Tahar Ben Jelloun - About My Mother

‘Why are you crying, son? It’s not you I’m talking to, I’m with my little brother. Go and fetch some fruit, the trees are weighed down with it.’

We’re in Imouzzer, staying with my aunt, my mother’s younger sister, the one who married a handsome, rich, sophisticated man. He was softly spoken and never came to see us empty-handed. He was the first person in the family to have a motor car. I remember it was black. I walked round and round it, running my hand over the doors. I pretended I could drive: I got in and put my hands on the steering wheel, but my feet didn’t reach the pedals. Imouzzer was a summer resort. It was cool up in the mountains and all the prominent Fez families had to have a second home in this little town. This was where I played at getting married with one of my girl cousins. We’d cover ourselves with a sheet and I had to show her my penis and she let me touch between her legs. There was nothing innocent about our games, because one day she grabbed my finger and put it in her vagina. I caressed her and she nearly fainted. Those are memories that stay with you. My mother wasn’t fooled, and neither was my aunt, who said in a teasing voice: ‘Be careful, if you want her to be your wife, you’ll have to be a doctor or an engineer, because my daughter’s beautiful and will marry the handsomest, wealthiest man in Fez!’

The house is on a farm. I like playing in the vegetable garden. My uncle, my mother’s younger brother, is there. He plays cards with other people in the family. Between exclamations, I hear them talking about ‘the attack on Palestine by three countries’. I ask my uncle where Palestine is. He shows me a newspaper: ‘It’s there, you see, right next to Egypt. It’s tiny. They won’t leave even that tiny strip of land to the Muslims!’

Zilli’s expecting me. Roland’s told her I’m coming to visit. She had the cleaner come and insisted her son warn me that her apartment’s small and very modest. Like my mother, she’s anxious to ‘make a good impression’. She is well-dressed and stick thin, with piercing eyes, and speaks with a German accent. I give her a bunch of roses. She smiles and kisses me, then says: ‘You’re famous, very famous, you’re often on television. Actually, you look better in real life. My son’s not on the TV any more, and he doesn’t come to see me very often.’ Roland protests. Zilli interrupts him: ‘Nonsense, you call me, but you’re not here!’

I compliment her on how well she’s doing: ninety-two and still sharp as a knife! ‘Yes, but my eyesight’s going, it’s getting worse and worse. I like walking, I like dreaming, and reading too. At the moment, I’m reading Thomas Bernhard. He’s excellent — powerful and highly critical. I love him and everything he says about Austria, my country. You say I’m in good shape, but I’m just a shack, an old, tumbledown shack. I often think about death — I’m not afraid of it. Anyway I should have died at the same time as Papa, my last husband: he passed away twenty years ago. Where were you, Roland? I think you were away on a trip. I phoned you and I got that machine that asked me to leave a message. Imagine telling a machine that Papa’s dead — that’s no good. Well, you know, I was pregnant with you when I married Papa, but he accepted you. I mean he adopted you. I’ve never told you that, are you surprised? What does it matter, you’re my son and your father loved you. He never said so, but in Switzerland we don’t say these things to our children!

‘I’m not afraid of death! But I am afraid of hell — I’m afraid of everything that awaits us after we’ve breathed our last. Heaven? I certainly won’t go to heaven. Maybe your mother will, but I’ve travelled a lot, rarely been to church, and I must have committed a few sins. Where does this fear of hell come from? From the Catholic boarding school where I spent my adolescence, in Italy, with the nuns. È vero, la paura del inferno. It was during the First World War, my parents were afraid for me so they hid me with Italian nuns. Non era un regalo, no, ma la vita era bella perché dopo la guerra ho conosciuto l’amore e la libertà. I love speaking Italian, I love the language, the music of it … My son speaks German, it’s not such fun. He doesn’t come to see me, at least not often. I’ll tell you what I think: he’s lazy. He says he’ll come, then he doesn’t, but his old girlfriends come and visit me. They’re all still in love with him, but he pretends he doesn’t know. I’ve travelled a lot, I love hot countries, Egypt, ah Egypt! Kenya, Morocco! Here it’s sad, it’s winter all year round, people are reserved. I have a friend who went blind, I like walking with her. I tell her what I see. The good thing about her is that she’s not talkative — we walk and I talk when I feel like talking. It’s very convenient, sometimes we don’t say anything, lost in our own worlds. Me, I think about my son, and she about her daughter. We walk for hours, we stop to have tea, then go back again. It’s so enjoyable. The only problem is that when it rains, it ruins our plans. Then I think of Morocco — what a country! I discovered it just after the war, the French were there, but I preferred the Moroccan souks. What light, what joy! All that dust and the people are carefree. Yes, I’d love to leave this poky apartment and go to a home for the elderly, but they tell me there’s no room. I have a few friends there, it’s nice to have company, especially when your children aren’t around. Tell me, have you found a room? Lausanne ought to have more hotels. Oh, I see, you’re not staying, you’re on the way to see your mother. She doesn’t live in France, she’s in Tangier? No, I don’t know that city. You see, I’m in a very simple apartment, I know you thought Roland’s mother lived in a big house. I’ve been here for fifty years, I rent. That room there was Roland’s room. I still remember what he was like as a little boy, playing chess with his father, completely absorbed. He was a solitary child. The municipality sends me a meal every day. It’s very kind. But tell me, have you found a hotel? If only you’d told me you were coming, I’d have found you a lovely room at the Hôtel de la Paix, wouldn’t I, Roland? And does your mother have a bracelet like this? Look, all I have to do is press and a doctor comes straight away. And there’s a button on the phone for emergencies, does your mother have one of those? No? So how does she manage? The people who look after her can’t read or write? How is that possible? The worst things are my bad eyesight and the fear of hell … but I walk without a stick. It’s wonderful, I go for walks with a friend who’s gone blind, I love walking with her because she doesn’t say much, I don’t like chatterboxes … Oh, if it weren’t for this hell business, I think I’d have gone already. I know there’s that Swiss doctor who makes up a lethal cocktail. He puts the glass on the bedside table and it’s up to the ill person to take it or not. That’s good, he helps things along, but religion isn’t so keen. There’s an association, I think it’s called Exit. It’s funny: depart, go quietly, leave on tiptoe. My son wrote a whole book about that kind of death. I think I read it, I don’t really remember. I’m not brave enough, I can still hear the words of the Italian nuns — hell, purgatory and all that … It’s very good of you to come, I feel proud receiving a visit from a famous man. Won’t you have a drink? Roland, give your friend something to drink — no, not water, that’s no good, even if it is sparkling — offer him a whisky or a brandy … Monique’s very nice, she’s very beautiful, sophisticated, clever, with very dark eyes. She often comes to see me, she’s become a friend, but she’s still in love with Roland. Now, Tam — what a beautiful woman, a little aloof, with a faintly superior expression, but what class! And Linda — very bright, sensitive and beautiful, she’s still in love with Roland! No, I don’t get bored, I dream, I’m always dreaming. I dream of my travels, the journeys I’ve taken, the ones I haven’t, I dream of the sun, I remember everything I’ve done. I fill my days with all these dreams, I relive them and that’s enough for me. I sleep well at night, I have no trouble sleeping — not like Roland, who takes pills. I don’t play the piano any more, I don’t feel like it these days. What about your mother, does she play anything? No? What a pity, it’s sad not to play a musical instrument. Me, I’ve spent my life travelling, discovering countries, swimming, playing the piano. What about your mother? What? She’s spent her life in the kitchen? But that’s not living, it’s not even human! I prefer to eat light meals. Roland, buy me some black grapes, the ones that come from Italy, just one bunch. I like to see them lying on a plate, over there on the table, they’re beautiful, especially when the sun’s out … Are you leaving already? It’s so kind of you to have come. Tell Roland to come and see me a little more often, maybe he’ll listen to you, but I know he won’t listen to anyone, he has very set ideas. It’s only my eyesight that’s going, everything’s a bit blurred, but I’m well, yes. Perhaps I’ll end up drinking doctor what’s-his-name’s glass of milk. The fatal glass of milk, Roland says lethal … you have to see the funny side, it depends whether they give me a room in that home I like. Then I’ll stay a bit longer, otherwise I think I’ll learn to be brave. My son agrees. The other day I had a momentary absence, it was just after my accident, and I didn’t recognise his voice. He got angry but it was just a lapse, a tiny little lapse, other than that I’m well, I can’t complain. Today the concierge invited me to lunch, that was kind of him. I don’t know what he’s cooking, the main thing is not to eat alone. I almost married an Egyptian — that was a very long time ago — a wealthy man, but he went blind, and I didn’t have the courage to look after an invalid, even though I loved him very much. That was before I met Papa — I’ve already told you, Roland. I think he was in love with me, we got along well, we could have married but it didn’t happen … You’re a good son, you see your mother often, God bless you. You tell me she’s not afraid of hell? What? Is it Islam? All the same, it’s a terrifying religion! She’s happy to be going to meet the Prophet? How lucky she is to have such certainties. She’s someone who believes, that’s good. Me and faith … I don’t know …’