In 1937 at the age of five, Colette Rossant leaves Paris to live with her grandparents in Egypt, soon settling into their luxuriant, food-centred lifestyle. She returns to Paris at 15, only revisiting Egypt 30 years later. In this memoir, she evokes an Egypt lost, to her and to us, for ever
My Mother (Extract)
I am peeling shrimp for my mother. Most likely, she'll refuse them. She eats nothing at the Mother Cabrini Hospice where she is dying of cancer. Three months ago, the doctors gave her three months to live; it is clear to me that she has no intention of dying yet, as if hanging on were a matter of spiteful retaliation. She complains all the time in a whiny French voice, especially when attendants are hovering near her bed. Each time the dietician asks her what she'd like, my mother answers, 'Chinese shrimp with vegetables,' as if she's in Chinatown. I have finally found the time to prepare this fantasy dish in my own kitchen, convinced that the greasy version from a restaurant will kill her. Perhaps I should have gone for the take-out.
I visit her every afternoon. When I come in, she is usually asleep, or at least pretends to be. The television is always on, with the sound turned off. She lies still, her face turned toward the television, her eyes closed. The skin of her face is very taut. Her head looks like a skull with an immense forehead because her hair is pushed all the way up. I sit on a dark brown leatherette chair and wait for her to wake up. Her hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, lie still beside her thighs. She was always proud of her long-fingered, elegant hands. Mine show the signs of washing, cooking, and gardening: short, jagged nails; swollen knuckles; heavy cuticle moons. I used to be very jealous of her hands, but I've since found revenge through my three daughters, who have magnificent hands. The Haitian nurse comes in to look at her, checks her breathing, and leaves. When my mother is awake, she tells me — in French — how vulgar she finds the nurse's nails, which are very long and airbrushed with intricate designs and sprays of glitter. Once a week I bring the nurse chocolate to appease my guilt, and to make sure my mother doesn't receive retaliation in the guise of care.
My mother wakes up and looks at me. She is silent and unsmiling.
'I brought you some Chinese shrimp. You want to try some?' I say. She continues to stare at me in silence.
'What time is it?' she asks suddenly, minutes later.
'Half past five. Do you want to try to eat? The shrimps? They're still hot.' With irritation etched on her mouth, she rasps, 'I'm not hungry. I'll eat later.'
There are long silences between us. We never talk about anything that is important: God, love, my father, her life without us, how she met my stepfather — who had died a few years earlier — or why she became Catholic when she had been raised in the Jewish faith. My father died in Aswan when I was six. I vaguely remember him.
My mother never talks about him, and I always avoid bringing this subject up as I know from experience that our conversation will lead nowhere. I don't know why. When he died, she left me for four years with my Egyptian grandparents. I never knew what she really felt about me, and I still don't know today. When we went back to Paris after the war, she again left me, this time with her mother, and I did not see her until I was twenty. When I moved to the United States with my husband, she wanted to follow us to New York. I think she was lonely and she thought that we would be friends and that I would let her come into my life. It never happened. I made sure that she lived nearby but never with us. We always pretended that we loved each other, but I had built myself a world of memories where my mother is nowhere to be found. I want it to stay that way.................
My Mother (Extract)
I am peeling shrimp for my mother. Most likely, she'll refuse them. She eats nothing at the Mother Cabrini Hospice where she is dying of cancer. Three months ago, the doctors gave her three months to live; it is clear to me that she has no intention of dying yet, as if hanging on were a matter of spiteful retaliation. She complains all the time in a whiny French voice, especially when attendants are hovering near her bed. Each time the dietician asks her what she'd like, my mother answers, 'Chinese shrimp with vegetables,' as if she's in Chinatown. I have finally found the time to prepare this fantasy dish in my own kitchen, convinced that the greasy version from a restaurant will kill her. Perhaps I should have gone for the take-out.
I visit her every afternoon. When I come in, she is usually asleep, or at least pretends to be. The television is always on, with the sound turned off. She lies still, her face turned toward the television, her eyes closed. The skin of her face is very taut. Her head looks like a skull with an immense forehead because her hair is pushed all the way up. I sit on a dark brown leatherette chair and wait for her to wake up. Her hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, lie still beside her thighs. She was always proud of her long-fingered, elegant hands. Mine show the signs of washing, cooking, and gardening: short, jagged nails; swollen knuckles; heavy cuticle moons. I used to be very jealous of her hands, but I've since found revenge through my three daughters, who have magnificent hands. The Haitian nurse comes in to look at her, checks her breathing, and leaves. When my mother is awake, she tells me — in French — how vulgar she finds the nurse's nails, which are very long and airbrushed with intricate designs and sprays of glitter. Once a week I bring the nurse chocolate to appease my guilt, and to make sure my mother doesn't receive retaliation in the guise of care.
My mother wakes up and looks at me. She is silent and unsmiling.
'I brought you some Chinese shrimp. You want to try some?' I say. She continues to stare at me in silence.
'What time is it?' she asks suddenly, minutes later.
'Half past five. Do you want to try to eat? The shrimps? They're still hot.' With irritation etched on her mouth, she rasps, 'I'm not hungry. I'll eat later.'
There are long silences between us. We never talk about anything that is important: God, love, my father, her life without us, how she met my stepfather — who had died a few years earlier — or why she became Catholic when she had been raised in the Jewish faith. My father died in Aswan when I was six. I vaguely remember him.
My mother never talks about him, and I always avoid bringing this subject up as I know from experience that our conversation will lead nowhere. I don't know why. When he died, she left me for four years with my Egyptian grandparents. I never knew what she really felt about me, and I still don't know today. When we went back to Paris after the war, she again left me, this time with her mother, and I did not see her until I was twenty. When I moved to the United States with my husband, she wanted to follow us to New York. I think she was lonely and she thought that we would be friends and that I would let her come into my life. It never happened. I made sure that she lived nearby but never with us. We always pretended that we loved each other, but I had built myself a world of memories where my mother is nowhere to be found. I want it to stay that way.................
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