Mother isn’t suffering, she’s in her own world. The minute I arrive, she calls the servants to set the table and put the pots on to boil. Today she’s decided we’re going to eat lamb kebabs. She says she made them the day before and they’re marinating with parsley, coriander, finely chopped onion, cumin, pepper, paprika, salt and a drop of olive oil. She asks Keltum to light the kanoun to grill the meat. She also announces that she’s made a chicken tagine with olives and preserved lemons. She says she peeled two onions, then added oil, water, ginger, pepper, salt and a few strands of pure saffron, mixed all the ingredients, then heated them over a gentle flame. She reminds Keltum that the chicken absolutely must be a free-range, local hen, not battery-farmed. That’s what she’s cooked for us. Except that it’s not lunchtime and there are no kebabs and no tagine. Yet Mother’s overjoyed, inhaling deeply as if she’s smelling the aroma of all these dishes.
‘I’m not at all hungry,’ she says. ‘All these pills are ruining my appetite. But what gives me great pleasure is watching you eat what I’ve made for you. That’s my joy. Whatever you do, don’t tell me you’re going to your friends’ house or your brother’s. No, I won’t let you. Tell them your mother’s spent the whole day making the food you love. So once the table’s set and you’re all sitting round, I’ll eat just by watching you. Tomorrow I’ll cook for your father. I’ll make him his favourite dish — calves’ feet with a little wheat and some chickpeas. I’ll season it and let it simmer on the wood fire all night long. It’ll be delicious. I’ve already asked Keltum to go to Bouchta, Fez’s best butcher, to buy the calves’ feet. They need to be cleaned and the fuzz scraped off, then left to soak in brine for a long time. You have to be careful with the garlic, you know, so it doesn’t cause bad breath, you have to open it and take out the green shoot, that’s the culprit. People don’t know how to prepare it.’
‘But Yemma, Father’s no longer with us. He passed away eleven years ago.’
‘Oh all right, he’s dead. That doesn’t matter, it’s his favourite. We still need to make him happy — even the dead need our attention. So, tomorrow he can feast. What are you doing? Where are you going? The meal’s ready, sit down … What, you’re going home? This is your home. Your father’ll be along any minute — go on, get on the phone and call him. If he doesn’t answer, it means he’s on his way. He won’t take taxis. He always says there’s nothing better than walking, but I know he’s saving money, too. Your father’s never been a big spender. He’s careful with his money, he hasn’t got much, we live very simply. I tell him we’ll be rich when I inherit from my father, he has land on the Imouzzer road, but he doesn’t look after it. I know I’ll have my share one day, but we don’t talk about that in our family while my father’s still alive. It’s shameful to think about inheriting, and anyway you never know who’ll go first. God has His secrets. I live in God’s secret heart, He guards me and protects me from evil. When my time comes, I’ll only have to close my eyes and profess my faith: there’s no other God but God and Muhammad is His prophet. I’ll say those words forever, until I am no more, until silence and serene night.’
I arrive unannounced. I find Keltum with two young women — pretty, expertly made-up, looking embarrassed, and both clutching mobile phones. Keltum says: ‘These are my eldest son’s daughters, they work in the free zone at the port, in the garment factories.’ The girls get up, barely say goodbye to my mother, give me a sidelong glance as if we had dealings in common, then vanish. Keltum sees them out. I can tell she’s uncomfortable. I say nothing. She repeats that they’re her eldest granddaughters and they’re good girls. I don’t say a word, and she continues to make excuses for their presence. I understand and go and sit beside my mother, who says to me in a hushed voice: ‘They’re her daughter’s daughters, or her son’s daughters, she has so many children, maybe six or seven, I get muddled. The boys don’t do anything, only the girls work. May God punish me for an evil thought, but I think … no, I’m not saying a word, I didn’t even think it … Life is hard … They have phones they put in their pockets, and me with this telephone that’s constantly out of order, with a cable that doesn’t even stretch as far as my bed … Do something, buy me a phone like those girls have, I won’t know how to work it, just get a receiver so I can speak to you. I’ve had enough of this one with a wire, when you call me — you see, it’s tied to the other wire with a bit of string. It’s not very practical. If I pull on it at all, I can’t get a dialling tone. When it doesn’t work, my heart beats like mad, I start thinking that that’s the moment you’re going to call and be answered by nothingness, so do something … Those two girls come to see Keltum a lot. I think they give her money, or maybe she gives them some of our savings. They say they have fiancés, but nothing specific … I’ve never had a fiancé myself, I went from childhood games to the nuptial bed, where a man was waiting for me. I was frightened. Facing the unknown. Just think, son, how things have changed. I would close my eyes. I’ve forgotten the rest. Girls go to work. How much do they make? I wonder. They have jewellery and shoes imported from Spain. Their father doesn’t work any more. He used to have a lorry, but he had an accident, they found out he had no insurance and his licence was fake. He almost went to prison. They took away his lorry. Luckily, no one died, no one was hurt. So he’s out of work. His daughters went out on the street. Keltum says they work at the port but sometimes they come to see her in the morning, early, when they ought to be at the factory. I haven’t lost my mind, I see everything, I notice everything, but I don’t dare think nasty thoughts.
‘Keltum’s bored. Rhimou’s bored. And I’m bored. Even the television spreads boredom. The coffee table’s lopsided — boredom’s got into the wood. The nurses leave as fast as they can, for fear of catching it. My sons are bored, I can see it in their faces and the way they move. I know I’m no fun, I get night and day mixed up, I’m lost in time, I lose track of everything, so Keltum or Rhimou’s families come to chase away the boredom. Your father says they arrive just before mealtimes, to eat and then leave. Rhimou has two sisters, both of them fat. They come with their children, they set the table, they eat, burp and drink tea, making a horrible slurping noise. They’re peasants, backward people, uneducated, but I accept it, I tell myself I’m doing good, helping people, and I can’t stop them from coming. I’m giving alms, doing zakat. That’s it, my father always told me we should give to the poor. I give — even if I have nothing, I give in other ways. When I see things I don’t like, I turn a blind eye. I don’t have any choice. No choice, son, no choice. My husband isn’t back yet, I’m waiting for him and he’s late, I hope nothing serious has happened. Your father’s stubborn, he’s always last to close up the shop, I’m waiting for him. Why not call him, tell him to hurry, the food’s getting cold?’
‘But Yemma …’
‘I know you’re going to tell me your father’s no longer of this world. You’re wrong, I saw him this morning. He spoke to me, he even asked me to cook him calves’ feet, so … Oh, I see, he must have gone over to Chama’ine to see Uncle Sidi Abdesslam, the one who arranged our marriage. They’re friends — sometimes they meet, get to talking and forget it’s lunchtime …’