26
Roland’s mother is called Zilli, short for Cecilia. He had a scare the other day when the hospital called and told him she’d had a fall and didn’t feel at all well. He asked to speak to her. Zilli didn’t recognise her son. ‘I don’t know any Roland, monsieur. You are disturbing me. I don’t have a son, so don’t try and tell me I do. I’ve never had a child, so leave me in peace, monsieur!’ This is the first time her memory’s failed her. Roland was hurt, he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard: What, me, Zilli’s only son, relegated to the status of stranger? Unthinkable.
He called her a few days later. She recognised him instantly. He laughed and asked her why she’d mistaken him for a stranger the previous time.
‘Roland darling, the older one gets, the more comical one becomes!’
I take the train to Lausanne. Roland’s waiting for me at the Hôtel de la Paix.
Zilli’s closest friend is a very wealthy woman. Unable to walk any more, she’s been given a place in Switzerland’s most luxurious old people’s home. Because Zilli’s still independent, she’s only entitled to spend a fortnight there every six months. Her friend has a Rolls Royce and a chauffeur, and from time to time she picks Zilli up and takes her for a drive. She enjoys these outings.
My mother has no friends left. Her friends were her cousins, a few neighbours, and women she’d meet at the hammam. They’d talk, moan, help each other out, lend each other party dresses and jewellery, then would lose touch when one of them moved away. My mother would have liked to have real friends, women she could confide in. In Tangier, our neighbour was a cousin of the king’s. My mother admired her understated elegance, but she was often away in Rabat. When she came back, she’d tell my mother all about her stay at the palace, and the gifts she’d received from the king. One day she gave my mother a handful of sandalwood, the fragrance of paradise. My mother was so happy, she decided to keep it for her funeral. With her cousins, there’d be outbursts of jealousy and petty squabbles. My mother hated conflict and she’d be the one to calm them down. She was seen as a peace-maker, full of wisdom. But she’d never had close, loyal friends. No one will come and take her out for a drive in a Rolls. No one will come and chat to her. She knows this and often mentions it. ‘That’s how it is. The only friend I have is in Casablanca. She’s my closest cousin and also my sister-in-law. She had that disease — I don’t want to say its name. They took away her breast and she’s been fine ever since. It’s been a long time since we saw each other. That’s only to be expected — she lives in Casablanca and Tangier isn’t exactly near. When I was young, her husband — my little brother, the one who died at forty — would often come to visit. He’d take me out in his car and show me the city and the surrounding countryside. I loved him very much. The day he died, I thought I’d follow him to the grave. Our hearts were scalded; we couldn’t get over it. He came to see me the other day. He hasn’t changed, he was still well-dressed and he smelled good. He told me his older brother lent him some more money and that he isn’t working. I consoled him. I told him it wasn’t his fault, it’s his wife’s. She keeps him in their bed instead of letting him go out to work. I must call my cousin to let her know the latest about her husband. He’s really doing well. Do you remember, son, those summers in Casablanca? I’d leave you and your brother there for the entire holiday. Oh look, while I’m talking to you, I can see him. He’s appeared like an angel, a sudden light. I can hear him murmuring soothing things. Come, sit down, little brother. You see what’s become of me? A thing, a clod of earth, a sack of sand leaking out everywhere. How many years is it since you left us? Thirty-five? As many as that? No, you’re exaggerating, I remember it as if it were yesterday. You went into hospital for a liver test and came out all pale and cold. You died that same night. My mother fainted and your seven children didn’t know what to do with their colossal grief.
‘Why are you crying, son? It’s not you I’m talking to, I’m with my little brother. Go and fetch some fruit, the trees are weighed down with it.’
We’re in Imouzzer, staying with my aunt, my mother’s younger sister, the one who married a handsome, rich, sophisticated man. He was softly spoken and never came to see us empty-handed. He was the first person in the family to have a motor car. I remember it was black. I walked round and round it, running my hand over the doors. I pretended I could drive: I got in and put my hands on the steering wheel, but my feet didn’t reach the pedals. Imouzzer was a summer resort. It was cool up in the mountains and all the prominent Fez families had to have a second home in this little town. This was where I played at getting married with one of my girl cousins. We’d cover ourselves with a sheet and I had to show her my penis and she let me touch between her legs. There was nothing innocent about our games, because one day she grabbed my finger and put it in her vagina. I caressed her and she nearly fainted. Those are memories that stay with you. My mother wasn’t fooled, and neither was my aunt, who said in a teasing voice: ‘Be careful, if you want her to be your wife, you’ll have to be a doctor or an engineer, because my daughter’s beautiful and will marry the handsomest, wealthiest man in Fez!’
The house is on a farm. I like playing in the vegetable garden. My uncle, my mother’s younger brother, is there. He plays cards with other people in the family. Between exclamations, I hear them talking about ‘the attack on Palestine by three countries’. I ask my uncle where Palestine is. He shows me a newspaper: ‘It’s there, you see, right next to Egypt. It’s tiny. They won’t leave even that tiny strip of land to the Muslims!’
Zilli’s expecting me. Roland’s told her I’m coming to visit. She had the cleaner come and insisted her son warn me that her apartment’s small and very modest. Like my mother, she’s anxious to ‘make a good impression’. She is well-dressed and stick thin, with piercing eyes, and speaks with a German accent. I give her a bunch of roses. She smiles and kisses me, then says: ‘You’re famous, very famous, you’re often on television. Actually, you look better in real life. My son’s not on the TV any more, and he doesn’t come to see me very often.’ Roland protests. Zilli interrupts him: ‘Nonsense, you call me, but you’re not here!’
I compliment her on how well she’s doing: ninety-two and still sharp as a knife! ‘Yes, but my eyesight’s going, it’s getting worse and worse. I like walking, I like dreaming, and reading too. At the moment, I’m reading Thomas Bernhard. He’s excellent — powerful and highly critical. I love him and everything he says about Austria, my country. You say I’m in good shape, but I’m just a shack, an old, tumbledown shack. I often think about death — I’m not afraid of it. Anyway I should have died at the same time as Papa, my last husband: he passed away twenty years ago. Where were you, Roland? I think you were away on a trip. I phoned you and I got that machine that asked me to leave a message. Imagine telling a machine that Papa’s dead — that’s no good. Well, you know, I was pregnant with you when I married Papa, but he accepted you. I mean he adopted you. I’ve never told you that, are you surprised? What does it matter, you’re my son and your father loved you. He never said so, but in Switzerland we don’t say these things to our children!