Tahar Ben Jelloun - About My Mother

My mother isn’t surprised to see me. She thinks I live with her, that I’m my older brother. She looks even thinner. She says: ‘Skin and bones, nothing but skin and bones. When I was young, I had the most beautiful bosom in the family. I had curves, I was well covered, my bones didn’t stick out. Feel my arm, you see, it’s just old skin on bone. Keltum’s making out I’m mad — do you know, she thinks I’ve had a baby and is going around telling people! The shame of it! I’m not mad. Having a baby, at my age! She’s got the nurse’s baby mixed up with the boy I had before you, who died a few days after he was born. We called him Mokhtar, then we buried him in Bab Ftouh — you know, the cemetery just outside town, it’s a quarter of an hour from here. You go out, you take the first road on the right and it’s Buajarra, then you cross Rcif, then you go through Fekharine … Wait, I think I’m getting lost, no, to get to Bab Ftouh it’s simple. You go out, and as soon as you see a coffin carried by four big men, you follow it and it will lead you to the cemetery. That’s where I wanted to go yesterday but Keltum’s getting on my nerves, telling me we’re not in Fez. I’ve never left Fez, why does this half-wit tell me different? She’s the mad one. Isn’t that right, son, we’re in Fez? Your father’s just opened his spice shop, he’s in the Diwane, that’s where his shop is. He sells cumin, ginger, pepper, paprika — wholesale, never retail. Go over there and tell him his lunch is ready, unless he’d rather eat there, if he’s got a lot of customers. Go on, and tell Keltum we’re in Fez. The Sultan’s been exiled, and Morocco’s weeping for its king, the men are demonstrating and demanding his return.’

‘But Yemma, we’re in Tangier, you’re muddling up different times. Keltum’s right, pray to God to give her patience.’

‘How is that possible? King Mohammed V has come back and no one told me? What? He’s dead? What did he die of? Why is everyone hiding things from me? It’s making me angry. By the way, son, I had a bath yesterday with lukewarm water, it was almost cold. The boiler’s not working. It’s very difficult to find a plumber here, so Keltum heated up the water in pots and washed me as if I were a baby. It’s true, I’ve got so small she thinks I’m a baby. Me, a baby! I’m still very young, though, I even breastfed the nurse’s baby the other day. She left him with me, she gave him to me. He’s so sweet. He looks like you, he’s got your eyes, your nose, your hair … They took away my baby, you know. They said I wasn’t right in the head, they gave him to a young woman — I think she was a nurse — to look after. I said all right, but they’ll have to give him back when I’m better. After all, I am his mother. I dream of that child at night, you know. I’m with Moulay Idriss, in the mausoleum, with the baby in my arms. I’m having him blessed, I’m praying for him and for you all. As God is my witness, I’m always asking for His mercy and thanking Him for this magnificent gift, a beautiful baby with such white skin, which I love. You know, I don’t like very dark skin. You’ll be angry with me, but I prefer Fez children with white, rosy skin, especially skin that reminds me of my own when I was little. You may laugh, but it’s true, I was beautiful — you can ask your father, he married me when I wasn’t yet twenty, get him to tell you … He’s dead? Oh yes, so he is, but when you go to his grave, speak to him, you have to talk to the dead because they’re alive in our hearts. God says so, it’s in the Qur’an. I hope you’ll be telling me about everything when I’m in the ground, I like the idea of you talking to me, even when I can’t hear you or answer you. You know, son, it’s reassuring. I already said that to your older brother, the one who knows the Qur’an by heart, he promised he’d say a surah every time he comes to pray at my grave. The Qur’an softens the heart, clothes the soul in mercy and tenderness. I know because I’m this close to the earth I’ll be buried in. I can feel it and it doesn’t frighten me. The Qur’an, the word of Allah, will be with me. The angels make it so: for that, you have to be good and honest and have a heart that’s pure, and I’ve spent my whole life making sure my heart’s clean. I’ve never stolen, lied, betrayed anyone or done anyone any harm. When your father shouted at me and called me cruel, hurtful names, I’d answer him with a verse from the Qur’an. I’d say to him: “I leave you in Allah’s hands, I’m just a poor creature faithful to God and his Prophet.”’

My mother points out that my friends no longer come to see her. ‘You don’t know how to keep friends, or you don’t know how to choose them. I wish I knew what’s going on. Before, Zaylachi used to come by sometimes, he’d bring me sandalwood and we’d talk things over, he’d kiss my head as if I were his own mother. He’s a charming man, very well brought-up; he had a feeling for things. What’s become of him? Why doesn’t he come to the house any more? Even when he was in the government, he’d find time to spend a quarter of an hour with me. I see him on TV. He looks good, as if he’s got younger. He’s always standing next to the king. He’s a good man. That childhood friend of yours doesn’t visit either. His wife used to come and chat to me, and then she’d very sweetly go off. It’s strange! People are fickle, but really, your friends are making themselves scarce. I expect I irritate them. I know I’m no fun, but after all they’re your friends. I hope they haven’t changed. My little brother, the one who came earlier, has lots of friends. I’ll tell your father that Zaylachi’s being distant. He must be very busy, he’s a minister, a father, he does so many things. I don’t do anything. Your father’s in the shop and I’m in the kitchen. That’s the way it’s always been. Cooking, housework, cooking, eating, washing up, and your father grumbling that there’s not enough salt in the tagine. Listen, talk to him when he comes, I’ve had enough of his temper, enough of his moods, he treats me like a servant. Yes, I know you’re about to tell me your father died ten years ago! I know, but he comes back from time to time, he opens the door, tiptoes in, looks around him like a ticket inspector, and disappears. I can’t see him, but I can feel him here, so I talk to him, I tell him everything that’s bothering me. I don’t leave anything out, I get it all off my chest. He listens and doesn’t say anything. The dead don’t talk, do they?’

My mother smells terrible. She smells of shit. She’s soiled herself and doesn’t realise. My mother, always so elegant, so beautiful, so particular … She’s no longer herself, no longer remembers what she was. She’d have been horrified to find herself in this state, but now she’s oblivious. I look at Keltum, who nods to me. I leave the room while she and Rhimou take her to the bathroom.

My mother — who was elegance itself, always fastidiously clean. I remember the natural scent of her skin. My mother, in the spring, on the terrace of the house in Fez. She’s just back from the hammam and she looks beautiful. She kisses my father’s hand as usual, and he says: ‘To your health!’ We’re eating on the terrace, which adjoins that of the neighbours. We all get together quite simply to share our food. Mother smells wonderful. Our neighbour compliments her. The sun is soft. I’m playing with one of the neighbour’s daughters, while my brother corrects her composition. She has budding breasts. I am the doctor. She pretends to faint, I hold her in my arms. My mother watches from a distance, laughing. The little girl runs off to hide in her mother’s skirts. I run too, my mother grabs me and hugs me tightly. She smells so good, she smells of a loving mother, a happy mother, a mother in good health.