‘I’m not afraid of death! But I am afraid of hell — I’m afraid of everything that awaits us after we’ve breathed our last. Heaven? I certainly won’t go to heaven. Maybe your mother will, but I’ve travelled a lot, rarely been to church, and I must have committed a few sins. Where does this fear of hell come from? From the Catholic boarding school where I spent my adolescence, in Italy, with the nuns. È vero, la paura del inferno. It was during the First World War, my parents were afraid for me so they hid me with Italian nuns. Non era un regalo, no, ma la vita era bella perché dopo la guerra ho conosciuto l’amore e la libertà. I love speaking Italian, I love the language, the music of it … My son speaks German, it’s not such fun. He doesn’t come to see me, at least not often. I’ll tell you what I think: he’s lazy. He says he’ll come, then he doesn’t, but his old girlfriends come and visit me. They’re all still in love with him, but he pretends he doesn’t know. I’ve travelled a lot, I love hot countries, Egypt, ah Egypt! Kenya, Morocco! Here it’s sad, it’s winter all year round, people are reserved. I have a friend who went blind, I like walking with her. I tell her what I see. The good thing about her is that she’s not talkative — we walk and I talk when I feel like talking. It’s very convenient, sometimes we don’t say anything, lost in our own worlds. Me, I think about my son, and she about her daughter. We walk for hours, we stop to have tea, then go back again. It’s so enjoyable. The only problem is that when it rains, it ruins our plans. Then I think of Morocco — what a country! I discovered it just after the war, the French were there, but I preferred the Moroccan souks. What light, what joy! All that dust and the people are carefree. Yes, I’d love to leave this poky apartment and go to a home for the elderly, but they tell me there’s no room. I have a few friends there, it’s nice to have company, especially when your children aren’t around. Tell me, have you found a room? Lausanne ought to have more hotels. Oh, I see, you’re not staying, you’re on the way to see your mother. She doesn’t live in France, she’s in Tangier? No, I don’t know that city. You see, I’m in a very simple apartment, I know you thought Roland’s mother lived in a big house. I’ve been here for fifty years, I rent. That room there was Roland’s room. I still remember what he was like as a little boy, playing chess with his father, completely absorbed. He was a solitary child. The municipality sends me a meal every day. It’s very kind. But tell me, have you found a hotel? If only you’d told me you were coming, I’d have found you a lovely room at the Hôtel de la Paix, wouldn’t I, Roland? And does your mother have a bracelet like this? Look, all I have to do is press and a doctor comes straight away. And there’s a button on the phone for emergencies, does your mother have one of those? No? So how does she manage? The people who look after her can’t read or write? How is that possible? The worst things are my bad eyesight and the fear of hell … but I walk without a stick. It’s wonderful, I go for walks with a friend who’s gone blind, I love walking with her because she doesn’t say much, I don’t like chatterboxes … Oh, if it weren’t for this hell business, I think I’d have gone already. I know there’s that Swiss doctor who makes up a lethal cocktail. He puts the glass on the bedside table and it’s up to the ill person to take it or not. That’s good, he helps things along, but religion isn’t so keen. There’s an association, I think it’s called Exit. It’s funny: depart, go quietly, leave on tiptoe. My son wrote a whole book about that kind of death. I think I read it, I don’t really remember. I’m not brave enough, I can still hear the words of the Italian nuns — hell, purgatory and all that … It’s very good of you to come, I feel proud receiving a visit from a famous man. Won’t you have a drink? Roland, give your friend something to drink — no, not water, that’s no good, even if it is sparkling — offer him a whisky or a brandy … Monique’s very nice, she’s very beautiful, sophisticated, clever, with very dark eyes. She often comes to see me, she’s become a friend, but she’s still in love with Roland. Now, Tam — what a beautiful woman, a little aloof, with a faintly superior expression, but what class! And Linda — very bright, sensitive and beautiful, she’s still in love with Roland! No, I don’t get bored, I dream, I’m always dreaming. I dream of my travels, the journeys I’ve taken, the ones I haven’t, I dream of the sun, I remember everything I’ve done. I fill my days with all these dreams, I relive them and that’s enough for me. I sleep well at night, I have no trouble sleeping — not like Roland, who takes pills. I don’t play the piano any more, I don’t feel like it these days. What about your mother, does she play anything? No? What a pity, it’s sad not to play a musical instrument. Me, I’ve spent my life travelling, discovering countries, swimming, playing the piano. What about your mother? What? She’s spent her life in the kitchen? But that’s not living, it’s not even human! I prefer to eat light meals. Roland, buy me some black grapes, the ones that come from Italy, just one bunch. I like to see them lying on a plate, over there on the table, they’re beautiful, especially when the sun’s out … Are you leaving already? It’s so kind of you to have come. Tell Roland to come and see me a little more often, maybe he’ll listen to you, but I know he won’t listen to anyone, he has very set ideas. It’s only my eyesight that’s going, everything’s a bit blurred, but I’m well, yes. Perhaps I’ll end up drinking doctor what’s-his-name’s glass of milk. The fatal glass of milk, Roland says lethal … you have to see the funny side, it depends whether they give me a room in that home I like. Then I’ll stay a bit longer, otherwise I think I’ll learn to be brave. My son agrees. The other day I had a momentary absence, it was just after my accident, and I didn’t recognise his voice. He got angry but it was just a lapse, a tiny little lapse, other than that I’m well, I can’t complain. Today the concierge invited me to lunch, that was kind of him. I don’t know what he’s cooking, the main thing is not to eat alone. I almost married an Egyptian — that was a very long time ago — a wealthy man, but he went blind, and I didn’t have the courage to look after an invalid, even though I loved him very much. That was before I met Papa — I’ve already told you, Roland. I think he was in love with me, we got along well, we could have married but it didn’t happen … You’re a good son, you see your mother often, God bless you. You tell me she’s not afraid of hell? What? Is it Islam? All the same, it’s a terrifying religion! She’s happy to be going to meet the Prophet? How lucky she is to have such certainties. She’s someone who believes, that’s good. Me and faith … I don’t know …’
27
It’s the month of October and I’m a long way from Tangier. I’d promised to call at the same time every day to find out how she was. There are times when the phone’s constantly engaged because the receiver’s been left off the hook. I get annoyed, I call the neighbours to ask them to alert Keltum. When she answers, she’s even more obsequious than usual, acts all humble, almost apologising for having to give me bad news. I picture her, shoulders hunched, adopting the air of a poor woman carrying all the world’s pain on her shoulders.
Mother nearly died of dehydration as a result of a severe bout of diarrhoea. Keltum and Rhimou were beside themselves, not knowing what to do first: wash her, call for help, phone the doctor or her children … They watched her getting worse, the colour draining from her face, her eyes rolling upwards. It was gone midnight. There was no one to dial the numbers, the neighbours were away and the young man from the shop — the only person nearby who could read and write — hadn’t come back yet. They communicated their panic to my mother, who started crying and calling her children, confusing them with her brothers and her parents: ‘The time has come, today’s the day, the fatal, dreaded moment. I’m going to die without seeing my mother, without my sons, and worst of all, without Ali, my little brother. He went to buy some bread and hasn’t come back. But call them, tell them their daughter’s dying. Tell them I’m a good Muslim. I pray. I don’t know why my mother’s abandoned me. I’ve always been a good daughter, always obedient and loving. But life is strange. My son’s hiding and doesn’t come to see me any more. Yes, I know the one who lives abroad is here, not far away, but he doesn’t hear me calling. Make him come; I need to talk to him one last time. I need him to take my hand, so I can feel the warmth of his hand in mine. He is your master, after all. Don’t laugh but Moulay Ali, my little brother, is lazy. Where is he? He didn’t get up this morning, he doesn’t really like working. Look out: it’s coming out, it’s coming out underneath me. It smells bad. I’m spilling out my guts, my heart, my desires. Come on, clean it up, get some big towels and clean up all the bad stuff coming out of my stomach. I’m purifying myself. I can feel I’m going. My tongue’s heavy, it’s all furry, and it’s hard to move, or speak. I can’t talk any more, I’m talking to myself, and those two are still bustling about, but why aren’t my children here? I know they’re hiding and I’m getting weaker. I’m falling and there’s no hand to pull me back, no one’s gaze to reassure me. I see people’s faces spinning round, not stopping, not talking to me. The night is long. I don’t like night-time. Everyone else is sleeping and I’m counting the stars. But where’s my son, the light of my eyes? Make him come, come down from the mountain. I’m emptying myself and I haven’t eaten a thing today. That’s what death is, everything goes, everything turns to liquid … I’m looking for an elastic band to hold back the sleeves of my dress. Where did I put it? I’m going round and round. That elastic band’s very handy. I don’t like it when my sleeves flop down, it’s annoying. Where’s Keltum gone, what’s she doing? Oh, she’s in the bathroom, cleaning up my mess, that’s good. And that other woman, what’s she up to, why isn’t she coming to take me to the bathroom? I smell bad, very bad, this is the first time this has happened to me. I have to wash, I have to get up, but I can’t. I’ve always dreaded this moment, when I’m like a pile of heavy earth, unable to move. I’m nothing any more, a foul-smelling little thing, waiting for her children … Go on, get the living room ready, get the ovens going, people will be coming from all over. Go and buy a dozen chickens — they need to be soaked in brine overnight, to clean them. Buy some red meat too, and order the bread. It’s late, but no one’s answering. I’m talking to myself. There’s no point calling the doctor, he won’t do anything. I don’t need him, he’s useless — like me, I’m useless. I know because no one’s rushing to see me or answer me. God is great, God is great, Sidna Muhammad is His Prophet, the last of the prophets. God is mercy, God is compassion. But forgive me, God, I’m in no condition to utter Your name, I’m soiled. I must do my ablutions, but Keltum and Rhimou are busy somewhere else. They’re coming, they’re shouting at me — Keltum’s the loudest, she’s telling me off and says I should know better. I’m a little girl who’s been bad, who’s done it in her underwear. I must be punished. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, or her tone of voice. But I’m always so afraid she’ll go away and abandon me, leave me to fend for myself.’