‘But Yemma, you know very well that it’s people’s actions that determine whether their soul will end up in hell or in paradise. A Muslim can be punished for the bad things he’s done and go to hell, and a Christian who’s done good in his life will be rewarded and his soul accepted into paradise!’
‘Oh yes, you’re right! Your father was always making comments about non-Muslims behaving so much better than Muslims. He used to say: “That Jew deserves to be a Muslim, or that Christian is so good, he’s almost one of us!”’
She’ll ask me a dozen times who this lady is, why she’s come, what her son’s name is, what her husband does … She’ll ask me these questions until the lady fades into the limbo of her childhood memories.
I spoke to my mother on the phone this morning. She knew who I was immediately. The results of her tests aren’t good. Her blood sugar level has risen, despite the insulin and her diet. On top of that, she’s had a urinary infection. It was her doctor who told me, she was too embarrassed to tell me about it. She simply asked when I’d be coming to see her. She mentioned Eid al-Adha, the festival when the sheep is sacrificed, which had taken place more than a month earlier. ‘Son, Eid al-Adha has always been an ordeal as far as I’m concerned. I had to put up with your father’s nerves — he’d always wait till the last minute to buy a sheep, thinking he’d get a bargain, but often he’d be cheated. And I had no help. All the servants went home to their own families for the holiday, of course, and I’d be left alone with a slaughtered sheep in the yard or the kitchen and I had to prepare meals and do the housework. And then you were never happy: the first day the meat’s too fresh, it’s not edible. Oh, I remember very well, son, and don’t tell me I’m talking nonsense. Eid holidays are always disastrous. God forgive me but they wore me out, and of course people are only thinking about their bellies, when it’s a holiday that’s meant to be about the poor. Don’t forget to buy a sheep, even if you don’t like the meat. You have to sort that out. You only need to share it among the poor. Then, after the sheep, cakes had to be made, the family came over to celebrate with us and I didn’t have any good clothes. I’d be annoyed, and curse the wind and these traditions … Why don’t the Christians have such messy holidays? All that bloodshed, the guts and the slaughter, and that meat you have to eat, which they say isn’t good for the heart. I don’t want to sound like a bad Muslim, but one day someone will have to free us from these chores, this exhaustion. Every year, on the seventh day of the holiday, I get ill, I go to bed, I’m completely wiped out. I can’t bear it any more. Next year we’ll buy the meat at the butcher’s and then there won’t be any blood in my house …’
She thinks it’s next week and reminds me that I have to buy a sheep and distribute the meat to the poor. She adds that it’s best to give Keltum the money to buy what she wants. I did all that at the time of the festival. I tell Mother not to worry. I want and need to go and spend a few days with her, I need to talk to her, to ask her why the upbringing she gave me didn’t prepare me for the ways people trick you. She’ll tell me that you have to carry on regardless. She’s always kept a distance, looked after her home and her children, she’s never voiced envy or jealousy of the people around her. I look at her and I see, or rather I imagine, all that she’s endured in silence, never crying out, never protesting, never demanding justice. I’ve always detected in her attitude, her voice and her words something that marked her as the victim, the innocent unable to defend or avenge herself. Victim of whom, of what? I don’t know. Perhaps she didn’t experience the joys and pleasures she’d hoped for from life. In the early days of her widowhood, I noticed that her general condition had improved. She was relieved, as if my father’s death had liberated her, given her some rest, almost a summer holiday. She had been waiting for that moment, saying: ‘May God grant me even one day to live a full life, without that man!’
I can’t tell her that ‘marriage is a work in progress’. The words won’t translate into colloquial Arabic. She’ll look at me as if to make sure that I’m not laughing at her and then say: ‘What on earth do you know about life?’ She’ll tell me that here, ‘Everyone should know their place. We let things take their course; the path was forged by our ancestors, so we get through life as best we can. Some do well, others spend their days moaning. Me, I turn to God and give thanks.’ ‘What kind of life have I had?’ she asks me one day. She answers with a long sigh and then changes the subject. It’s up to me to guess at that life.
25
Keltum tells my mother that she’s tempted to go to the literacy classes at the mosque: ‘The new king wants to teach us to read and write. It’s too late, but if we can at least learn numbers, I’ll be able to phone my children and grandchildren.’ Rhimou wants to enrol for the evening classes too. My mother’s panic-stricken. ‘That’s what it is, you’re all trying to get rid of me, you’re doing everything possible to make my blood pressure go up. You’re acting like young girls off to the mosque, leaving me on my own to die quickly, without my children here. While you’re about it, take my daughter Touria with you — and my mother, she’ll be only too happy to abandon me. Forget what this new king says — did he think of me, did he have a thought for people who depend on others? No, he just wants ignorant people to stop being ignorant. That’s fine by me, but why take Keltum and Rhimou from me? No, you’re being crazy and spiteful. I would never have done that to one of you. And who’s going to look after my little brother who’s ill? I know you’re going tell me he died ages ago, that I’m raving, that I’ve lost my mind. I know all that, but my little brother is not dead. He’s here, he’s right next to me. You can go, but he’ll stay by my bedside. Even though he’s ill, he won’t abandon me. He’s handsome and gentle, he’s my favourite brother. I told his wife that the other day, when we were at my son’s circumcision. She was so happy, she burst into tears. Go on then, go to the mosque, say your prayers and don’t come back. Learn to read! But what use will that be? I for one never had that opportunity. You want to learn to read so you can follow the Christians’ soap operas, the ones with the actors speaking an Arabic that none of us understands. That’s what it is, it’s just so you can go on watching TV. It’s a joke, isn’t it? You want to have a good laugh, you’re just trying to pull my leg and upset me! I’ll complain to my son, he’s coming in a bit. No, not the one who lives in France, no, the one from Casa, what’s his name?’
Keltum and Rhimou begin to laugh. Reassured, my mother tells them to go to the devil.
As soon as she sees me, she warns me: ‘Keltum is not happy. I couldn’t hold my water in, it escaped, so everything had to be changed: the clothes, the sheets, the blanket, and even the carpet.’
‘Why the carpet?’
‘I have no idea, that’s just how it is. Apparently the carpet’s dirty. But it wasn’t me that made it dirty. It’s hard to make them believe that, though. Maybe it’s a good thing if they learn to read. But I don’t want them to, I don’t want to find myself alone with two women who’ll think they’re better than me because they can decipher letters! Because once they’ve learned the alphabet, they’ll imagine they’re teachers, doctors, wise women. I know them. Son, tell me, have you thought of giving them some money on top of their wages? It’s good to be generous; if they see money, they’ll forget about the mosque and evening classes. I know they annoy me, but they deserve more than money. If I could leave them this house — well, something — I’m whispering this, because if my father hears me, he’ll tell me off and then your brother will be angry. But I’m not attached to the dirt of life. I’m going to God with empty pockets and my heart full of love for the Prophet, so I have no need of material things.’