My mother did not eat that day. She had no appetite. She waited for the plates to be returned. Towards the end of the afternoon, a negafa came to the house singing the call to the Prophet, following it with ululations. The plates had come back, with gifts. At last! My mother had passed the test. Her mother-in-law had no reason to worry: her son would be well fed! After the seventh day, relaxed and happy now, the families met again. The husband took his wife to live in a little house next to his parental home.
10
My mother has always cared about the way she looks. She’s never worn dark colours, she loves white, pale yellow, beige. She believes colours should make the heart beat faster, that you shouldn’t darken things: a soothing colour is an opening up to life. She used to take especial care in choosing her headscarves, of which she had many. I don’t recall ever seeing my mother with her hair flying in the wind or without a scarf. One time, when she was asleep in the hospital, her headscarf slipped, revealing some white hair. I looked away; she wouldn’t have wanted me to see it.
My mother doesn’t like being in dimly lit rooms. She demands light. She says: ‘Light opens and calms the heart. It’s a sign of joy, a sign of generosity.’ One of my uncles was very frugal, miserly even, a few candles were enough to light his house. He lived in the dark. His wife, too, was afraid of light, of any brightness. They were people who didn’t like to show themselves in daylight. Terrified of the evil eye, they lived a semi-clandestine existence in the belief that other people looking at them could only bring harm. So, no light. My mother didn’t like going to their house, though she accepted this foible and all their petty-mindedness. When they came to our house, they were amazed to see so much light. My uncle would say: ‘What a waste! All these light bulbs really aren’t necessary. We don’t need that much light just to see each other.’ My mother didn’t like mean people, but she’d never criticise. She’d say: ‘Everyone lives as they choose. I don’t judge. I’d rather not spend time with people who think money’s more important than human beings. Money’s what our ancestors thought of as the dirt of life, the debris of time. So I hope people who hoard it know that there’s no room for bank accounts in a coffin!’ She’d laugh about it, although she was sorry not to have enough money herself to live better.
Mother’s naive and takes herself seriously. She loves to laugh but she interprets everything literally. Father would tease her. He could be brilliantly funny and sardonic. Some people in the family liked this quick-wittedness, others feared his sharp tongue and kept their distance. My mother didn’t like my father’s joking. Now, she talks about those days with regret: ‘Your father wasn’t fair to me. He hurt me but he wasn’t a bad man, he worked all his life. He never did well in business, like his friends; it made him bitter and jealous of other people’s wealth. I didn’t like that in him. He could wound people, not realising how much his sarcasm upset them. Afterwards, he’d be surprised that they were annoyed or cold towards him. He’d speak his mind, didn’t keep anything to himself. He was always embarrassing me. Some of our friends would come and see me when they knew he was away travelling. They’d rather not have to see him. The things he’d say! He was so clever, but what’s the use of cleverness when it’s so brutal and unfeeling?’
My older brother comes to see her twice a week, in the late afternoon. He’s very affectionate. As she says, ‘He covers me in kisses.’ Since he’s also unwell, he’s careful about his health. He discusses his aches and pains with her, his difficulties with his children. She listens and doesn’t judge him. He’s a delicate, cultured man, a good Muslim, moderate, with a horror of fanaticism and fundamentalism of any kind. A very sensitive man, he’s retreated from life. My mother would rather he hadn’t, but she doesn’t say anything. She’d have loved to see him happy, generous, open and less anxious. But she finds his presence comforting. Even though she gets him muddled up with me or my other brother. Then she corrects herself and apologises. She knows it hurts us. But no one holds it against her. We all know that her illness plays tricks on her. When she’s lucid, she sets the record straight: ‘Don’t go thinking I’ve gone mad! It’s all the pills I’ve been taking for over thirty years that have damaged my mind. Add it up: about ten pills a day for thirty years, how many is that? A tonne? Two tonnes? Enough to kill an army! So if I get things wrong, if I don’t recognise you straight away, don’t be angry with me. It’s that wretched medicine that’s to blame. The pills have saved me, but at the same time, they’ve destroyed something inside me.’
When she was in the hospital, with death prowling her room, a cousin suggested taking her back home: ‘It would be better for her to pass away in her own house.’ The comment reminded me of one of her wishes: ‘If I die away from home, please don’t make me spend the night in the fridge.’ My father had died in the afternoon and spent the night in the morgue. It wasn’t until eight o’clock the next morning that the ambulance brought his body back to the house. That cold night had broken my mother’s heart. She’d talk about it often. I once tried to tell her that death is the absence of all feeling, but she was adamant that her body, even if devoid of sensation, must not spend the night in the fridge. When we told her that Father had died, she had this strange reaction: ‘But where is he?’ My brother said: ‘At the hospital, in the morgue.’ ‘You mean in the fridge?’ ‘Yes, in the fridge, that’s the way it’s done.’ She didn’t sleep at all that night. She dressed in white, picked up her beads and began to pray. All night long, she must have been thinking about her husband. I’d even venture that she’d never thought about him as she did that night. She must have identified with him, felt the cold he was unable to feel. She put herself in his place, in that glacial chamber, shivering constantly and feeling sick. Death isn’t only the absence of feeling, it’s also the thought of nothingness, of what’s no longer there, of what’s inevitably approaching. Since that night, she’s had a horror of being put in the fridge.
11
She was barely sixteen when she fell pregnant. Sidi Mohammed learned it from his mother, who summoned him to break the good news: ‘Lalla Fatma is expecting a baby. May God grant it’s a boy, but I’ll be just as happy with a girl, even though your older brother only has daughters. I can’t wait to see your son. Lalla Fatma shows excellent promise — may God protect her and ease the ordeal of pregnancy — she has nothing but good qualities, and she makes delicious tagines. Are you happy, my son?’ ‘Yes, Mother, I’m very happy. She really is a girl from a good family. Parents such as hers are exceptional.’