishonesty. That happened with my cousin Sidi Larbi, who was saddled with the elder sister of the girl his mother had asked for as a wife. How could he know? He only found out on the wedding night − as did we, by the way − but since our tradition does not permit divorce, he stayed married to her. She’s a good person, not beautiful at all, but sweet-natured. Still, you have nothing to fear, Sidi Drissi is a fine young man, we know the entire family well.’
3
My mother’s body continues to shrink. She is tiny. A tiny, light little thing with meagre flesh that causes her pain. Her sight has deteriorated but her hearing is perfect. She detected the call to prayer in the chirping of a sparrow. She said: ‘It’s calling God.’ My sister didn’t contradict her; she agreed the bird was an angel come to pray with them.
Once again she confused me with my older brother, asking me how his children were, getting everything muddled. Then she thought my children were my brother’s. I prefer to see the funny side, but he gets upset and his eyes fill with tears. I feel like crying too, but resist, because at times she is perfectly lucid and I see her as she always was — beautiful and graceful, clever and astute, conscious of what she’s suffering and of everything going on around her. She never loses her mind completely. My brother took it upon himself to work out how long her moments of clarity last compared with her rambling. He claims the periods when her mind wanders last longer.
Yesterday, sounding embarrassed, Keltum asked me to buy some pads. Mother’s increasingly incontinent, but she refuses to wear them. She tears off the adhesive strips and flings the pads under the bed. Keltum’s furious. She can’t take it any more: ‘You’re only here a few hours, but for me it’s all the time, day and night — and it’s worse at night. She hardly sleeps and wakes us up to talk about Fez and her brothers, who died a long time ago. Tell the doctor to give her a pill that will give her back her mind, or make her sleep. I can’t stand this any longer!’
Mother’s always had a serene attitude towards death. Her faith in God has driven out any fear of it. Once, in the days when her health gave no cause for alarm, she asked me for a large sum of money. ‘Why? Don’t be like your father, always asking what I wanted money for. I’m going to redo the sitting room, buy some new fabric, repaint the entire house, get two lovely low tables and some more cutlery and napkins.’ And why all that? ‘I want the house to be clean and tidy for my funeral. People will come from all over the country: I want them to find the house looking nice. They must be served good food; I’ve always received my guests generously. My farewell should be lavish, the best reception of all! That’s why I need money, son. I’m telling you now, and don’t forget. It has to be a grand occasion.’
My friend Roland’s mother celebrated her ninetieth birthday by going round the world. She lives in Lausanne, and her health is good, she plays bridge every day, reads books and goes to the cinema. Life in Switzerland is less tiring than it is in Fez. My mother never went to school, she doesn’t know how to play bridge, has never been to the theatre or the opera. She’s had three husbands and given birth to four children, fed them and raised them. Three husbands and only one true love. I’ve never heard her tell the story — I guessed. My mother doesn’t talk about love. It’s a word she uses only for her children. She says: ‘I’d die for you, light of my eyes, rainbow of my life, I’d die for you!’ She’s uneducated but not uncultured, she has her own culture, religious beliefs, values and traditions. To live an entire life without ever deciphering a page of writing, without ever being able to read numbers, to live in a closed world surrounded by signs, unable to understand them … The problem became acute the day my father had the telephone installed: she felt the need to learn numbers so she could call her children, her sister and her husband. My father taught them to her but soon lost patience, leaving her with the numbers written large on a slate. She decided to learn two phone numbers, no more: mine and the one for my father’s shop. She spent all day dialling them until she’d learned them by heart. One day she managed to dial mine correctly but to her disappointment she got the answerphone. She spoke to it: ‘You, machine, you’re the machine of my son in lafrance, aren’t you? Now you listen to me, and whatever you do, make sure you don’t forget a word I say, so you can tell him when he gets back. Now you tell him that his mother called, she’s fine — well, more or less, she’s dying to see him. Tell him too that his father’s coughing a lot and won’t go to the doctor. You must make a point of that, so he’ll call his doctor friend and get him to come over. He’s coughing up and spitting out nasty stuff. Tell him too that his sister Touria has gone to Mecca. So that’s it, machine, don’t forget to tell him to speak to his father, tell him as well that my blood sugar’s up after Keltum upset me. Right, I’m putting the phone down and I’m counting on you to pass on the message. One more thing — I’ll be quick — tell him that El Haj, his cousin, has lost his wife and he should call to offer his condolences. Thank you, thank you very much!’
4
My mother has worked all her life — in the kitchen, and keeping house. It hasn’t been easy for her. I remember her irritation when the primus stove was blocked and she had to delicately remove the gunge that had collected in the rising tube. I remember life with no refrigerator, with no gas stove, no running water, no telephone. My mother wore herself out. The servants she hired took advantage of her weakness. How many times did she find herself cooking lunch for fifteen people, on her own — last-minute guests, family members who’d arrived unexpectedly? They’d often come to spend holidays at our house.