My mother points out that my friends no longer come to see her. ‘You don’t know how to keep friends, or you don’t know how to choose them. I wish I knew what’s going on. Before, Zaylachi used to come by sometimes, he’d bring me sandalwood and we’d talk things over, he’d kiss my head as if I were his own mother. He’s a charming man, very well brought-up; he had a feeling for things. What’s become of him? Why doesn’t he come to the house any more? Even when he was in the government, he’d find time to spend a quarter of an hour with me. I see him on TV. He looks good, as if he’s got younger. He’s always standing next to the king. He’s a good man. That childhood friend of yours doesn’t visit either. His wife used to come and chat to me, and then she’d very sweetly go off. It’s strange! People are fickle, but really, your friends are making themselves scarce. I expect I irritate them. I know I’m no fun, but after all they’re your friends. I hope they haven’t changed. My little brother, the one who came earlier, has lots of friends. I’ll tell your father that Zaylachi’s being distant. He must be very busy, he’s a minister, a father, he does so many things. I don’t do anything. Your father’s in the shop and I’m in the kitchen. That’s the way it’s always been. Cooking, housework, cooking, eating, washing up, and your father grumbling that there’s not enough salt in the tagine. Listen, talk to him when he comes, I’ve had enough of his temper, enough of his moods, he treats me like a servant. Yes, I know you’re about to tell me your father died ten years ago! I know, but he comes back from time to time, he opens the door, tiptoes in, looks around him like a ticket inspector, and disappears. I can’t see him, but I can feel him here, so I talk to him, I tell him everything that’s bothering me. I don’t leave anything out, I get it all off my chest. He listens and doesn’t say anything. The dead don’t talk, do they?’
My mother smells terrible. She smells of shit. She’s soiled herself and doesn’t realise. My mother, always so elegant, so beautiful, so particular … She’s no longer herself, no longer remembers what she was. She’d have been horrified to find herself in this state, but now she’s oblivious. I look at Keltum, who nods to me. I leave the room while she and Rhimou take her to the bathroom.
My mother — who was elegance itself, always fastidiously clean. I remember the natural scent of her skin. My mother, in the spring, on the terrace of the house in Fez. She’s just back from the hammam and she looks beautiful. She kisses my father’s hand as usual, and he says: ‘To your health!’ We’re eating on the terrace, which adjoins that of the neighbours. We all get together quite simply to share our food. Mother smells wonderful. Our neighbour compliments her. The sun is soft. I’m playing with one of the neighbour’s daughters, while my brother corrects her composition. She has budding breasts. I am the doctor. She pretends to faint, I hold her in my arms. My mother watches from a distance, laughing. The little girl runs off to hide in her mother’s skirts. I run too, my mother grabs me and hugs me tightly. She smells so good, she smells of a loving mother, a happy mother, a mother in good health.
Mother doesn’t understand why Keltum’s making her wash herself again. Keltum’s in a bad mood, she’s being very abrasive. My mother protests, so does Rhimou, who doesn’t like Keltum’s attitude. I look on from the corridor, entirely helpless. Mother’s crying. She sobs like a child caught misbehaving. I look away. I say to myself: I might have come half an hour before or after this incident. Maybe Keltum left her sitting in her shit to make me realise how much she does when I’m not here. It’s quite possible. ‘This is what I have to put up with. It’s all very well for you, you just drop in briefly, give your mother a kiss, ask her to pray for you and bless you, and then you leave. But I’m here all the time, coping with her sleeplessness, pandering to her fantasies, cleaning up her shit, putting on her pads, crawling around on all fours to clean the floor. That’s right, your mother can’t control herself any more, she pisses and she shits. Me, I’ve got used to it, but you, you pull a face and look away. I get the feeling I’m the one who’s ill, I’m the one losing my mind, and when I wash her, it’s as if I’m washing myself. And I think of her — not quite ten years ago she was ill, but she was still cooking, she was clean, she cared about her appearance. We’d talk about all kinds of things, serious and trivial, big and small. We’d even laugh.’
31
Mother is saying her prayers. Keltum asks her to stop making those gestures and rolling her eyes. She prays sitting down, in silence. But praying without first doing one’s ablutions doesn’t count. She claims she’s clean, because she’s just come back from the Makhfiya hammam in Fez. It’s a hot day. There were a lot of women there but she was treated well. ‘The hammam was full, Salma had kept me a place not far from the hot-water spout. I had three buckets, and she rubbed me all over my back, legs and arms. I had a good wash in spite of the women coming in from other neighbourhoods. Everyone likes this hammam best because it’s big, clean and well-maintained. I must say, I can’t wash in any other hammam and of course Salma’s known me for such a long time. She knows what I need. She has the right touch. The other day, I gave her a gold bangle to thank her. She couldn’t believe her eyes. That’s why I have no jewellery left — I’ve given it all away. I like giving things away.
‘Where’s my white caftan got to, the one I put on after bathing? I’m not imagining it, I remember perfectly well. I took it out of the wardrobe, sprinkled it with orange-blossom water, and took out my underwear too — white socks, my canary-yellow scarf, my embroidered handkerchief — everything I needed to go out. If you don’t believe me, ask Habiba, she helped me get it all ready. What? You don’t know Habiba? You’re doing this on purpose, pretending not to believe me, you’re all conniving against me. I have to say my prayers again, give me the polished stone. Too bad about the white caftan. I’ll wear it after the next visit to the hammam.’