Tahar Ben Jelloun - About My Mother

My mother sent for a plumber and an electrician. She asked them to overhaul the entire system. The wash-basin tap was changed and light bulbs replaced. Now, everything is in order: the house is clean, the walls repainted. A dust-covered chandelier in a sorry state hangs in the middle of the sitting room. My mother hasn’t noticed it. All the bulbs went long ago. We no longer even see it. It’s a relic from the days when my father bought things at the flea market. The chandelier’s worthless. We could get rid of it, throw it out or give it to the rubbish collectors. But then we’d have to find a ladder, take it down, and undo the wires holding it in place. It’s better to forget about it.

The plumber and the electrician were part of the plan to get the house ready to receive the entire family on the day of her funeral. My mother’s obsessed with this ceremony. I’m no longer surprised when she tells me the reception must be a splendid affair: ‘It’ll be the last time my family comes over, so it might as well be elegant and grand. No penny-pinching or cutting corners: buy free-range chickens, not the ones stuffed with drugs to make them fatter. Buy white tablecloths. Don’t forget about sheets for the people who’ll stay the night. If it’s winter, get out the blankets. I want everyone to be happy. Do it as if I were still here, alive, smiling at you and laughing. I love entertaining, and doing it well. I know you’ll make a real occasion of it — I don’t have any worries about that. But I’ll say it and say it again: don’t you make me blush in my grave!’

Mother hasn’t cooked for some time. Even when ill, she’d position herself next to Keltum and dictate what to cook. These days, she’s given up any involvement with food. But in her mind, she’s the one who cooks, through Keltum. It’s hard to tell her the tagine’s no good or the minced meat is too spicy. She takes it badly, convinced that Keltum is the extension of her culinary skills. I don’t like Keltum’s cooking. It’s too oily, and has no subtlety. I refuse to believe I’m eating my mother’s food. I pretend. I ask for simple things: grilled meat and salads. For my mother, to eat her food is to love her. If I sometimes didn’t finish what was on my plate, she’d sigh and fret. To eat is to celebrate a strong, indissoluble emotional bond.

Over the past few months, Mother’s lost interest in eating. She merely picks at the food on her plate. She says she eats so she can swallow her many pills. Only Keltum knows her drug regime. Although she’s illiterate, she has her own little tricks to help her tell the packets of tablets apart and give my mother her medication at the right time. She says: ‘The little pink pill is for your heart, to be taken every morning. The two white ones are for your blood pressure, to be taken before lunch. At night, there’s the green box, then the blue one, and half a red pill to help you sleep.’ Mother trusts her completely. She’s just afraid that Keltum will fall ill and make a mistake in the dosage, or simply forget altogether.

Mother claims she no longer dreams. She forgets, that’s all. On the other hand, she cherishes her hallucinations. For over a month, she hasn’t stopped telling us the story of the sparrow that came to her window one night and began to call out the different names for Allah. She interpreted this visit as a sign from heaven telling her she should prepare to depart this life. Mother repeated the names after the sparrow and the prayers it sang. She said it came, tapped on the window and spoke to her directly. My sister Touria confirmed the vision and there was nothing more to say.

Ever since Touria lost her husband in a car accident, she can suddenly faint, fall to the floor and lie unconscious, with her eyes open. Completely gone. The doctor mentioned hysteria. When she comes to, she reassures us: ‘It’s nothing, it’s always happening, just like that, out of the blue. It comes from up above, from God, there’s nothing to be done. Even the doctors agree, we just have to wait for the moment to pass. In the beginning, the children were frightened, they thought I was dying, but now they’re used to it. I keel over and no one notices me, that’s just how it is, no need to panic. I simply need to rest, maybe to go to Mecca again, but how would I manage it? Without him, I couldn’t. We always did everything hand in hand, with never a cross word. We never argued. I listened to him and he listened to me. We got along as if we were made of the same stuff. The truth is, I can’t live without him, even though I have my children and they look after me. Well, you have to forget, make as if you’re carrying on.’

Mother is aware her daughter’s behaviour has grown increasingly strange: ‘It got worse when her poor husband died. He loved me like his own mother. He was a good man, generous and principled. If a little rigid. When he said no it was no. What a disaster, such a cruel, brutal death! It was written. He died on impact. A lorry pulled out from a line of cars and ploughed straight into him. If he’d agreed to put off leaving until the next day, the lorry would have driven into another car. Dear God, forgive me. It was written, since the day he was born. He was stubborn. If he’d listened to me, he wouldn’t be dead. Oh Lord, forgive me, I’m rambling. It’s all in Your hands: life, death, joy, tears, everything. We’re nothing on this earth. I must pray now. I haven’t done my ablutions. Where’s the polished stone for washing myself? They’re stealing everything, they’re robbing me while I’m still alive. Even what’s-her-name, she took my gold earrings and the necklace with the pendant. It’s unbelievable, people’s greed. As if God doesn’t give us enough of His goodness. Where was I? Oh, Mother’s in Fez and she’s refusing to drive to see me. But where are we? What city are we living in? Tangier, you say? But Tangier was another time, I wasn’t yet married. I’m getting it all muddled up. My mother won’t come! Although I’m her daughter, she’d rather stay with my little sister. She’s always preferred Amina. Her husband’s rich. I’m the eldest and still she neglects me. It’s isn’t nice.’

All day she called her daughter ‘Yemma’.

On the phone, Mother easily recognises me. The voice must be imprinted deeper in the memory than the face. In fact, she sometimes mistakes me for one of my brothers. The other day, she commented that my voice had broken: ‘You have a man’s voice. You’ve grown up fast. You’re my little one, my little youngest one. I love all my children but with you there’s something more. That’s just the way it is, I don’t know why. You mustn’t be angry with me. When are you coming to see me? Be careful how you walk, don’t forget you’re only a child!’

My mother’s sent me back to childhood. In her eyes, I haven’t grown up. I’m still the child she adored in Fez when I was ill and wasting away right before her eyes. She’s returned to the time when she was afraid of losing me to a mysterious disease. I tell her I’m over fifty, I have four children and she must be confusing her son with her grandsons. She only half-believes me: ‘That’s right, tell me I’m crazy, I’m losing my mind, your mother’s inventing things. Yes, give me a sign if you agree. Maybe you’re right, I’m raving. You know, pills don’t just do good, they destroy what they don’t heal. So you aren’t my little boy and we aren’t in Fez. But what’s this new house then? I don’t know it. Take me back home. You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’

My sister has left. She ran out of patience, looking after Mother. She just snapped. I understood, and told her to take care of her health. She replied that all is in God’s hands. I said nothing and looked down. What can you say to those who believe in fate, who think everything is written in advance and that we are on earth only to follow the path traced for us by God? Mother’s less fatalistic than her daughter. She’s convinced that God determines human actions but that we shouldn’t sit idly by, just waiting for things to happen.