I had gone to pay Big Baba one last visit before leaving for Paris. His stroke had shaken him so badly, I wasn’t even sure if he remembered about my new job. When I mentioned it, he just nodded and pouted with his lower lip.
As I paced the corridors of the neuro rehab unit in search of a doctor, my trainers squeaking on the freshly-polished floor, I found myself wondering once again: ‘Is there a lecture given to medical students by an eminent professor on The Art of Avoiding Patients’ Families?’
Because they seem pretty skilled at it.
I eventually tracked down Doctor ‘Catch-Me-If-You-Can’ and we talked as we walked.
‘Look, with your dad, we’re aiming to maximise his potential. We want the best of what’s achievable, but we can only speculate.’
I was struck by his turn of phrase: We Can Only Speculate. It sounded like the title of a future Goncourt-prize-winning novel.
‘You have to understand that, at his age, the chances of regaining full independence are slim. It’s unlikely that he’ll recover the same physical abilities as before. What matters is that he’s making progress, in small but encouraging ways.’
The only word I held onto was ‘encouraging’.
I knew I wouldn’t be back before November. In the 64 meantime, Big Baba had given me some advice.
‘Eat properly. Say your prayers. Don’t make too many friends. One or two is enough. And telephone your mother.’
He had offered the same advice, almost word for word, after finally agreeing to let me go on a school skiing trip to the Alps, aged 11. In the end my parents had no choice, thanks to the insistence of my teacher, Monsieur Mounier.
‘Madame Chennoun, if Mourad doesn’t come with us, he’ll be the only Year 6 student left in Nice! He’ll spend three weeks kicking his heels with the Year 5s. When we get back, it’ll be even worse. His classmates will enjoy talking about an experience they’ve shared without him. He’ll feel left out!’
‘Let me tell you something, Monsieur-the-teacher, everybody feels left out at some point in life. It’s got to start one day. This will be character-building for him.’
‘If you’re worried about the safety aspect, I quite understand. I’m the father of three children myself, but we can’t keep them at home for the rest of their lives. They have to learn to grow up and spread their wings. I give you my word that the team will keep a close eye on everything.’
‘And what about that coach accident in the tunnel, back in November? Those children were only eight years old! Did you see it on the television? Dead, every single one of them! They were on their way to the mountains too, and for all I know their teacher gave his word to their parents!’
‘Accidents can happen anywhere, Madame Chennoun. Your son might fall over and injure himself right here, in your garden!’
‘Yes, well, that garden’s due for a tidy-up, isn’t it, eh, Abdelkader? My husband will get rid of all his scrap metal! It’ll be less dangerous with just the grass and flowers. And another thing, you don’t get avalanches in the back garden. 65 I don’t want him falling into some ravine – my son’s never been skiing before!’
‘Like most of the children in my class…’
‘Back home, Monsieur-the-teacher, nobody gives a fig about snow. People don’t ski in Algeria!’
‘Well, Mourad is lucky enough to live in France where he can learn.’
‘Lucky enough to live in France? Lucky my foot, pfff!’
The way she had said it, there were at least ten kilos of irony on the scales, and keep the change, Monsieur-the-teacher!
Big Baba glowered at her before muttering in Arabic: ‘I’ve never known anyone so stubborn…’
Nobody could outdo my mother when it came to repartee, but my teacher knew that he’d wear her down in the end. As for Big Baba, he was keeping quiet, busy figuring it out. A vein bulged on his forehead, a sure sign that things were simmering inside. He had put on a suit to welcome my teacher, and naturally he’d clipped his regulation Bic biros into his jacket pocket.
He had shown my class teacher into the house with the words, ‘Yours is a noble profession, Monsieur!’
I remember watching the scene through the curtain of the girls’ bedroom, which gave onto the living room. I was a bundle of nerves and my hands were clammy.
‘In any case, Mourad doesn’t want to go. He needs his routine. I know he’ll be unhappy over there in those mountains!’
‘What if we put the question to him directly, Madame Chennoun?’
I clenched my fists. My nails dug so hard into my palms they left marks behind.
Big Baba called me in and invited me to sit on a chair.
Each time we received a guest at home, which wasn’t very 66 often, my mother made mint tea. She arranged pretty lace doilies on the table and laid out bowls heaped with almonds, pistachios, peanuts, and savoury nibbles.
I resisted the urge to grab a handful of them and chew noisily to avoid what was coming next.
‘So, Mourad, what do you think about all of this? Tell us, would you rather join the rest of your class on our trip to the mountains, or would you prefer to stay at home and spend two weeks with Madame Bisset’s Year 5 class?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘My son, do you really want to go all that way in the cold and, who knows, you could fall and end up dead in an avalanche, or would you prefer to stay with us, and Maman will buy you that gaming console you’ve been asking for?’
My mother had no issues with blatantly bribing her children.
‘I don’t know… Both.’
‘What do you mean, both? You can’t multiply yourself and be in two places at the same time! My son, you have to choose!’
I looked into Big Baba’s eyes for help. He must have seen the distress in mine.
‘That’s enough. He’s going.’
‘What do you mean, he’s going?’
‘You heard me, he’s going, he’s a big boy now. He needs to learn to fend for himself, the teacher’s right. You won’t be by his side forever to blow on his hot milk or cut up his steak!’
My father has always adopted a pragmatic approach. He keeps quiet, unless he’s making a pronouncement. What he said that day was a liberation for me.
‘Is it true, Mourad, that you want to go?’
‘Yes, Maman. I’d like to go.’
I fiddled nervously with the doily to avoid looking at her.
‘I’m going to get a glass of water!’ she declared, leaping to 67 her feet. ‘Quick a glass of water! My poor heart will stop!’
A cold handshake took place between my mother and Monsieur Mounier. From then on, she considered him a child-snatcher. For several days, the face she pulled was so long it stretched half-way down the street. She felt betrayed, both by Big Baba and by me.
A few weeks later, she burst into tears while packing my suitcase.
On the day I was setting off on the trip, Big Baba dropped me in front of the school. He had made my mother stay at home. I think he wanted to avoid a scene. I wouldn’t have put it past her to hang on to the back of the coach for several metres, shouting, ‘Give me back my baby!’
While Monsieur Mounier was busy counting the children, Big Baba gave me a kiss and said, ‘Be sensible. Eat properly. Say your prayers. Don’t make too many friends. One or two is enough. And telephone your mother.’
I had a lump in my throat as I left the hospital. A small mean voice inside my head whispered: ‘Imagine that’s the last time you’ll see him.’ But I tried to get rid of it.
I trudged back into the house with a sense of having abandoned my father. My mother had ironed, folded and packed my clothes in my suitcase. The same one I’d used for the school trip to the mountains when I was 11. She had also done copious amounts of cooking, the results of which she’d wrapped in foil for the journey. Food, lots of food. Same as always.
‘Maman! I’m not travelling from Nice to Paris by camel! I don’t need all this, you know! You’ve made enough for an army!’
‘God forgive me, but why do I have such ungrateful 68 children?! Mourad, you’re going to kill me! Couldn’t you simply say, “thank you”?’
‘Thank you, Maman!’
‘I went to a great deal of trouble!’
‘I know, Maman, I’m sorry. Thank you very much!’
‘A little recognition wouldn’t come amiss! We break our backs and what do we get for it? Criticism!’
‘Thanks, Maman, you’re the best mum in the whole wide world!’
‘And now you’re making fun of me, eh…? Stop teasing me! Tfffou!’
I kissed her on the forehead and she smiled. Her sense of sacrifice weighs me down, but it amazes me too. Then she burst into tears. Again.
‘Come on, Maman, cheer up!’ said Mina, laughing and hugging her. ‘Your son has grown up! He’s a man now, he’s not a baby any more!’
‘You’re laughing because you don’t understand what I’m feeling!’
‘Oh yes I do, I’ve got children too, remember, so of course I understand!’
‘It’s not the same! My God! El kebda, el kebda!’
El kebda literally means liver, as in the organ. Symbolically, it represents a mother’s attachment to her children.
I imagine my mother’s liver to be bloody and tender. I worry I’ll never love as much as she does.
‘Allah commanded us to honour our parents! And the mother in particular! Do you see my foot? Well, paradise lies below it for you! And that’s a promise from God!’
We need at least the prospect of paradise to survive this world down below with a glimmer of hope. Promises from God are the only ones I believe in.