Tahar Ben Jelloun - About My Mother

It’s the month of October and I’m a long way from Tangier. I’d promised to call at the same time every day to find out how she was. There are times when the phone’s constantly engaged because the receiver’s been left off the hook. I get annoyed, I call the neighbours to ask them to alert Keltum. When she answers, she’s even more obsequious than usual, acts all humble, almost apologising for having to give me bad news. I picture her, shoulders hunched, adopting the air of a poor woman carrying all the world’s pain on her shoulders.

Mother nearly died of dehydration as a result of a severe bout of diarrhoea. Keltum and Rhimou were beside themselves, not knowing what to do first: wash her, call for help, phone the doctor or her children … They watched her getting worse, the colour draining from her face, her eyes rolling upwards. It was gone midnight. There was no one to dial the numbers, the neighbours were away and the young man from the shop — the only person nearby who could read and write — hadn’t come back yet. They communicated their panic to my mother, who started crying and calling her children, confusing them with her brothers and her parents: ‘The time has come, today’s the day, the fatal, dreaded moment. I’m going to die without seeing my mother, without my sons, and worst of all, without Ali, my little brother. He went to buy some bread and hasn’t come back. But call them, tell them their daughter’s dying. Tell them I’m a good Muslim. I pray. I don’t know why my mother’s abandoned me. I’ve always been a good daughter, always obedient and loving. But life is strange. My son’s hiding and doesn’t come to see me any more. Yes, I know the one who lives abroad is here, not far away, but he doesn’t hear me calling. Make him come; I need to talk to him one last time. I need him to take my hand, so I can feel the warmth of his hand in mine. He is your master, after all. Don’t laugh but Moulay Ali, my little brother, is lazy. Where is he? He didn’t get up this morning, he doesn’t really like working. Look out: it’s coming out, it’s coming out underneath me. It smells bad. I’m spilling out my guts, my heart, my desires. Come on, clean it up, get some big towels and clean up all the bad stuff coming out of my stomach. I’m purifying myself. I can feel I’m going. My tongue’s heavy, it’s all furry, and it’s hard to move, or speak. I can’t talk any more, I’m talking to myself, and those two are still bustling about, but why aren’t my children here? I know they’re hiding and I’m getting weaker. I’m falling and there’s no hand to pull me back, no one’s gaze to reassure me. I see people’s faces spinning round, not stopping, not talking to me. The night is long. I don’t like night-time. Everyone else is sleeping and I’m counting the stars. But where’s my son, the light of my eyes? Make him come, come down from the mountain. I’m emptying myself and I haven’t eaten a thing today. That’s what death is, everything goes, everything turns to liquid … I’m looking for an elastic band to hold back the sleeves of my dress. Where did I put it? I’m going round and round. That elastic band’s very handy. I don’t like it when my sleeves flop down, it’s annoying. Where’s Keltum gone, what’s she doing? Oh, she’s in the bathroom, cleaning up my mess, that’s good. And that other woman, what’s she up to, why isn’t she coming to take me to the bathroom? I smell bad, very bad, this is the first time this has happened to me. I have to wash, I have to get up, but I can’t. I’ve always dreaded this moment, when I’m like a pile of heavy earth, unable to move. I’m nothing any more, a foul-smelling little thing, waiting for her children … Go on, get the living room ready, get the ovens going, people will be coming from all over. Go and buy a dozen chickens — they need to be soaked in brine overnight, to clean them. Buy some red meat too, and order the bread. It’s late, but no one’s answering. I’m talking to myself. There’s no point calling the doctor, he won’t do anything. I don’t need him, he’s useless — like me, I’m useless. I know because no one’s rushing to see me or answer me. God is great, God is great, Sidna Muhammad is His Prophet, the last of the prophets. God is mercy, God is compassion. But forgive me, God, I’m in no condition to utter Your name, I’m soiled. I must do my ablutions, but Keltum and Rhimou are busy somewhere else. They’re coming, they’re shouting at me — Keltum’s the loudest, she’s telling me off and says I should know better. I’m a little girl who’s been bad, who’s done it in her underwear. I must be punished. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, or her tone of voice. But I’m always so afraid she’ll go away and abandon me, leave me to fend for myself.’

I listen to my mother and gaze at a long crack in the ceiling. I squeeze her hand. I’m afraid that with her illness, her absence, I could become more and more vulnerable. She’s always said her blessing was a shield. My believing it made her happy. Eventually I convinced myself I was protected and had nothing to fear, until the day the sky fell on my head.

She’d always warned me to be wary of people claiming to be my friends. I didn’t listen to her and was trapped by a squat, deceitful little Satan. It was no time to complain or to call my mother as witness. The idea of being protected is irrational, but I clung to it, more out of weariness and despair than conviction.

How old is Keltum? It’s hard to say. All we know is that she’s had six children, they’re all married and she has twenty-two grandchildren. She never mentions her husband. Perhaps he’s dead or disabled, hidden away in a corner of the house. One of her daughters has eight boys, which fills Keltum with pride. Some of them come to see her. My mother isn’t averse to unexpected visitors; they bring life to the house, relieve the silence and boredom. She confuses Keltum’s grandchildren with her own children, gives them names, incorporates them into her earliest memories.

From time to time, Rhimou’s family comes to spend the day at the house. Mother doesn’t protest, though sometimes she finds them invasive. She says nothing. It passes the time — time, one of her worst enemies.

For the past few months, she’s been sleeping during the day and lying awake all night. Keltum and Rhimou moan about it. They say life is upside-down — pros and cons, light and dark, black and white, silence and shouting. My mother shouts as loudly as a young woman. She summons everyone to come and sit at the table, to eat and laugh. Life, no longer a tunnel or a dead end, must return. It’s daytime, a beautiful summer’s day in Fez. The weather’s hot, you plunge your hands into the fountain in the centre of the courtyard and splash yourself with cool water. Everyone’s here. Maybe I, too, am part of this flow of memory.

I’m sitting in a shady corner playing with boxes of pills. I watch the women to-ing and fro-ing. It could be the eve of a holiday. Mother’s happy, she sings as she prepares the meal. Peeling onions makes her eyes water. She cries and laughs at her tears. Her younger sister’s arrived, wearing a gorgeous sky-blue silk dress. She jokes with the men and says rude words, then bursts out laughing. She’s happy too. She hints that if she’s late, it’s because her husband kept her in bed. My mother hides her face. They forget I’m there. I listen, I take it all in, amazed at how freely they talk; when they’re alone, they let themselves go. They name the penis and take great pleasure in repeating words for the man’s organ, describing it in detail. My mother modestly covers her face with her sleeve, but laughs heartily. The women dance, mimic the sex act and sing. Suddenly my aunt spots me and shrieks: ‘My God, He heard everything! He pretends to be asleep but he followed it all, the little devil!’ My mother goes off into the kitchen and one of her cousins leans over me, saying: ‘You know we’re messing about, you’re not to repeat what you’ve heard, all right? Come, give me your hand, stroke my breast. You like that, don’t you, it’s soft. You little devil, you like that!’ I knead her huge, heavy breasts and close my eyes. I say nothing, I promise nothing. I laugh and cling to her. She sits down and opens her legs, presses me to her. I’m in danger of suffocation, but she rubs herself against me and I don’t think she’s wearing any underwear. I feel something prickly, maybe her sex, which she’s shaved. She says strange things to me: ‘My little man, you’re too thin, but your friend’s not at all thin, he’s standing up. That’s unbelievable, a sickly child like you with his thing in the air. Goodness me, I have to go, but if you like, I’ll come back and play with you after lunch. Would you like that? But it’ll be our secret.’