About My Mother E-Book

Tahar Ben Jelloun

• Herausgeber: Telegram Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 313

Beschreibung

Since she's been ill, Lalla Fatma has become a frail little thing with a faltering memory. Lalla Fatma thinks she's in Fez in 1944, where she grew up, not in Tangier in 2000, where this story begins. She calls out to family members who are long dead and loses herself in the streets of her childhood, yearning for her first love and the city she left behind. By her bedside, her son Tahar listens to long-hidden secrets and stories from her past: married while still playing with dolls and widowed for the first time at the age of sixteen. Guided by these fragments, Tahar vividly conjures his mother's life in post-war Morocco, unravelling the story of a woman for whom resignation was the only way out. Tender and compelling, About My Mother maps the beautiful, fragile and complex nature of human experience, while paying tribute to a remarkable woman and the bond between mother and son. 'Ben Jelloun is arguably Morocco's greatest living author, whose impressive body of work combines intellect and imagination in magical fusion' Guardian 'In any language, in any culture, Tahar Ben Jelloun would be a remarkable novelist' Sunday Telegraph 'One of Morocco's most celebrated and translated writers' Asymptote 'A traditional storyteller whose tales have the status of myth ... An important writer.' Times Literary Supplement

Leseprobe

Born in Fez, Morocco, TAHAR BEN JELLOUN is an award-winning and internationally bestselling novelist, essayist, critic and poet. Regularly shortlisted for the Nobel Prize in Literature, he has won the Prix Goncourt and the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. His work has also been shortlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. He received the rank of Officier de la Légion d’honneur in 2008. Some of his works in English translation include The Happy Marriage, This Blinding Absence of Light, The Sand Child and Racism Explained to My Daughter.

ROS SCHWARTZ has translated a wide range of Francophone fiction and non-fiction writers including Andrée Chedid, Aziz Chouaki, Fatou Diome, Dominique Manotti and Dominique Eddé. She was made Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres for her services to literature in 2009.

LULU NORMAN has translated the work of Mahi Binebine, Albert Cossery, Mahmoud Darwish, Amin Maalouf and the songs of Serge Gainsbourg. Her translations have been shortlisted for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, Independent Foreign Fiction Prize and Best Translated Books Award, among others.

About My Mother

Tahar Ben Jelloun

Translated from the French by

Ros Schwartz and Lulu Norman

TELEGRAM

About My Mother

Glossary

1

Since she’s been ill, my mother’s become a frail little thing with a faltering memory. She summons members of her family who are long dead. She talks to them, is astonished that her mother hasn’t come to visit, and sings the praises of her little brother who, she says, always brings her presents. They file past her bedside, sometimes they linger. I don’t interrupt them, I don’t like to upset her. Keltum, her paid companion, complains: ‘She thinks we’re in Fez, the year you were born!’

Mother’s revisiting my childhood. Her memory’s been toppled, lies scattered over the damp floor. Time and reality are out of kilter. She gets swept away by the emotions that come surging back. Every quarter of an hour, she asks me: ‘How many children do you have?’ Every time, I answer in the same even tone. Keltum is agitated and interrupts to say she can’t stand Mother’s repeated questions any more.

Mother’s afraid of Keltum. She’s a woman whose eyes betray her wicked thoughts and she knows it. When she speaks to me, she looks at the floor. When she greets me, she’s obsequious, bowing and attempting to kiss my hand. I don’t want to push her away, or put her in her place. I pretend not to know what she’s up to. I can see fear in my mother’s eyes. Fear that Keltum might leave her on her own when none of us are here. Fear that she won’t give her her medication. Fear that she’ll let her go without food, or worse, give her meat that’s gone off. Fear that she might spank her, as if she were a naughty child. In one of her lucid moments, my mother said to me: ‘I’m not mad, you know. Keltum thinks I’m a little girl again. She tells me off, she threatens me, but I know it’s the pills playing tricks on me. Keltum’s not a bad person, she’s just prickly. She’s tired. She’s the one who washes me every morning, you know, son; she’s the one who cleans up the stuff that leaks out of me. I couldn’t ask that of you, or your brother, so Keltum’s here for that too. It’s as well to forget the rest …’

How can I forget that my mother’s in the care of a woman who, over the years, has become hard, cynical and grasping? Why is my mother journeying back to childhood under the malevolent gaze of this bully?

Mother started talking about the midwife, Lalla Radhia, again. She insisted I invite her to lunch and told me where to go: ‘She lives just before Batha, the big square at the entrance to the medina. Go to the café run by Sallam, Khaduj’s husband – you know, Uncle Moulay Ali’s daughter-in-law. Go into the café and ask for her. Everyone knows her, she has to come!’ I try to remind her that Lalla Radhia’s no longer with us, but she insists she wants her at the house for lunch.

Since Mother’s moved into a different bedroom, she’s convinced she’s in a different house and is living in a different city. We’re no longer in Impasse Ali Bey in Tangier, but the Makhfiya district in Fez. We’re no longer in the year 2000, but 1944. Her dreams won’t be extinguished. They assail her waking hours, refuse to leave her alone. The present is lurching. It flickers, sputters back to life and then fades altogether. It no longer concerns her. She’s become detached from it, which doesn’t worry her in the least.

She tells me she saw a man and a woman talking in the hallway. They must have come to buy the old house in Fez. She warns me not to let it go cheaply: ‘Times are hard. The war’s not over and besides, your father won’t be happy! I heard the man say to the woman, “It’s a bargain, we should seize the opportunity.” Anyone would think they lived with us and knew we were struggling. The man’s not from Fez, he has a country accent − Fassi’s more refined. And in any case, we’re not selling!’

Today, Zineb, her nurse, has come to change her dressings. No longer able to recognise her, Mother refuses to let her touch her foot. Zineb says she won’t hurt her. Mother smiles: ‘If you do, my father will know all about it. I’m not a child, so go on, clean the wound and don’t treat me like a frightened little girl.’ Then things fall back into place and she remembers everything. It was just a lapse. A memory lapse. Her recollections are a little hazy.

Mother threw a pretty gold chain down the toilet. Keltum fished it out and washed it repeatedly for two days, then soaked it in adulterated eau de cologne.

My sister has come from Fez to look after her. Mother’s annoyed: she thinks she’s her own mother. My sister’s getting on a bit too, she’s only sixteen years younger than my mother, the daughter of her first marriage. Mother remembers very clearly: ‘I’d just turned fifteen. My husband was strong and handsome. The typhus epidemic carried him off before my daughter was born. A widow at sixteen!’

2

There were foreigners in town but it wasn’t yet wartime. I think I’d been noticed at the hammam; that was often where mothers chose wives for their sons. I remember, an older lady came over to my mother and asked her for a little rasul: ‘Mine’s finished. But our sort can help each other out, can’t we, Lalla Hajjah?’ My mother, who hadn’t yet made the pilgrimage, answered: ‘God has not yet shown me the way to Mecca, I wait and I hope − but here, take this rasul, it’s from Chrif Wazzani’s. It smells lovely and it’s good for the skin.’ I listened to this exchange, little suspecting it was a marriage proposal. True, at one point the lady murmured in my mother’s ear: ‘May God protect your gazelle, whose skin is so white and whose hair is so long!’ That’s what people say when they want to propose marriage: ‘May God protect her and keep her from wicked people’s eyes!’

A few days later, sounding half-hearted, even resigned, my mother said: ‘I think, daughter, you’re about to be married. Your father consents, especially since he knows the family of the young man whose mother I met. They’re a Chorfa family, noble people, descendants of our beloved Prophet. The young man works with his father, who’s a trader in the Diwane, right beside your uncle Sidi Abdesslam – as a matter of fact, he was the one who thought of you when he saw how well the young man was doing. The mother seems a good person from a fine family; we found out that our parents knew each other well. They’re a true Fassi family like us, and you know, daughter, a Fassi girl can only be happy with a Fassi man of her class. Our kind don’t mix, our forebears knew that only too well and cultivated relationships within the same prominent family. I’d never give my daughter to a man whose family wasn’t known to us, someone from another city like Casablanca or even Meknès. A Fassi man for a Fassi woman, that’s a guarantee and a precautionary measure we shouldn’t ignore.’

I listened to her, not saying a word. I was intrigued, and afraid: ‘But Yemma, I’m barely fifteen! I still play with dolls.’

‘Daughter, did you know that the last wife of our beloved Prophet – his favourite, Aisha – was only twelve when he married her? You’re the daughter of a man as important and respected as a saint. You’re the daughter of a Cherif, a descendant of the Prophet. I myself was given to your father by my parents when I was sixteen.’

‘How old is he, this boy from a good family?’

‘Are you crazy? Your uncle Sidi Abdesslam spoke so highly of him to your father that we wouldn’t dream of questioning his judgement. All I know is that he’s a fine young man, from an excellent family, well known to us, and that he works with his father in the Diwane. That’s it, you’ll find out more on your wedding night, just as I did. Do you imagine I’d seen your father before the wedding? It was a mutual discovering, and I’ve been the happiest woman in the world.’

‘So he must be young!’

‘Oh yes! It’s his first marriage; he’s not one of those old men looking for a second or third wife.’

‘Yemma, I’ll never go against your wishes, I’ll do everything you tell me to as long as I have your blessing.’

‘Since I want only what’s best for you, you have nothing to fear! You know, daughter, my heart is a little heavy. Every marriage is a gamble, you never know how things will turn out, which is why we find out about the family, about their background – that’s very important, because it gives us some idea of the boy’s upbringing. The problem arises where there is dishonesty. That happened with my cousin Sidi Larbi, who was saddled with the elder sister of the girl his mother had asked for as a wife. How could he know? He only found out on the wedding night − as did we, by the way − but since our tradition does not permit divorce, he stayed married to her. She’s a good person, not beautiful at all, but sweet-natured. Still, you have nothing to fear, Sidi Drissi is a fine young man, we know the entire family well.’

3

My mother’s body continues to shrink. She is tiny. A tiny, light little thing with meagre flesh that causes her pain. Her sight has deteriorated but her hearing is perfect. She detected the call to prayer in the chirping of a sparrow. She said: ‘It’s calling God.’ My sister didn’t contradict her; she agreed the bird was an angel come to pray with them.

Once again she confused me with my older brother, asking me how his children were, getting everything muddled. Then she thought my children were my brother’s. I prefer to see the funny side, but he gets upset and his eyes fill with tears. I feel like crying too, but resist, because at times she is perfectly lucid and I see her as she always was – beautiful and graceful, clever and astute, conscious of what she’s suffering and of everything going on around her. She never loses her mind completely. My brother took it upon himself to work out how long her moments of clarity last compared with her rambling. He claims the periods when her mind wanders last longer.

Yesterday, sounding embarrassed, Keltum asked me to buy some pads. Mother’s increasingly incontinent, but she refuses to wear them. She tears off the adhesive strips and flings the pads under the bed. Keltum’s furious. She can’t take it any more: ‘You’re only here a few hours, but for me it’s all the time, day and night – and it’s worse at night. She hardly sleeps and wakes us up to talk about Fez and her brothers, who died a long time ago. Tell the doctor to give her a pill that will give her back her mind, or make her sleep. I can’t stand this any longer!’

Mother’s always had a serene attitude towards death. Her faith in God has driven out any fear of it. Once, in the days when her health gave no cause for alarm, she asked me for a large sum of money. ‘Why? Don’t be like your father, always asking what I wanted money for. I’m going to redo the sitting room, buy some new fabric, repaint the entire house, get two lovely low tables and some more cutlery and napkins.’ And why all that? ‘I want the house to be clean and tidy for my funeral. People will come from all over the country: I want them to find the house looking nice. They must be served good food; I’ve always received my guests generously. My farewell should be lavish, the best reception of all! That’s why I need money, son. I’m telling you now, and don’t forget. It has to be a grand occasion.’

My friend Roland’s mother celebrated her ninetieth birthday by going round the world. She lives in Lausanne, and her health is good, she plays bridge every day, reads books and goes to the cinema. Life in Switzerland is less tiring than it is in Fez. My mother never went to school, she doesn’t know how to play bridge, has never been to the theatre or the opera. She’s had three husbands and given birth to four children, fed them and raised them. Three husbands and only one true love. I’ve never heard her tell the story – I guessed. My mother doesn’t talk about love. It’s a word she uses only for her children. She says: ‘I’d die for you, light of my eyes, rainbow of my life, I’d die for you!’ She’s uneducated but not uncultured, she has her own culture, religious beliefs, values and traditions. To live an entire life without ever deciphering a page of writing, without ever being able to read numbers, to live in a closed world surrounded by signs, unable to understand them … The problem became acute the day my father had the telephone installed: she felt the need to learn numbers so she could call her children, her sister and her husband. My father taught them to her but soon lost patience, leaving her with the numbers written large on a slate. She decided to learn two phone numbers, no more: mine and the one for my father’s shop. She spent all day dialling them until she’d learned them by heart. One day she managed to dial mine correctly but to her disappointment she got the answerphone. She spoke to it: ‘You, machine, you’re the machine of my son in lafrance, aren’t you? Now you listen to me, and whatever you do, make sure you don’t forget a word I say, so you can tell him when he gets back. Now you tell him that his mother called, she’s fine – well, more or less, she’s dying to see him. Tell him too that his father’s coughing a lot and won’t go to the doctor. You must make a point of that, so he’ll call his doctor friend and get him to come over. He’s coughing up and spitting out nasty stuff. Tell him too that his sister Touria has gone to Mecca. So that’s it, machine, don’t forget to tell him to speak to his father, tell him as well that my blood sugar’s up after Keltum upset me. Right, I’m putting the phone down and I’m counting on you to pass on the message. One more thing – I’ll be quick – tell him that El Haj, his cousin, has lost his wife and he should call to offer his condolences. Thank you, thank you very much!’

4

My mother has worked all her life – in the kitchen, and keeping house. It hasn’t been easy for her. I remember her irritation when the primus stove was blocked and she had to delicately remove the gunge that had collected in the rising tube. I remember life with no refrigerator, with no gas stove, no running water, no telephone. My mother wore herself out. The servants she hired took advantage of her weakness. How many times did she find herself cooking lunch for fifteen people, on her own – last-minute guests, family members who’d arrived unexpectedly? They’d often come to spend holidays at our house.

She had to be nice to them, smile and come out with all the traditional platitudes: ‘Today’s a very special day. You light up our house, you fill it with your goodness, may God give life to those who behold you. Please bear with us, accept us as we are, we haven’t adequately prepared for your visit. Forgive us, this is a special day, a very special day,’ and so on.

She’d trot out the words, thinking of the huge amount of work this impromptu visit would entail. She had no choice, what could she do? Those who come to your house require your protection, your hospitality. Sometimes they’d be members of her husband’s family and she’d welcome them with the same warmth, the same smile as if they were her own relatives. She’d overdo things because she couldn’t bear the slightest criticism from her husband or from her mother-in-law. It was a question of dignity.

She knew she was being tested. How does the new little bride receive guests? We’ll find out straight away, we’ll turn up at her home without warning …

She’d be riddled with anxiety that she wasn’t up to the mark. Mother enjoyed entertaining but not when she was unprepared. A stickler for rules and traditions, she was afraid that she wouldn’t have enough food, she’d be shamed. Even yesterday, she made me reiterate my promise to arrange a sumptuous funeral for her: ‘If you take care of it, I know you’ll do things properly, make it a real occasion. You are generous and I love you for that, I always have. You’ve always had a special place deep in my heart. You have to promise me, so I can depart with one less thing to worry about!’

Yesterday was one of her lucid days. She went over all the things she’d said that hadn’t made sense: ‘Do you know, son, I thought your father was still alive and I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t come to see me. Oh, my mind can’t keep hold of anything nowadays, it keeps playing tricks on me and I feel so ashamed. I know your father died ten years ago. I know your cousin’s wife died in childbirth thirty years ago. All these dead people flitting around in my head! It must be the diabetes, it must be all the pills I’ve been taking for such a long time …

‘Anyway, I feel good today, everything’s clear, I know what’s going on. But tell me, you’re not going to sell this house, are you? I like it here, I prefer it to the house we had last year, the one by the sea.’ I correct her: ‘No, Yemma, the house by the sea was thirty years ago. Here, where you live, this isn’t a new house.’

‘And this garden: our house didn’t have a garden …’

All this because she’s moved to a different room. From her window she can see an ancient fig tree and a few plants. Before, she lived in the sitting room that gives onto the tiny garden. The door and windows didn’t close properly. It was draughty. The doctor made her change rooms.

My mother cried this morning. She says her children have been taken away from her, that they were wrenched from her while she was nursing them. She always had beautiful breasts and very soft skin. ‘I had one baby on my right breast, another on my left. I was feeding them. They were very hungry. Then a woman dressed in black from head to toe rushed over and pulled them off me. I felt pain right at the root of my breasts, a knife slicing into my flesh. Then the babies went up to heaven; suddenly they were gone. I’ll have to go and look for them.’

Mother’s always been small. My father used to laugh at her. She’d take it badly. One day he called her ‘media mujer’ (half a woman). That made her laugh. These days she doesn’t talk about being short. She talks about her worries, her obsessive attachment to certain objects: her plastic prayer beads brought back from Mecca by one of her daughters-in-law, her glasses, the polished stone for doing her ablutions, her purse in which she keeps a few notes … Keltum must have taken advantage of her memory lapses more than once to extract money from her. Mother’s not in charge of the housekeeping money any more. I don’t know whether Keltum steals because she has an increasing need for money or because it’s a compulsion, a kind of illness. Mother’s often complained she’s been robbed. She says: ‘But I turn a blind eye, it doesn’t matter, as long as they leave my children alone … Money’s nothing, it’s the dirt of life.’

My mother’s never known how to conduct herself with the women who worked in her house. She quickly became very close to them, treated them like family. Then she couldn’t understand why they left her, taking valuable items with them: ‘I treated them like my own – I shared my meals with them, I gave them presents, even some of my dresses, and in return, they cheated me, abandoned me … Country people and mountain people are jealous of city folk, it’s no wonder they lose their heads and begin to steal …’

Last year, alerted by our doctor, my aunt came hurrying over to see her. It was a false alarm. My mother detected something like disappointment on her sister’s face. She thought she could read her mind: ‘I came rushing over, only to find my sister fit as a fiddle. What a waste of my time!’ She didn’t say anything, but the visit was a brief one.

It reminds me of Ozu’s film, Tokyo Story. One of the sons, who’s raced to his father’s bedside, regrets having made an unnecessary journey and says: ‘If he were to die now, that would be quite convenient for my wife and me, it would save us making the journey again!’ When I’m with my family, I sometimes feel as if I’m in an Ozu film. I see them all in black and white. I turn down the sound and close my eyes. For years, my mother’s sister has chosen to make light of things. She likes to joke, and sometimes says hurtful things. Life has been kind to her – she married a rich, very sophisticated man who refused her nothing. Sometimes she’d taunt my mother, criticising her for not travelling abroad, for not demanding her husband give her fine things. Mother couldn’t remind her that we were poor, that we couldn’t afford to live as she did.

All her life, Mother’s been haunted by the fear of losing her house, of finding herself shunted from one city to another, a burden to her sons, the last straw for her daughters-in-law, yet another worry for her daughter who’d suffered from chronic depression since losing her husband. She remembered her own mother’s final years, when she’d lived with one of her sons, who died prematurely, so then she was taken in by her daughter. She’d lost her ‘place’, her dignity: no longer in her own home, she stayed in other people’s. It wasn’t the same, no matter how kind they were.

She saw her mother weeping and complaining that she wasn’t getting any attention, she was taken for granted, she suffered from loneliness and a lack of consideration. She was oversensitive. Which wasn’t surprising in a very elderly, obsessive woman, nostalgic for the days when she’d lived like a queen.

5

This morning, she’s looking for her very fine, gold-embroidered cherbil, the pretty babouche slippers worn by young brides. ‘Where have my cherbil gone, my beautiful golden cherbil, embroidered all over by the hand of Moishe, the rabbi’s son, the great expert in gold thread? My cherbil, it must be Keltum that’s stolen them from me, she steals and then hides the things she takes under the bed. As soon as I close my eyes, she calls her children or her grandchildren and gives them the things she’s collected to take home. My cherbil, my beautiful cherbil …’

The drawing up of the marriage certificate takes place on a Friday, after the midday prayer. Two aduls come in, wearing white djellabas, red felt tarbouches – the nationalists’ emblem – and delicate yellow babouches. They are followed by the male relatives of the bridegroom and the men from my mother’s family. It’s a gathering of men; the women remain hidden from view in adjoining rooms. They watch the ceremony from behind the curtain, peeping discreetly through a chink. The certificate is drawn up in silence. Bride and groom are asked to give their full names and dates of birth. They give the approximate year. This is Fez, in 1936. Moroccans do not have public records. People know each other and have no need to check birth dates. They say: ‘He was born the year of the great drought,’ or ‘It must have been when the French had just arrived in Morocco,’ ‘He was born the same year as the Sultan’s son, do you remember?’ ‘It was springtime …’ Or again, without naming my mother, they said: ‘Moulay Ahmed’s daughter was born the year it snowed in Fez,’ then they’d talk about that rare event. People had never seen snow, so white, so strange. They slithered about, fell over and then struggled to stand up again, laughing. Then, one morning, the snow vanished – not completely – it melted into the mud and turned to slush. ‘Yes, I remember,’ says Moulay Ahmed. ‘We were very cold, we weren’t used to snow. That was the day my daughter – God keep and protect her – came into the world. God chose that day to bring light to my home.’ Then they turn to the bridegroom’s father. He hesitates, and then says: ‘My son – may God make him a man, a true man – was born the day the kissaria went on strike. The Christians moved in and no one wanted them. So it must have been 1916 – that’s right, twenty years ago.’

‘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.

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 –