‘But Yemma, it’s evening, it’s night, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Everyone’s asleep. Keltum’s asleep, so is Rhimou, and I’m dropping on my feet. I said I’d sit with you tonight to see if you sleep well, but your eyes are open and your mind’s awake. We aren’t in Fez and Sidi Abdesslam is long dead, and so is Father …’
‘Well, they must be seeing each other in God’s house. Perhaps they’re in paradise, I hope so for their sake. So what time is it? I have to take my pills. What, it’s not the right time? Why not? You must know what’s good for me and what’s not, son. All right then, good night, I think I’m feeling sleepy.’
It’s the second time Mother’s said to me: ‘I haven’t seen you since your funeral, I’ve missed you!’ She’s living in paradise. She really is in another world, because she’s reunited with everyone in the family who’s passed away. She spends time talking with them and has us believe they’re here, among the living. But why did she include me in the procession of the dead? She doesn’t want to live without me and carries me off with her, into her daydreams — her delusions, that in the end we find amusing. My brothers and I phone each other to exchange the latest anecdotes and we laugh, saying: ‘At least she’s not in pain.’
When I gently protest, saying: ‘But I’m alive!’ she laughs and adds: ‘In any case, I wouldn’t have survived your death. God will carry me off in your lifetime, I’m depending on it, so if I was talking about burial, I must have got you mixed up with my beloved little brother. You know, son, with this confusion everything gets muddled in my head — everything, people, time, what I see and what I feel, fruit and vegetables, medicine and sugar, day and night, stars and dreams, sleeping and forgetting, you see, son … Are you sure you’re my son? Forgetting … I forget the main things but that’s all right, I hope I’m not a burden to you and that I never will be. You know, when I lost my first husband at seventeen, someone said to me: “God has lifted the weight of life from you, a child already widowed. But life will not stop: your innocence was slapped by a sudden death, but see that you stay light all your life. That’s important.” And I wasn’t sad any more, I felt as if I had wings. That’s why the grief wasn’t too overwhelming and I remarried quite quickly. My mother was lovely because of that lightness too. She was like a bee — lively, quick and graceful. I’d so love to be like her on the day of her death. She went in her sleep. I’ll be carried off in my sleep too.’
The ghosts of the past must have taken leave of my mother. She had another episode this morning. Nothing’s in its place any more, neither people nor things. I call out to her. She’s crying, she’s in distress. ‘Come quick, please, come and bring me my children, the little girl I adopted has gone. She was with me in the bathroom, she went to open the front door and now she’s gone. She’s been kidnapped. She was too good for me, I know, but I’m worried sick, she hasn’t come back. Where can she be? I hope she won’t get hurt, so come, I’m on my knees, I’m begging you, don’t leave me alone, there are people who want to hurt me, they’re coming and going, I can see them, they’re getting close.’
I find her very agitated, her headscarf askew. She holds out her arms and I hug her. My children shower her with kisses, she seems calmer but insists we stay with her. She can’t see very well. Her glasses are broken. When we leave, she starts pleading with us. I’m choked up. The children ask why she’s crying. We leave, promising to come back the next day. She understands it as next month and gets the seasons mixed up: ‘It will be Ramadan, you’ll come for the breaking of the fast.’
32
Zilli is dead. Roland’s just told me. She was having lunch with a friend on the terrace of Le Mirabeau in Lausanne on a sunny July day. At the end of the meal, she started to cough. Her friend gave her a glass of water: she drank it and then she choked. She keeled over in her chair, fell head first onto the lawn. Roland was at the Pully swimming pool, playing ping-pong. He heard his name being called over the tannoy, it was the police. They told him the news. He went back to the ping-pong table and carried on with his game. He said: ‘In any case, she was dead. I had to finish the match, especially since I was winning.’ The next day, he opened the envelope in which Zilli had written her instructions: ‘Please cremate me and scatter my ashes in the garden of remembrance. I don’t want a religious ceremony or an obituary notice in the press.’
On the day of the cremation, there were a few elderly ladies, including her blind friend, the concierge from her apartment block, Monique and Naomi, Roland’s current girlfriend.
My mother continues to deteriorate. Seeing her is less and less enjoyable. She’s affectionate, but gets everyone’s faces confused. She needs us to be there, which is why I go almost every day. Keltum’s taken the day off. Everything around my mother has fallen apart. No matter how much Rhimou tries to reassure her, there’s nothing to be done. One piece of the puzzle out of place, and panic breaks out. Keltum can’t take any more. She needs a break once or twice a week. I understand. She reminds me she’s not a domestic servant but a friend, a member of the family.
My visits get shorter and shorter. Not so long ago, I’d sit beside my mother and hold her hand, and we’d talk. But now, I’m loath to ask her questions about her health. It sets her off on a rant that we’re forced to follow or pretend to understand. Funnily enough, she’s most coherent on the telephone. Perhaps voices are more deeply imprinted on the memory than images. For the time being, I alternate: one day I phone, the next I come and see her.
Keltum has made a list of the household repairs needed:
— A new water heater, this one is beyond repair.
— Buy a new cooker.
— Repair the toilet flush.
— Throw out the old rug from Rabat. It stinks.
— Install a satellite dish so that Rhimou can watch Esmeralda, otherwise she’ll go over to the neighbours’ and your mother doesn’t like it when she goes, even if it’s only next door.
— Talk to the pharmacist and ask her to give me credit.
— And, if it’s not too much to ask, buy me a mobile phone … Yes, I need one, so my many children and grandchildren can call me.
Mother is very busy. She barely notices I’m there. She’s winding a handkerchief around her forefinger, then her thumb. She repeats the same movement dozens of times. She talks, talks to herself, is completely unaware, repeating words back to front. She sings softly to herself, hums, and then stops suddenly. ‘Who’s there? Oh, son, I didn’t see you come in, have you been here long? My eyesight’s getting worse and worse, son. It’s dark all the time. I need light, light’s important. Tell me, on your way home, you didn’t see my father — you know, your grandfather? He was in town, I think he was having lunch with Moulay Ismail, you know, the one with eight daughters who’s always trying to marry them off. Poor man! Eight daughters … Some of them have found a husband. It was arranged. He’s a jeweller, he’s rich. One of his daughters married a cobbler. Imagine — a poor craftsman who mends old babouches. What drudgery! He earns nothing. So his father-in-law offered to open a women’s shoe shop for him. He was overjoyed. But because he worked only with women, he ended up marrying one and imposed her on his household. Moulay Ismail came to my father to complain — you know, your grandfather’s a highly respected man, people come from all over the country to ask his advice. So I heard it all. Poor Ghita — her name’s Ghita, I think — went to Moulay Idriss, to the mausoleum, and asked the great saint for sanctuary. She said she wouldn’t leave the mausoleum until the second wife was repudiated. But we’re in Fez and Islam always favours the man. Apparently the Qur’an says a man must be fair to all his wives. How to be fair? You ask what I’d have done? Well, I wouldn’t have run away to Moulay Idriss. I’m not a bad woman. I wouldn’t have gone and poked the second wife’s eye out, no. I’m not capable of it. But tell me, who are you? And where have my three husbands gone?’