Mother’s agreed to go for a drive outside the city. Ahmed, who used to work in Father’s shop, has lent me his Mercedes, which is more comfortable than my Fiat Uno. We carry her to the car, settle her in and adjust her glasses. She’s happy and excited. She prays that all will go well. We reverse out and she wonders what’s happening to her. She doesn’t recognise the little street or the neighbours. Her friend, who used to live opposite, has moved away. She reminisces about the afternoons they used to spend together. I drive slowly so she can take in the scenery. I drive up to Cap Spartel, stop near the lighthouse and explain to her that this is where two seas meet, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. She listens but looks thoughtful. She tells me where her son Mohammed’s house is. I remind her that he lives in Casablanca. ‘He might have told me,’ she mutters. I don’t argue with her. We continue our drive as far as the Mirage, a lovely hotel overlooking the sea. At first, she refuses to get out of the car, she’s afraid of being seen in this condition. We sit her in a chair and Ahmed and I carry her into the shade of a tree, facing the swimming pool. She says: ‘Is it yours, all this? Is this your villa? You deserve it. It’s beautiful — the swimming pool, the sea, the grass, all this green, and the silence! You’ve chosen a fine spot, may God grant you even more good luck and kindness so that you and your family live long lives, with no misfortune!’ I explain that it’s a hotel where I often come for the summer. She says: ‘This place is like you, it’s beautiful.’ Then she dozes, wakes with a start and asks for Keltum: ‘Get all the things for the baths, we’re going to the hammam, I’m going to be married tomorrow, hurry up, we mustn’t be late. Mother’s very busy, all my cousins are here for the hamman ceremony, I’m to be married tomorrow. I’m scared, I haven’t met my husband, I don’t know if he’s tall and handsome or short and ugly. I don’t know if he has all his teeth, or if he’ll like me. Let’s get the hammam things ready. Don’t forget the oranges and the hard-boiled eggs, don’t forget the scented rasul and the Moulay Idriss henna. Hurry, girls, hurry, or the light will be gone.’
7
All the female cousins of her age are here, laughing and joking, proud to accompany the youngest of them to the hammam ceremony. They each have a brass bowl. There are around ten of them. Ambar, the black girl who used to be Moulay Ahmed’s slave, takes charge: ‘Follow me, gather round our princess, our beauty, the gazelle who tomorrow will be given to a good man, a man from a fine family, the man who’ll make her happy and give her children. May God bless them and bring them joy.’
The entire hammam has been hired for the occasion. Zubida, the attendant, greets the procession with a string of ululations. Ambar calls on the Prophet and his companions. The women who will wash and massage their bodies — the tayabates — are waiting. The cousins undress, leaving their clothes at the entrance, next to suitcases containing new outfits, and enter the hammam squealing with joy. The cousins tease Ambar, whose enormous breasts make them laugh. She’s fat but she doesn’t care. Her breasts hang like heavy fruit. The girls are proud of their firm little busts. They touch and tickle one another, giggling, slithering around and almost falling over. A masseuse takes the bride-to-be in hand. She strokes her slowly, washes her, and then begins to give her a thorough massage. After a while, feeling tired, Ambar asks if they can rest for a moment, just to eat a few oranges. They move from the steam room to the warm room. Here, they can breathe. They eat, drink cool water and relax, then go back to the steam room to finish cleansing their skin. The masseuse shows them how to scrub away the dead skin painlessly. She tells them: ‘This is the cemetery of useless skin.’ It’s also the place where everything superfluous is removed. Hair — oh, hair must be removed. When the husband goes to bed with his gazelle, he must encounter only softness, a smooth skin, velvety and beautiful — everything that he is not. ‘You see, girls, a woman’s skin must be pampered, her entire body must be prepared. Her mind too must be readied, but on the wedding night, it’s her body that’s being tested. A word of advice for our lovely gazelle who’ll be given to her husband tomorrow: slide through his hands like a fish, don’t give yourself to him straight away, make him chase you a little, let him win you. You smell good, you’re ready, there isn’t a hair on your entire body. You’re a ripe fruit, but he has to make some effort. Be obedient, of course, but you’re also allowed to play a little. After all, you’re still a child, a girl of barely fifteen!’
Now comes the taqbib: the tayabates have filled seven buckets with water, some hot, some warm. They dip their bowls into them and pour the water over the head of the bride-to-be. They claim that the bowls they use for scooping the water come from Mecca. After the seven dousings, they announce that the gazelle is under the protection of the angels.
Three hours later, Ambar notices that the gazelle can’t take any more, she’s fainting. Ambar picks her up and carries her to the room where the steam is bearable. She wraps her in a big fouta — a bath towel bought for the occasion — and takes her to the resting room. She gives her a glass of milk, then makes her inhale a strong perfume. The girls join her. To comfort her, cousin Aisha says whatever comes into her head: ‘It’s all the emotion, the fateful day is getting closer. You’re so lucky, when will it be my turn? I’m too old, almost twenty and still not wed. I’m the eldest and my younger sister was married before me, the world’s upside down. But I’m pretty — not as pretty as you are, but I can wait. What’s been written for me will come to pass … I won’t end up on the shelf …’
8
My friend Dr Fattah made me a promise: if Mother’s health suddenly deteriorates, he has a duty to let me know. He calls me in May. I can tell it’s serious from the tone of his voice: he speaks gently, weighs his words and simply says what needs saying. The next day I’m at her bedside. I see she’s in the room where my father died, ten years earlier. My first impression is the worst: the colour of her skin, pale and jaundiced, her glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, her lower jaw contorted and sucked in, mouth wide open, gaze vacant. My mother, visited by death. With tears in his eyes, my brother says: ‘I’ve arranged to see El Haj, our cousin. He knows what arrangements we need to make for the grave and the funeraclass="underline" her condition is hopeless.’
Despite what I see, despite the doctors’ very guarded prognoses, my intuition tells me otherwise. My mother isn’t about to die. Not this time. She doesn’t know where she is or who is around her. I take her hand and speak to her softly. Close family members come and go. In her rare lucid moments, she gives orders to Keltum to start cooking dinner and laying the table, insisting the tablecloths be clean and ironed. We take turns at her bedside, but my sister and Keltum never leave her.
How to pass the time at my mother’s bedside? Once the high emotion has subsided, you begin to get bored. There’s nothing to do. You greet visitors, you answer the phone, you keep an eye on her breathing. You wait for the doctors to come, you stare at the walls, following the lines of cracks caused by damp. You gaze at the ceiling. You do nothing. You wait, you chat to the nurses. I’ve learned things about this private hospital. Not so nice, some of the things that go on here. Money makes people crazy. Some nurses are paid 1,000 dirhams a month, others aren’t paid at all because they’re considered trainees. Public hospitals aren’t much better. I prefer a well-equipped, efficient hospital to a Parliament where people spend hours pontificating. But that’s another story. It all went well for my mother, this time. We paid in advance, slipped some fat tips to the nursing staff. The doctors were competent.