‘By the grace of the Almighty, Sidi Abdesslam Al Idrissi, on behalf of his son Mohammed — may God protect him and keep him on the straight and narrow path — has taken a wife, Lalla Fatma, daughter of Moulay Ahmed and under her father’s protection, a virgin of marrying age. And with her is offered a blessed dowry amounting to a total of 20,000 rials. The bride’s father has received the agreed sum from the hands of the above-named bridegroom’s father, as witnessed by the two notaries undersigned.
‘This marriage takes place under the most auspicious circumstances, as prescribed by Muslim law, governed by the precepts of the Qur’an, which commands that the husband act with kindness, fairness and consideration towards his wife, or otherwise restores her freedom, in accordance with due procedure.
‘The bride’s father has given his daughter in marriage by virtue of the power vested in him by God. The groom agrees wholeheartedly to this act concluded on his behalf by his father; he ratifies and is bound by it.
‘May Almighty God bless this union and assist in the accomplishment of His plans. May God show them the path of happiness, trust, kindness and mutual support.’
The men rise. The elder adul stands between the two fathers and begins the ‘Fatiha’, his hands together pointing up to God, and they pray.
‘Let us now pray for goodness, for the couple’s happiness, that Allah will show them the path to goodness, that Allah will instil in them high morals and, with the blessing of their parents, that Allah will show them the great paths of life. May He give them children to make their family grow and fill their house, which is so beautiful and so welcoming. May Allah keep them in His goodness and in our religion’s faith, in His mercy and tolerance! Amen, Amen!’
They draw their hands across their lips, then over their hearts, while continuing to chant prayers: ‘Glory to God, God Almighty, Lord of the universe!’
They congratulate one another, saying: ‘Blessed and happy be this union! May God make this union succeed! May it prove lasting, in goodness, joy and kindness!’
‘Now,’ says the elder adul, ‘these children are married according to the rites of our religion, the sadaqah has been given to the bride’s family, the marriage will be consummated when the two families have agreed a date, and when the bride’s family has her trousseau and her house ready.’
6
For the past two days, my mother’s been asking for someone called Mustafa. We don’t have a Mustafa in the family. Who is she talking about? She persists, saying she’s annoyed that he’s not here. When we ask her who she means, she’s surprised we’re asking such a silly question. ‘But he’s my eldest son, the one I had when I was fifteen, how can you not remember him? He’s a handsome, generous man. He has several children, I can’t remember how many. His wife has him well trained, he doesn’t do a thing without asking her first, or rather he only does what she orders him to. Mustafa has a heart of gold, a heart as pure as silk. I’m sure it’s his wife who’s stopping him coming to visit me. If you see him, tell him his mother says he must come.’
There’s no one with that name in our family. Where did she get this idea — could it be a son she’s never spoken about before? Is she confusing him with my older brother?
According to Keltum, my mother cried all night. In the morning, she couldn’t remember a thing. She was crying because she believed the courts had taken away her two very young children. ‘What am I supposed to say to that?’ Keltum asks me. There’s nothing you can say. You just have to listen and not contradict her.
Yesterday, Mother asked me for money. Not much, just so she wouldn’t feel completely penniless. Keltum manages the housekeeping now. I give my mother a 100-dirham note. She tries to cram it into her pocket, which is full of rags. She’s afraid she’ll run out of handkerchiefs. A little later, she asks in the same tone for some money. She’s already forgotten. When I remind her I’ve already given her 100 dirhams, she replies: ‘Keltum stole it from me.’ Then, after a while, she looks at me, stares hard and says: ‘Who are you, monsieur? You know my brother, the one whose wife made a doormat of him? He’s so sweet, he doesn’t dare go against the woman he calls Lalla Lallati … Listen, I have to go, Mother’s taking me to see Moishe, who’s doing the embroidery for my trousseau. He’s the best in the whole mellah, he has golden fingers. He’s so good, he’s practically a Muslim!’
What’s this disease called? Alzheimer’s? There are times when Mother’s perfectly lucid and coherent. Granted, these moments are increasingly rare. What does it matter what name is given to this illness? What’s the point of naming it? She says: ‘My memory’s getting blurry. As I get older, my mind’s shrinking: it can’t keep hold of everything, there are too many things. Ask me some questions, just to see if it’s all still there.’ She recites the names of her children and grandchildren, mixes up times and cities, corrects herself, laughs at her decrepitude and protests because her favourite singers aren’t on Moroccan TV these days.
She who’s never missed a prayer doesn’t pray any more. She no longer remembers how to do her ablutions with the polished stone or what to say in her prayers. Keltum tells me: ‘She soils herself and knows that being unclean, she can’t pray.’
My mother’s become very impatient. When she asks for something, she shouts and complains. Keltum’s impatient too. Caring twenty-four hours a day for an elderly person who’s lost their mind requires more than patience. Sometimes she loses her temper and demands a holiday — another way of asking for a raise — and I don’t argue. Her work has no price. Taking a frail, elderly woman in your arms, carrying her to the bathroom to wash her, dressing and comforting her, answering the same question for the tenth time, taking her back to her room, giving her her medication, cooking her meals, talking to her, never leaving her. Only her own daughter could have done that, but my sister Touria suffers from depression and has no patience with her mother.