Keltum rolls her eyes and says: ‘This is what it’s like all day long, she never stops. Sometimes it’s her brother who comes but doesn’t speak to her, sometimes it’s her mother who visits and wants me to make a pastilla … We’re living with ghosts here, she must see them. I can’t see a thing. Sometimes I wonder, maybe she really can see all those dead people holding out their hands to take her away with them. I admit I’m scared, but at the same time I’m still sane, I know she’s hallucinating, but you can never tell. The dead and buried turning up in the house, it’s spooky, but seeing as she thinks she’s in her house in Fez, I feel better. It’s all happening over there, and we’re safely here in Tangier. She has no idea where she is any more. When her mind first started going, I’d correct her, remind her exactly what was what. She’d be shocked, she’d look at me in disbelief, and then say: “Either you’re mad or it’s me who’s crazy!” She’s been crying for three days, especially when the two of us are alone together. She sobs her heart out, not only because of her own situation, but because she claims her mother’s just died and has only been half-buried, without her body being washed according to Muslim tradition. It’s all very well me telling her that her mother’s been in the ground for thirty years, there’s nothing to be done. She insists it’s so and goes on crying like an inconsolable child. Then she says her daughter’s funeral was a bit run-of-the-mill. That annoyed me. I told her that Touria’s still alive, that she’s just come back from Mecca and that she’d talked to her on the phone the day before. Then she stopped and said: “If my daughter’s not dead, then who did we bury yesterday?” “Nobody, you’re imagining things, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”’
Keltum comes into the bedroom, closes the door and sits on a chair, looks at us and says: ‘Since you’re all here, I have to tell you I can’t do this any more. Your mother’s my best friend, but I’m worn out, she wears me out. I need a holiday, a change of scene. I want to go and spend a few days with my children and my grandchildren, but I can’t leave her. When I go out to do the shopping in the morning, she begs me to come back quickly. I don’t want to hurt her. Twenty years ago, I cleaned for her. Now, I’m her friend, her daughter, her mother, her everything. And I love her too and I can’t bear it when she’s delirious, it hurts me. There’s maybe fifteen or twenty years between us, but I’m afraid I’ll end up like her, trapped between madness and insomnia. So I pray to God and I take care of myself. I too have my rheumatism, my headaches and my stomach aches. I try to look after myself, my children need me. Every so often I snatch a few hours and go to see them, sometimes they come and visit me here. It brings a little life into this old house. It’s not easy, but what can I do? It’s God’s will that I should be with this good lady in her last days. It’s the nights that scare me, I don’t know how to dial telephone numbers and Ahmed rarely sleeps here. I panic when she’s distressed and I’m afraid when I stand there helplessly and she has one of her turns. You should tell Ahmed to spend the night here in the house. He’s a man at least, he could be useful in an emergency. Rhimou wouldn’t mind. That’s all I have to say. I’ve learned her medication by heart. Luckily, all the pill packets are different colours. Sometimes I pass the time going over her prescription: in the morning, one pink pill and half a white one; at lunchtime, two white ones from the green packet; in the evening, half a pill from the blue-and-yellow packet, plus a sachet. That’s easy, I know she has to have the sachet before dinner. When the doctor changes her prescription, I panic, but I cope, I manage to work it out and I hope I never get it wrong. In any case, I’ve got good eyesight and my health is good. I’m at risk too, I’m no spring chicken and life is hard. Luckily we have this bond of friendship, I do good, you do good, and may God help and protect you.’
Not everyone shares this near idyllic view of their relationship. I close my eyes and let it go. Is there any choice? After all, it’s my mother who wants Keltum with her and always asks for her. We mustn’t upset this precarious equilibrium. As for Rhimou, who says nothing, what does she think? She does the cleaning, follows the Brazilian soap opera Esmeralda avidly, says her prayers and protests when Keltum bullies her. We sometimes catch a glimpse of the three of them behind closed doors: the sick woman, the woman in charge and the maid. There’s also Ahmed, whose scheming remains a mystery.