I don’t remember anyone ever being ill. Everyone was well. My parents mustn’t die, that’s for sure. The great fear, the dread, is a car accident. In Fez, cars cannot enter the medina. They stay outside. Only my uncle has a car. It’s a black American model, with leather-covered seats. Its number plate is 238 MA 5. I ask my aunt’s husband what the MA means. He tells me it’s Morocco and the number 5 is for Fez, so there are 238 motor cars in our city. In Casablanca, there are many more.
28
My mother’s yelling like a child. Her voice carries a long way. She calls Keltum and Rhimou, who don’t reply. They’re used to her shouting for no reason. Mother’s angry with them for leaving her to talk to herself. ‘They’re trying to drive me mad, they think I’m crazy, that I’ve lost my mind. I’m in my right mind, my mother can tell you that. It’s strange, my mother is younger and more alert than I am. I can see her rushing about, coming and going all dressed up, ready to go out, going to the wedding of her nephew — or her niece, I can’t remember. I’ll ask her later, she’ll tell me, because if I depend on these two half-wits I won’t be told a thing.’
The 1950s in Fez have the taste of small, very black cherries, the fragrance of orange blossom and the colour of a bygone era. Old age, then senility, have sent my mother back to the radiant days of her youth. People say she was one of the most beautiful girls in Fez. She blushes and casts down her eyes. Her mother’s proud of her but says nothing, so as not to upset her younger daughter. What games did she play? Mother didn’t play games but she learned to embroider. For days and nights on end she prepared her trousseau, embroidering the fabric used for covering mattresses and cushions. She sewed geometric designs that required great precision. If she made a mistake, she’d have to begin all over again. She even said that all the embroidering she’d done in Fez had damaged her eyesight. It was hundreds of hours of work. She also learned to cook, but that was natural; no Fassi girl could allow herself to neglect her culinary skills.
She loved setting the table and doing everything herself. On the days she cooked, she wouldn’t eat. What made her happy was seeing the plates come back clean at the end of the meal — the fact that everyone had enjoyed her food took her appetite away, though she’d sometimes have a piece of bread with olives so as not to faint. At night, she’d be dropping with exhaustion and fall asleep before the others. She used to say that so long as she had the strength to embroider and cook, she’d be content. And her health was robust …
My mother misses being able to stand up, or walk unaided, so that she could wander through the old town of her childhood. This refuge in the damp folds of the past must be reassuring and helps her escape a situation she’s dreaded all her life: being in the hands of others. She doesn’t like those hands, or those faces. She needs to get back to the language, images, smells and voices of her childhood. Maybe she’s thinking she’ll come full circle.
We’re all here, around her, but she doesn’t see us. One of my brothers gets annoyed. What’s the use? She’s gone off journeying into the distant past and when she comes back, she’ll let us know, calling us one by one and asking us not to lose sight of her mother, who’s anxious to leave the house. We have to stop trying to find the logic in all this, and just be with her, even if she’s not aware we’re here.
Keltum would like the doctor to do something to help Mother sleep soundly. At night, everything’s worse — anxiety, panic, the shouting. All the memories that inundate her and make her feel as if she’s drowning. Her own daughter comes to see her less and less often. She doesn’t even call. The two nurses who take it in turns to come and administer her injection and change her dressing are extraordinary. They’re sisters who don’t look at all alike. They treat her as if she were their grandmother, kissing her hand and speaking to her gently. They do a great deal more than simply their job as nurses. My mother’s fond of them and is always getting them mixed up. That makes them laugh, and causes comical misunderstandings.
It came out of nowhere: a dark lid covered the sky, the house, even the bedroom. Gloom, nothing but gloom and the sounds of after-lunch life: the call to prayer, the clatter of crockery, the dialogue of a Brazilian soap opera in classical Arabic, the saucepan vendor crying his wares, Keltum arguing loudly with Rhimou, the water babbling — or rather gurgling — in the ancient pipes in the bathroom, the neighbours shouting, as they do at the same time every day, the city’s clamour, and my mother who can no longer see. She broke her old glasses and slipped off the mattress, and was about to lean on the basin to get to the table where the telephone sits. Why did she take the risk of falling again and breaking a bone? ‘When I can’t see any more, I need to talk to my mother. I know she’s not here, but I call to her so she’ll come and put her arms round me and comfort me, because this darkness that’s suddenly fallen is frightening me. I can hear sounds of life, but I can’t get a hold on anything. So only my mother can save me. No, she’s not dead — not only is she alive, she’s in her prime, as vivid and beautiful as a rose, bursting with youthful energy. I’m not making it up, I can see her, maybe you can’t. I see her all the time. She’s right in front of me, she’s come to protect me, to hug me. We’re going to recite the Qur’an together, she knows the Verse of the Throne by heart — the one that bestows blessings and peace. I can’t see you any more, but here she is, she’s luminous. I’m not crazy, I’m just tired from all these pills arguing in my body. They’re confusing my mind and disturbing my train of thought. Now where are my glasses? Who’s taken them? They’re not worth much but they help me out. Everything’s blurry and I’m used to seeing you. That’s how it is, I don’t complain. They’re broken? Who broke them? Oh, it’s only the arm, I can still hold them in front of my eyes to see. To see you — my sons, my heart, my darlings. May God protect you and free you, raise you high above evil and above people who wish you harm — the envious, the hypocrites. Bad people, who never had their parents’ blessing, the bullies. God shield you from their eyes, far from that black dust whipped up by the wind and blown onto the rubbish tip. Yes, children, I can see the evil eye is everywhere: jealousy, resentment and cruelty stalk the good, but God and my ancestors are with you. Don’t forget to give me a beautiful funeral — don’t you stint, don’t be small-minded or mean. I want a magnificent send-off, with the whole family gathered around my coffin, and you, your presence will beautify and illuminate that sublime moment of departure. You’ll give the day the light and the dignity it deserves. No tears, no wailing, but prayers, and me in the middle like a little thing to be returned to the One who made us, the One who gives us breath, life and also death. But death is nothing, it’s just a stage on the way to something more beautiful than life, where the Prophet and all his saints await us … Why are you crying? What did I say that was sad? I’m just talking about our common lot — the end, death. Yes, be happy when you’re organising my funeral. My body will be given to the earth and the worms, of course, but my soul will be with God, and I couldn’t hope for a better fate … Oh, finally you’re laughing. I’m making you laugh, that’s a good sign. Me, I’m not afraid of death. I know it’s all in God’s hands, we need only obey and be faithful to divine will. That’s what my ancestors taught me. I know things, even if I never went to school. In any case, I know what I need to know, which is that we have no choice. Where are my glasses, why is it so dark? Have you noticed, too, that the sky’s gone completely black? It’s already night-time, so turn on all the lights. I love bright light, it’s reassuring and opens my heart wide. Never be stingy with light or prayers. I’m calling Keltum but she’s not answering. That’s how she is. She’s been here a long time, maybe twenty years. I know her well, she knows me well. And still she upsets me, leaves me alone calling out to her, as if she were a precious, proud possession … Is that daylight? Is it night? It’s sad I can’t tell. What is this black veil over my eyes? Maybe it’s the end, no, I can’t feel the tug of the hereafter. I’m here and I’m waiting. Tell me why does Ahmed not come to the house any more? Does he know that another Ahmed, younger than he is, has opened a shop right opposite his and is doing better business than him? Oh, Mother, everyone says you’re dead, come to me. My heart’s overflowing with longing to see you, it’s making it hard to breathe. They’re all here — my grandmother too, the one who was married at twelve years old, Lalla Bouria, she’s here. Do you remember her? She’s your mother, she’s been waiting for us such a long time. There’s Moulay Ali too and your little last-born, your favourite. It’s a holiday, but why aren’t you coming? I didn’t mean to break my glasses. It wasn’t my fault, don’t punish me. I’ll be more careful next time. It was Keltum who told on me, she’s taking her revenge because she has to be here to look after me. I dream about my last day all the time, but I haven’t seen it dawn yet. How will I know? I’m afraid it’ll come when I’m asleep. I say that because I want it to be solemn and happy. I say it so you won’t be too sad, I want to bequeath you peace. I’m not leaving much in the way of possessions — I don’t have very much, the house and my blessing is all. I noticed another crack in the bathroom, that’ll need redoing. Don’t wait till my last day to think about it. Don’t let Ambar come, she hurt me when I was little. She’s knocking at the door. I know her, she’ll come laden with presents, but they’re all poison. I’m not holding a grudge, but I don’t want her here. Let her show her face elsewhere. I can see rats, too, in human form: there are three of them, three brothers who caused my father pain. You must chase them away. You’ll know them because they laugh loudly, and all the time. But the day will come when they’ll be suffocated by the harm they’ve done to others … What am I talking about? I don’t know what I’m saying, I’m talking nonsense, making things up to pass the time. What time is it? Have I said the sunset prayer? Or not yet? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, I’ll say another prayer, you can never have too many …’