About My Mother by Tahar Ben Jelloun

Author:Tahar Ben Jelloun [Ben Jelloun, Tahar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781846592034
Publisher: Saqi
Published: 2016-07-05T22:00:00+00:00

22

I arrive in Tangier a few days before the end of Ramadan. It’s December. There are floods in Andalusia and rain in Tangier. Fasting makes people tetchy, aggressive even, especially towards late afternoon.

Mother is refusing to eat and, worse, won’t take her medicine. She says it’s Ramadan; between sunrise and sunset, only the infidels dare eat. Keltum reminds her she’s ill and God forgives the sick if they don’t fast. Mother protests and pushes away her food. An excess of zeal or a new contrariness? Has she simply forgotten she’s ill, just as she’s forgotten that her parents, her brothers and her husband are all dead?

She greets my arrival without much enthusiasm. I’m a stranger, or one of her brothers she’s fallen out with. She hasn’t recognised me. I’m a little disappointed, but I don’t complain, there’s no point. I ask her who I am. ‘You’re Aziz, of course, you come to see me every other day, your wife’s always ill, your children got married without telling you, you don’t go to the shop any more, you spend all your time at home with your wife. You must get very bored …’

Then she carries on tearfully: ‘You know your aunt, my sister, my little sister, she died. She came to see me last week, she was so well, she was talking and laughing, making me laugh. She died in her sleep, you know. She had supper, just a light soup, said her prayers and then death came and carried her off. It’s odd, she’s still young. I can see her right there, facing me. She’s looking straight at me, as if she’s about to speak to me. It’s not fair, but it’s God’s will …’

I almost believed her. After all, it was plausible. She spoke with conviction. Keltum signals to me that she’s delirious. I phone my aunt in Fez and ask her to call my mother, to reassure her, tell her she’s still alive and well. My aunt bursts out laughing and promises to call straight away.

The house is shrouded in sadness. It used to be a beautiful home surrounded by a little garden. It wasn’t traditional but had an old-fashioned charm, there was something soothing about it. My parents had just left a house that overlooked the sea, on the Marshan clifftop. My mother didn’t like it because of the relentless east wind, and the neighbourhood. Here, they were shielded. My father said it was solid, and he was proud that he’d bought it from the Rabbi of Tangier.

It was at the end of a cul-de-sac, opposite a little house where an elderly French couple lived. My mother liked them because they were quiet and, most importantly, they didn’t leave their rubbish by her door. She’d say hello to them in French, laughing, and occasionally took them a plate of cakes.

Over the years, cracks appeared in the walls, the paint peeled, the plumbing broke down, the timber doors and windows warped: the house wasn’t being maintained. My father couldn’t afford to carry out all the repairs.

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