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I read in a newspaper that illiterate people are more likely to suffer from Alzheimer’s than those whose intellectual activity has been more intense. My mother used her grey cells to imagine a different life, to shield us from harm and watch us grow up under the wing of her blessing. Her intellectual range is very limited: she knows a few verses of the Qur’an by heart, her usual prayers, entreaties to God and His prophet, and a few folk songs. So she lives with very few things coming and going inside her head. She knows the workings of the traditions of Fez by intuition and habit, how to find her way through the maze of the old medina.
Alzheimer’s invaded this modest brain without resorting to violence. Mother sometimes has lucid moments and can laugh at her own failings. As time goes by, these moments are less and less frequent, and they’re briefer. She’s not in pain, she’s bored, so she forgets the present and takes refuge in her distant past. She’s alone, surrounded by ghosts and shadows from those kinder days.
I wonder whether Keltum’s angry outbursts are caused by exhaustion and having to repeat the same words over and over again, or because she’s afraid she’ll end her life like my mother.
Thinking of this collapse, when the person you love goes missing and time stretches and disintegrates, you look at your own shattered image in that unreliable mirror and scrabble around for happy moments, hoping to fill these cracks in the soul and salvage words from this agonising confusion.
My grief surfaces. I must have a change of scene. I think of Zilli, Roland’s mother, I see her in 1940s Vienna, beautiful and in love, beguiling, vivacious, travelling with lots of suitcases and trunks, so carefree, playing the piano just before taking the train to Paris, on the verge of a magical love affair.
Mother isn’t mollified. She weeps and asks for her mother and her little brother. Keltum’s at the end of her tether. She either snaps, declaring they’re long dead and buried, or she plays the game and joins her in her fantasies. She put her in the wheelchair and pushed her all around the house, in pursuit of the dead. ‘There, my love, don’t worry, we’re going to find your mother and your little brother, your favourite, too. Maybe they’re hiding under the bed or behind the curtains. Hush, don’t worry, darling, I’ll pull back the curtains. Oh, they’ve gone, they’re quicker on their feet than we are. Just a minute, let’s go and look in the big wardrobe. I can hear muffled laughter, I expect it’s them making fun of us. Don’t move, don’t cry, we’ll find them, we’ve got plenty of time. Yes, I’ve made dinner, I cooked for them too. Your mother loves lamb tagine with quince and okra — she adores that slimy vegetable. I hate it. I know I’m a simple country woman, not refined enough to eat okra, but I’ve cooked it for your mother. Come on, let’s take you into the sitting room. I can’t see anyone, they’re not in here. You say you can hear and see them, all right, but if you’ve seen them we can stop looking. That’s right, we’ll go back to your room. You invited them for dinner, that’s good. I’ll have to leave you to go out and buy some bread. You can’t have a tagine without bread. I’m going to leave you for a few minutes. I’ll settle you back in your room, then I’ll lay the table and go to the bakery to get some warm bread. Why are you crying? You want a silk scarf, no, not a scarf, a headscarf, a dishcloth to play with, you want money to go to the jeweller’s. Why don’t you wait until your son comes and he’ll give you some money, a wad of notes, but you take your pills now, while you’re waiting. It’s the yellow packet, no, I’m not sure, I’m worried I’ll get it wrong. You’re confusing me, I don’t know what I’m doing any more. You’re getting me flustered, I’m tired now. We have to call your daughter. After all, it’s her duty. I know she’s ill, it’s the time of year when it all flares up. It’s too bad. I’m here, I’ll always be here, it’s my life, my destiny, that God has written for me …’
My mother’s tired. The little tour around the house has distressed her. She says nothing. She’s sad, her gaze vacant. She’s gone, eyes wide open. She prays, again and again. As soon as she’s done, she calls out to Lalla Bahia, one of her first cousins, and speaks to her directly: ‘Lalla, ya Lalla, hurry up, it’s a big day, the suitors will be here soon. The most important thing is to wear no make-up. Be modest and keep your eyes lowered, don’t forget. Eyes lowered, I repeat. That’s vital, it’s paramount: you don’t realise, a young woman who stares at guests is shameless, badly brought-up, from a disreputable family. Your honour’s in your demeanour, in your silence. That’s right, look at the floor throughout, don’t look up except to thank your father and kiss his hand. Come on, Lalla, first we’ll go to the hammam, then it’s the henna ceremony.
‘Lalla Bahia’s about to be married. She’s going to leave us and we’ll weep for her. I wept so much over my marriage. How old was I? Fifteen, sixteen? I can’t remember. I was still so young. That was the tradition, we didn’t marry after the age of twenty. Can you imagine the parents’ anguish? Becoming a thing that nobody wants, a h’boura, unsold goods at the back of the shop, oh the shame. I didn’t have the time to get to the back of the shop myself. Now listen to me, Lalla Bahia, we’re not the same age, you could be my daughter. Come and sit down, take my hand and listen to my prayers. I’m going to call Keltum, so she can get the henna ready, then the two of us will go to the hammam. I love going, though I can’t really stand the heat. What luck! You won’t be left in the shop for girls that life has given up on — I mean marriage. I wed my first husband knowing nothing of life. He was a young man from a very good family, not rich but very pious and good. But God took him from me so quickly, He called him back to Him after a high fever. He was so handsome. I was pregnant. I had no time to grieve. My daughter was born and I began to nurse her. I had so much milk that I gave some to my little sister, too, she was barely six months older than my daughter. My father lamented, my mother prayed all day long. You see, Lalla Bahia, there’s no need to despair. You’ll marry and have lots of children, you have a generous belly, that’s very important, and your heart is pure. You haven’t met your future husband? That doesn’t matter, you’ll have all the time in the world to get to know him. What matters is not to lie with him before you are married. By all means lie with him, but on your wedding night. That’s the way, or it will lose its mystery. You see, I hadn’t met any of my three husbands beforehand. I didn’t complain. They’re all dead. At least I think they’re all dead, because I don’t see them any more, but where have they gone? Keltum, have you seen my husband? No, not the last one; no, the second one. No? I’m talking nonsense, that’s what it is. See, she has no respect for me. Did you hear, Lalla Bahia? Keltum’s talking to me as if I’m crazy. How rude. I’ve had enough, I’m going to dismiss her. Call my son. Tell him to dismiss Keltum. It’s quite a big house, there are lots of people, I don’t need Keltum any more. In fact, tell Lalla Batoul to send two servants. You know, Lalla Batoul, the matchmaker, the negafa with the three gold teeth. Why is Keltum laughing at me? What did I say that was so ridiculous? I’m muddling up the present and the distant past? So? Where’s the harm in that? I’m not accountable to her. Talking of accounts, she’ll have to tell me what’s happened to the million dirhams that I hid under my pillow last night. When I woke up, there was only newspaper there. I’d counted the banknotes myself — there were lots, and all different sizes. It was my son in France who gave me that money so I won’t lack for anything. Oh, I nearly forgot: tell the judge to summon my three husbands. They should be looking after me, it’s their duty …’