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najat el hachmi
the concierge’s shutter, a
hand and an arm inside a
reddish sleeve that supplied
us with the thin pastry full of
the holes left by the hosts.
At first I never wondered
why that woman didn’t leave
her hiding-place, or what
lay behind those doors that
were so firmly shut. However,
at some point, perhaps in
a religious class or from a
comment someone made, I
learned of the existence of
this kind of nunnery. Women
who lived inside a building
that they never left, or almost
never. It still intrigues me, for
a long time I’ve been unable
to walk past the Convent
of the Blessed Sacrament
without feeling the need to
step inside and ask them a
thousand questions about the
kind of life they lead. I never
have. Just like this very minute
when I come to a halt on the
uneven flagstones and stare at
the small, simple notice with
its typed message:
concierge
here from…
Silently I also bid
those cloistered strangers
farewell.
I thought for a moment about
the Order, what I’d read on
the subject when I discovered
them, and about their founder,
and these reminiscences
helped me to stop thinking
about my mother. And what if
she left home early and finds
me at a standstill here, and
asks me to show her my bag
and discovers that, although
it is the one I always take to
school, today I’m not carrying
books but clothes to last good
long time, my toothbrush,
passpor t and residence
permit, and the hard-backed
notebook where I jot down
whatever comes to mind?
In my short-lived fantasy,
mother also rummaged in