.’
‘Oh, we have plenty,’ said Fatima. ‘In this house, we like to cook. And everyone helps in the kitchen—’ She opened the kitchen door on a semicircle of curious faces. I wondered whether one of these might be the Woman in Black, but dismissed the thought almost instantly. This, I knew, was a family.
There was Maya, on a little stool, preparing okra; and two young women in their late twenties that I guessed to be Fatima’s daughters. One was in black, with the hijab neatly covering her hair and neck. The other wore an embroidered hijab over jeans and a silk kameez .
On a chair behind the door sat a tiny, very old lady, peering at me, bird-eyed, from a nest of wrinkles. Ninety or older, her fine white hair braided into a long, thin plait that was wrapped round her head half a dozen times, a yellow scarf falling loosely around her neck. Her face was like a shrivelled peach; her hands as crabbed as chicken claws. And as I stepped into the kitchen, hers was the voice that broke the silence, crowing shrilly in Arabic.
‘This is my mother-in-law,’ said Fatima, smiling, with the same indulgent expression that she’d used when speaking of Maya. ‘Come on, Omi, say hello to our guest.’
Omi al-Djerba gave me a look that reminded me oddly of Armande.
‘Look, she brought peaches,’ Fatima said.
The crow became a cackle. ‘Let me see,’ said Omi. Fatima held out the basket. ‘Mmf,’ said Omi, and shot me a smile as empty of teeth as a turtle’s. ‘That’s good. You can come again. All these silly little things – these briouats and almonds and dates – how can I chew my way through these? My daughter-in-law is trying to starve me to death. Inshallah , she will not succeed and I shall outlive all of you!’
Maya laughed and clapped her hands. Omi pretended to snarl at her. Fatima smiled, with the air of one who has heard all this many times before. ‘You see what I have to live with,’ she said, indicating the others. ‘These are my daughters, Zahra and Yasmina. Yasmina married Ismail Mahjoubi. Maya is their little girl.’
I smiled at the circle of women. Zahra – the one in the black hijab – gave me a shy smile in return. Her sister, Yasmina, shook my hand. They looked very much alike, I thought – although they were dressed very differently. I wondered for a moment whether Zahra was the Woman in Black, but the woman I had seen in the square – and later, at the door of the house – was taller, I thought, perhaps older, and more physically graceful beneath her robes.
I remembered enough of my Arabic to say: ‘ Jazak Allah .’
The women looked surprised, then pleased. Zahra murmured a polite reply. Maya gave a crow of laughter and clapped her hands again.
‘Maya,’ said Yasmina, and frowned.
‘She’s a sweet little girl,’ I said.
Omi cackled. ‘Wait till you meet my Du’a,’ she said. ‘Bright as a pin. What a memory! She can recite from the Qur’an better than old Mahjoubi. I tell you, if that girl had been a boy, she’d be running the village by now—’
Fatima gave me a comic look. ‘Omi always wanted boys. This is why she encourages Maya to run wild. And to make fun of her grandfather.’
Omi winked at Maya. Maya grinned and winked back.
Yasmina smiled, but Zahra did not. She seemed less at ease than the others, guarded and uncomfortable. ‘We should offer our guest some tea,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘No, really, I won’t. But thank you for the pastries. I have to get back anyway. I don’t want my daughters to worry.’
I picked up my basket again, now filled with a selection of Moroccan sweetmeats.
‘I’ve made these myself once or twice,’ I said. ‘But now I just make chocolates. Did you know I used to rent the shop, the one by the church, where there was the fire?’
‘Did you?’ Fatima shook her head.
‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ I said. ‘Who lives there now?’
There was a barely perceptible pause, and the smile on Fatima’s
‘Oh, we have plenty,’ said Fatima. ‘In this house, we like to cook. And everyone helps in the kitchen—’ She opened the kitchen door on a semicircle of curious faces. I wondered whether one of these might be the Woman in Black, but dismissed the thought almost instantly. This, I knew, was a family.
There was Maya, on a little stool, preparing okra; and two young women in their late twenties that I guessed to be Fatima’s daughters. One was in black, with the hijab neatly covering her hair and neck. The other wore an embroidered hijab over jeans and a silk kameez .
On a chair behind the door sat a tiny, very old lady, peering at me, bird-eyed, from a nest of wrinkles. Ninety or older, her fine white hair braided into a long, thin plait that was wrapped round her head half a dozen times, a yellow scarf falling loosely around her neck. Her face was like a shrivelled peach; her hands as crabbed as chicken claws. And as I stepped into the kitchen, hers was the voice that broke the silence, crowing shrilly in Arabic.
‘This is my mother-in-law,’ said Fatima, smiling, with the same indulgent expression that she’d used when speaking of Maya. ‘Come on, Omi, say hello to our guest.’
Omi al-Djerba gave me a look that reminded me oddly of Armande.
‘Look, she brought peaches,’ Fatima said.
The crow became a cackle. ‘Let me see,’ said Omi. Fatima held out the basket. ‘Mmf,’ said Omi, and shot me a smile as empty of teeth as a turtle’s. ‘That’s good. You can come again. All these silly little things – these briouats and almonds and dates – how can I chew my way through these? My daughter-in-law is trying to starve me to death. Inshallah , she will not succeed and I shall outlive all of you!’
Maya laughed and clapped her hands. Omi pretended to snarl at her. Fatima smiled, with the air of one who has heard all this many times before. ‘You see what I have to live with,’ she said, indicating the others. ‘These are my daughters, Zahra and Yasmina. Yasmina married Ismail Mahjoubi. Maya is their little girl.’
I smiled at the circle of women. Zahra – the one in the black hijab – gave me a shy smile in return. Her sister, Yasmina, shook my hand. They looked very much alike, I thought – although they were dressed very differently. I wondered for a moment whether Zahra was the Woman in Black, but the woman I had seen in the square – and later, at the door of the house – was taller, I thought, perhaps older, and more physically graceful beneath her robes.
I remembered enough of my Arabic to say: ‘ Jazak Allah .’
The women looked surprised, then pleased. Zahra murmured a polite reply. Maya gave a crow of laughter and clapped her hands again.
‘Maya,’ said Yasmina, and frowned.
‘She’s a sweet little girl,’ I said.
Omi cackled. ‘Wait till you meet my Du’a,’ she said. ‘Bright as a pin. What a memory! She can recite from the Qur’an better than old Mahjoubi. I tell you, if that girl had been a boy, she’d be running the village by now—’
Fatima gave me a comic look. ‘Omi always wanted boys. This is why she encourages Maya to run wild. And to make fun of her grandfather.’
Omi winked at Maya. Maya grinned and winked back.
Yasmina smiled, but Zahra did not. She seemed less at ease than the others, guarded and uncomfortable. ‘We should offer our guest some tea,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘No, really, I won’t. But thank you for the pastries. I have to get back anyway. I don’t want my daughters to worry.’
I picked up my basket again, now filled with a selection of Moroccan sweetmeats.
‘I’ve made these myself once or twice,’ I said. ‘But now I just make chocolates. Did you know I used to rent the shop, the one by the church, where there was the fire?’
‘Did you?’ Fatima shook her head.
‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ I said. ‘Who lives there now?’
There was a barely perceptible pause, and the smile on Fatima’s
Similar Books
