‘Keep away from politics, son, stay out of it. You know they tried to kill the king, they killed so many people during his birthday celebrations, but fortunately God protected him. They started again the year after. I remember it clearly, we were all so afraid. If they’d managed to murder him, they’d have murdered us too. I know we’re not involved in politics but you, you were punished. There’s no arguing with army people. What a time that was: fear, fear everywhere. Beggars and servants spying on families, everyone suspicious of everyone else. Do you remember that customer of your father’s who was arrested and put in prison because his brother was in the army and had, I think, taken part in the killing? The whole family was punished. God preserve us from the army and its methods!’
She vividly remembers that period. The ordeal of the eye operation is not easily forgotten. She still talks about it: ‘It was so painful, especially lying on my back, not moving, in the dark. Not being able to lift my head. I remember. You were there, you were writing, and I was thinking of poor Miloud, who’d disappeared, Your father was complaining because he’d stayed in Tangier on his own. I thought of him and I have to admit that not seeing him for a month was a relief. Marriage, son, is also a habit you get used to, it can be a chore or a torment. I was thinking of my health, he was ranting because the maid wasn’t as good a cook as me — a funny way to compliment me on my cooking! Anyway, that’s all in the past. And whatever happened to your book? Hand me my glasses, I’m going to watch TV. It’s Friday, they should be showing midday prayers.’
‘But Yemma, it’s Monday and TV’s not broadcasting prayers but a Mexican soap where everyone speaks classical Arabic.’
‘I know my sight’s getting worse, but my hearing’s excellent. I can hear the Qur’an, can’t I? Isn’t that the Qur’an they’re reading?’
‘No, Yemma, no one’s reading the Qur’an, it’s in your head, you can hear prayers in the distance …’
‘Then my time must be near. We must get the sitting room in order and invite the tolba to read the Qur’an over my body. I’m sure to go in the daytime — you should be ready. I want a wonderful party with the city’s best tolba, reading and singing the beautiful words of God. I want them to be well looked-after and well paid, I want them to leave feeling happy and contented. We must feed them — maybe we should book a caterer. Apparently it’s quicker and more efficient. These days caterers solve all our problems, especially at funerals. Can you believe it: misfortune strikes and people don’t have the generosity or the time to make a meal for all the visitors who pour in from other cities to offer their condolences? So, first the caterer, then reading the words of God. Don’t forget the paradise incense. Come closer. I have to tell you, I put some aside and hid it, especially for that day. You should know where I’ve hidden it, where … Oh, I can’t remember — what a disaster. To think my memory lets me down just when I need it the most. It’s an incense my daughter brought me back from Mecca. It’s extraordinary, very strong, very fragrant, it’s sublime. But I can’t remember the hiding place! You’ll have to look for it. Don’t ask Keltum, she’ll just steal it. Go and rummage around in the wardrobe, in the drawers, it’s in a white handkerchief. My God, help me remember …’
‘But Yemma, I’ll buy you some … the main thing is to have the paradise incense. Don’t worry, you’ll have a lovely funeral, I promise, my brothers and I will make sure of it, you can sleep in peace.’
Whenever my mother gets bored, she starts talking about her funeral. It keeps her busy, it comforts her. She’s especially concerned with the details of the ceremony, ways to make it beautiful and dignified. She wants to tread lightly, avoid creating problems for the family. She wants to leave a happy memory, a good impression. She’s convinced that death is logical, or more exactly, she hopes it is: ‘I don’t have much time left to live. That’s how it is, death is a right. But I don’t want death to make a mistake and take one of my children. That’s a disaster I wouldn’t be able to bear. May God call me to Him in your lifetime, not the other way around … Well, that’s what I wish for, I pray for it all the time, but who knows what God intends? No one dares guess, well I certainly don’t. My father taught me never to think of God outside of prayer. I’ve always prayed. Today the problem is I haven’t washed. I can’t pray as much as I used to. I do my ablutions with the polished stone — you know, the black stone. But where is it? I’ve lost that too. Help me look, look under the sheets; sometimes it slips under the covers and falls down on the other side of the bed. You know, you can use that holy stone instead of water, you just rub it on your arms and your hands, it’s just like washing. Did you find it? Keltum must have put it away, go and find out where. Your sister’s gone back home, she’s bored here. She says our TV doesn’t show any good programmes, but the truth is she went because she doesn’t get along with Keltum. They’re always arguing and I’m in the middle of it. I watch but I don’t say anything, because my daughter will be angry with me if I side with Keltum and Keltum will leave me if I agree with my daughter. You can’t imagine how awful it is. So have you found the black stone? You see I can remember, I haven’t lost my memory, but the old memories come back as you get older. Yesterday, for instance, I saw my mother. She’s looking very good, she told me she doesn’t take pills any more because the Prophet made her better. She is lucky. Now you, you’re my half-brother, you died in the summer at your daughter’s, when you went to spend the holiday at her house on the beach. Don’t worry, you’re alive, I’m talking to you and you’re looking away … I know you’re going to tell me you’re my son, my last little one, and I’m getting you mixed up with someone else. But it doesn’t matter, the main thing is to pass the time! It’s raining. I don’t like the rain and I don’t like the wind. I don’t like the cold. I don’t know what to do. I talk too much, that’s what it is, husband. I’m a chatterbox. I’m going to be quiet. I’ll take myself off to pray, and then I’ll bless you, you and your brothers.’
21
I try to imagine my mother dead. I force myself to anticipate what’s likely to happen. I picture her empty bed, her room in disarray or completely bare of furniture. I see her prayer beads on the floor, two or three packets of pills tossed in a corner and emptiness invading my life, keeping me awake at night, giving me vague aches and pains. I look at my face in the mirror and realise that I’m old, I’ve suddenly grown old. I have new wrinkles, my eyes are sad, there’s no light, no presence. My mother is no longer where she was, last time. She’s gone. The words of her doctor, my old friend Fattah, are ringing in my ears: ‘You must come home as fast as you can, I don’t know how many hours God will grant her, but be quick. You know I wouldn’t drag you over here for nothing. I’m not being dramatic, she’s very bad. Her heart, yes, that’s right, her heart rate plummeted again. So see you soon.’ Or — the worst — a message on one of the answering machines: ‘God has taken what is His!’ A euphemism that’s perfectly clear. In Arabic, people don’t say ‘dead’, don’t write ‘deceased’ on index cards, but choose the words carefully, trying to dress up sad news in vague religious formulae like ‘God has taken back what belongs to Him,’ or ‘She’s gone to God,’ the way you’d say she’s gone to visit a relative. We also say ‘by God’s grace’. You have to wait some time before uttering the words: ‘She is dead.’