‘No, Yemma, he’s an engineer …’
‘Oh yes, he’s in Khuribga, phosphates, that’s it. He goes under the ground, he comes back up and tells the workers what to do. Ah! Khuribga! A city by the sea …’
‘No, Yemma, you’re getting it mixed up with Casablanca, my brother works in Casablanca.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Rabat is a beautiful city. Now where did your brother go? He arrives this afternoon. He told me that the house is old, it’s falling apart, so he wants to sort it out, but where will I go? He thinks I’d be better off in an apartment. Never, never will I go and die in an apartment. How will they get my coffin out if I die in an apartment building? I’ll slip through the hands of the people carrying it. No, here we’re on the ground floor, I’ll be able to get out without causing you any problems — like your father. You know, the ambulance came right up to the door, and he left.’
My mother has fallen asleep. She snores, her mouth open. She’s far away. I hold her hand. She wakes up and goes on:
‘You’re not thinking of selling the house by any chance? Those people who came yesterday were viewing it, weren’t they?’
‘No, Yemma, that was your doctor and his nurse.’
‘But I’m not dead yet, that’s crazy, some people seem to be in a hurry to see me go. It’s God who decides. There’s no question of selling the house. My children won’t do that to me, no. I refuse to leave. Only God can make me move from this room. I’ve got the funeral all planned. If we move, I won’t have time to do it all again. Promise me you won’t sell this old house! It’s Keltum coming and telling me horrible things, to hurt me. She claims she’s heard my own children talking about selling the house. She’s lying, isn’t she? She’ll say anything. She’s going too far, I’m sure she’s got her eye on the house. The other day she told me about what she calls “penshun”, the money given to people who are too old to work. We must give her something, she does deserve it, even though she annoys me and sometimes treats me badly. But that’s only human, she puts up with me all the time, night and day, she deserves a medal. Promise me you’ll think about it.
‘No, I won’t go to his house. I mean your brother’s, he wants me to go to his house to have a rest. No, I won’t leave my house, I like being at home. I know where the bathroom is, and the kitchen and the sitting room. I’m afraid I’ll get lost, I’m afraid I’ll lose everything. So I’m digging my heels in, like a donkey refusing to budge. You know in Fez, in the medina, a donkey sometimes stops and then no one can get past. He’ll often do it in a narrow alley. Even if his owner hits him or gives him hay, he won’t move. He stands there, rooted to the spot, his head tells him not to move. Well, so I’m your donkey, I won’t move from this house, you can tell your brother that. And I’ll tell my father too, so he knows nothing will change my mind.
‘Are you bored? Oh, I know I’m no fun. Your father was witty, he used to make us laugh, but not me, I’m not talented that way. The other day a woman came and got angry with Keltum and Rhimou. She told them off. They cried. I don’t know that woman. They say she’s your brother’s wife, but I didn’t see her. They’re inventing things, to stir up trouble. But you shouldn’t tell them off, because if they leave me, who’ll look after me? I need those women, I do everything I can to manage them so they won’t leave me all alone in this big house where I can’t move any more. So, son, what else can I tell you? May God help and protect you, may God place your brother’s daughters in the way of boys from very good families, rich and especially from good families. Look, your father’s angry, the plumber hasn’t repaired the flush or the leaking tap. He took the money and didn’t repair a thing. Your father’s furious. Luckily an electrician came and mended the tap and the flush. I must warn your father that from now on, when we have plumbing problems, he must call an electrician. It’s important, people change jobs so easily. The world’s upside down. It’s been turning upside down for a long time, didn’t you know? Look, time has stopped on the clock face, do you know why? It’s just because the wall’s full of water, it’s damp. Your father’s late, he usually comes home for lunch at one o’clock. Oh, it’s summer, business must have picked up. That’s why he’s late. Unless you don’t mind taking his lunch to him? I’ll get the basket ready. You cross Place Rcif, then Moulay Idriss and you come to the Diwane. And watch out for demonstrators, the king’s been exiled and the whole of Fez is in uproar … What are the protesters saying? Can you hear them? I think they’re shouting: Morocco’s ours and no one else’s! That’s what it is: Al Maghribu lana wa la li ghayrina! That’s it, they want independence. My brother’s with the protesters, he’s an Istiqlali, yes he’s Watani, he’s a good Watani, a friend of Si Allal El Fassi’s. We’ll have to make them a good meal, because Si Allal’s coming to lunch. Mother’s in the kitchen, it’s too much for her, I’m going to help. Can you hear the protesters shouting? They’re hitting them, they’re hunting them down. The Fez streets are narrow. What a day of madness! Here, son, take my hand, we’ll go out and give the demonstrators something to drink. We can stay on the doorstep, the thirsty ones just need a drop of water. Fez is trembling because the Frenchies are wicked. They took our king and they’re trying to take our children! It’s good here in Fez. The weather’s good, I feel good. In fact, Fez is the only city that keeps illness at bay …’
‘But Yemma, we’re not in Fez, this isn’t the summer of 1953! We’re in Tangier and it’s the year 2000!’
‘What? Time passes so quickly! How many years have we been in Tangier, son? Count them up. Almost fifty years! But where was I all that time? It feels like yesterday. I can still smell the roses we spread out on the terrace to dry, to extract the refreshing perfume, drop by drop. The air’s heavy with those scents, the summer’s come to visit but I feel cold. How can I be in Fez and Tangier at the same time, in winter and summer at the same time? It’s strange. You being here is worrying me. My foot hurts. I can’t walk, I can’t run any more. I can’t run, but I’m still a young girl. I must go up to the terrace and hang out the washing and talk to Lalla Khadija, but my foot hurts. If I put my weight on it, I crumple like a rag. Before, I would have said a caftan, but today I’m like a shred of cloth, I fall over and have trouble getting up again. It’s humiliating, finding yourself on the ground, waiting for one of the two women to come and rescue me. You see, son, I’ve always been afraid of getting to this stage — a leaking sack of sand, a bundle in the corner that can’t move. I count the hours and days but luckily I get it wrong and don’t know where I’ve got up to. You can mock me, well at least you’re laughing, at least I can make you laugh. You know the washhouse roof might fall in. The house is tired. It’s old, and the walls have drunk a lot of water. See, there are cracks everywhere. One day there’ll be no more roof, no more walls, no more house. It will be my tomb. You won’t need to take me to the cemetery; my house will be my last resting place. No, for that I’d have to be a saint. Only saints have the right to be buried in their houses. I’m no saint, I’m just a woman who’s tired.’