For several years Tata Houria waited in her tumbledown hovel as the days trickled past; she moved to Algiers where she waited a few years more then left for France where in this town or that she continued her wait. When nothing came, she moved to Germany — a country where disappearing was commonplace in the years after the Apocalypse. There, in one city or another, she waited a few years more in the company of others who had come from far-flung places in order to wait. As the circle rippled out, she waited all over the world. One day, a scrawled letter arrived in the douar announcing her death. The schoolteacher — a different one, a young man freshly graduated from university — was unable to read it and asked around until finally one day he appeared in the tiny village square, brandishing the letter to announce the results of his research: the letter, dated 22 June 1966 and written in pidgin French, had come from the far side of the world and was signed simply Rosita. This good soul said that it was she who had closed the eyes of Tata Houria, having taken her in and cared for her. She had found her by the roadside waiting to die. But by then the douar was no longer as it had been; the children had left never to return and the old people no longer remembered anything. The story was forgotten by everyone but Maman, who would tell it to us every time it rained on the city and every time it rained in her head. Poor, wonderful Houria, she died without ever giving up hope that she might find the man she had loved as a girl. Like Maman I would like to believe that in the next world, her husband had been waiting for her just as lovingly from the very moment he lost his way and his life. It’s true, this story haunts me.
The Mother Superior spoke to me at length after her fashion, using few words and long silences. Chérifa made herself at home in the convent precisely as she had in my house and at the university halls of residence. I’d describe it as an invasion followed by a systematic obliteration of the inhabitants’ frame of reference at the cost of great sacrifice. Her blood pressure was dangerously low, she was nine months pregnant, all skin and bone, yet in a few short days she managed to turn a tranquil convent into a railway station at rush hour. Her laundry fluttered from every window, every arrow-slit, her radioactive perfume drowned out the scents of incense and soot which had good reason to linger. The nuns rushed around trying to keep up with her, they could not possibly catch her. They’re all ancient and they have no flair for competition. Eventually, she came to a stop in mid-dash, overcome by an inexplicable spasm. And then her waters broke. She was running a high temperature, she visibly paled. Everything happened quickly, the contractions, a last gleam shone in her eyes, a last word trembled on her lips. ‘We were confused, we were helpless, we prayed harder than we had ever done in our lives. This calmed her, the pain subsided or she found it easier to bear.’ Sister Anne’s voice was heavy with remorse. I know the feeling: at Parnet, we are constantly dealing with emergencies and, not having the resources, we suddenly panic and we appeal to God, implore any name that comes to our lips, and then, abruptly, comes the silence and the cold that sends us back to our corners, pale, dazed, clammy, and overcome by guilt once more.
‘She died peacefully… she was smiling, her mouth was open,’ the Mother Superior whispered tenderly.
‘Yes. That’s how she always slept, her mouth open, her eyes half-closed, her arms crossed… and her legs.’
‘Yes, she had her peculiar little ways.’
‘She had her peculiar little ways in everything she did. I mean, she decided to die in a convent while giving birth, which says a lot.’
‘It’s cruel to say such things.’
‘I apologise. Like her, I have my little ways of being stupid and cruel.’
‘She talked about you all the time. Lamia, Lamia, Lamia… Just before she passed away, she whispered Where’s Maman Lamia? Please tell her to come.
‘Ma… Maman?’
There are words like this, words that express all the happiness in the world. I have spent so many years longing to hear that word. I felt myself melt inside while an electric current trilled through me and every hair on my body stood on end. I could no longer contain my tears, nor could Sister Anne.
‘Yes… Maman.’
‘I suppose I was her mother and I didn’t realise it… or she didn’t realise it. We somehow kept missing each other…’
‘God willed it so, my child.’
‘You believe that He willed it so?’
‘I do.’
‘I wish some things were in our control, at least that way we’d know why we make each other miserable. But I suppose if I am here it is because God wills it.’
‘No doubt, no doubt.’
The ensuing silence seemed the only possible answer to these delicate questions. I did not dare to break it. Realising this, Sister Anne continued in a lighter tone.
‘She told stories about you and she mimicked the phrases you use: “Would you credit it! Did you ever hear the like? And I don’t know what else!” She could be difficult… but it was just that she liked to poke fun.’