Transit

The sky was a deep blue when the ferry entered the channel that cut through the lagoon. We were sailing between two dawns: on one side, the moon was setting; on the other, dawn was rising, tinting the sky with pink hues. Zaraqadir was no longer just a whiteness on the low coast; I had arrived in the radiant East.

I saw minarets, mosques, and palm trees appear. Trains passed along the shore on their way to Goletta. Leaning on the railing, I felt an unparalleled sense of well-being, as if I were being reborn into a new life, in a time paced more slowly, separate from what lay beyond the ocean.

I was rising again, freed from a nightmare. No tension around me, nothing inside me but wonderful awe. Then the boat entered the port, and suddenly, a great commotion broke out. Small boats packed with porters broke away from the shore, pushing hard under the keel.

The shouting crowd swarmed up the gangway, invaded the deck, each offering their services, speaking various languages, faces shining in shades of bronze and amber, with fluttering scraps of white, red, and sky-blue cloth.

I let myself be guided by a Berber giant who, when he laughed, showed the broadest, whitest row of teeth I had ever seen.

Upon arriving in the city, I was immediately captivated by the colors and sounds. Spices perfumed the air, street vendors called to passersby, and traditional music echoed through the narrow streets of the medina. Amid the teeming crowds constantly crossing and pushing, there were people and dress of all kinds: Western-style clothes, locals in tunics adorned with cords, dignitaries wrapped in wide white burnuses with red shashias on their heads, shirtless Moors with bare feet, half-naked children, and girls with their faces hidden by black veils.

I settled into a dar, where the inner courtyard, adorned with mosaics, framed a fountain that bubbled in the center.

That night, I crossed the Porte de France with a local guide, Yassine Dufort, and we ventured into the maze of narrow alleys winding through the heart of the city. We were enveloped in immaculate whiteness and deep silence. The lights were sparse and faint at the corners, and only a few men wrapped in cloaks hugged the walls of the small white houses.

Between the rooftops stretched the road of the sky, dotted with glittering stars. Where did that penetrating scent of jasmine come from? It wasn’t carried by the wind, as the air was still, yet it filled the space with its intensity—a warm, enveloping fragrance, like the delicate touch of a small child's hand.

The alleys were flanked by identical walls, interrupted only by occasional doors or finely crafted wooden grilles.

“We’re almost there,” Yassine said to me at one point. I didn’t answer. Up until then, we had walked in silence, following the path that led toward the highest part of the city.

We continued along a descending alley that ended in front of a Moorish arch adorned with stylized vegetal motifs.

A dark-skinned man sat in a corner, asleep. His head rested on his arms, and his arms lay stretched over his knees.

From above, through a musharabia, a low murmur reached us. I stopped to listen.

“Whose voices are those?” I asked.

"Women who are probably enjoying the coolness... Here it’s pointless to try to unveil the female mystery," Yassine replied tersely.

We continued for a short distance until Yassine stopped in front of a door with three steps. “Have we arrived?” I whispered. My companion motioned for me to be quiet and glanced around cautiously. The alley was completely deserted, immersed in an unreal silence.

After a long wait, the door creaked slowly on its hinges, opening just enough for a person to pass through. "Come!... Quickly!" urged Yassine. I followed him, and we found ourselves in a dimly lit corridor illuminated by a lamp shaped like a pyramid trunk, hanging from the ceiling.

Moments later, we emerged into a patio decorated with tiles and ornamental plants. The columns of the portico cast long shadows on the colorful floor. At the end, a staircase led us to the loggia on the upper floor. Upon reaching the top, Yassine firmly pushed open a partially closed door, revealing Noor-el-Ain.

She rose from the cushions where she had been kneeling, set her cigarette in a corner of the ebony table, smiled, and extended her hands toward Yassine, her nails lacquered a deep red. After exchanging a few words with him, she invited me with a wave of her hand to sit beside her, in their manner.

Thus, she found herself between us, and first, she picked up a basket of lukum almonds from the mat. She offered them with a smile, and seeing my hesitation, she took one and brought it to my lips. I accepted the gift and awkwardly nibbled at the slightly chewy sweet.

Noor-el-Ain turned to Yassine and began to speak in Arabic, in a peculiar way, as if she were chirping. Her voice never rose in pitch but varied gently in intensity. It was pleasant to listen to her, even though the meaning of her words eluded me. It elicited small bursts of laughter from Yassine, although at times, her monologue seemed to fade away.

However, in her murmurs, I caught the repetition of a name: Fadya. A sweet sound, laden with a subtle foreboding. At one point, I could no longer wait and asked, "Who are you talking about?"

“Now I will tell you,” Yassine replied, stretching out a hand to curb my curiosity without taking his eyes off Noor-el-Ain. Immediately, the woman intervened. “Forgive me,... I’m not so fluent in your language that I can make a long speech.”

She clapped her hands. From behind a door hidden by a curtain, a little girl appeared carrying on a large, decorated tray tiny cups filled with an aromatic drink and assorted cookies.

I felt as if I had been drained of all will. At that moment, it wasn't worth pursuing another kind of pleasure. I had immersed myself in the spirit of the place, in that kind of fatalism that resignedly awaits the unfolding of events.

Yassine looked at me with a knowing smile: “You will meet Fadya,” he said. “She arrived here a few months ago with her family; she comes from Matmata, a town in the mountainous south. She's twenty years old.”

I stared at him in surprise, feeling somewhat flattered. “She is here for you,” he added, his voice slightly more pronounced. “Don’t you understand? She is the woman you have always desired. Now you can’t back out. Fate is resourceful.”

I remained silent for a few moments, feeling almost cowardly, as if I couldn't fully give in to temptation.

“You will be happy together. Noor-el-Ain has foretold a future filled with harmony and prosperity for you both, where every difficulty will be overcome by your complicity. She says you will be like two branches of the same tree, intertwined and strong, able to withstand any storm.”

“A fling is fine, but I don't want any kind of bond,” I replied, annoyed.

“Noor-el-Ain has never been wrong.” I looked at the woman. Her eyes sparkled so intensely that I felt a sense of disorientation.

“And do you really believe all this?” I asked Yassine, trying to mask my disbelief.

“Her visions have always been clear, and I trust what she says,” he replied confidently.

It was an enticing thought, the idea that fate could already be written, but I couldn't accept that my life was not in my own hands. “What if I don’t want to meet her?” I objected, feeling a knot in my throat.

Yassine tilted his head. “I understand your doubts, but it’s not true that accepting this path means losing control. You might discover that in this choice, there is a part of you that you still don’t know.”

“Your mother lost her first child and remarried after being widowed... then she had two daughters, and finally you came along,” Noor-el-Ain stated, her accent dancing among the words.

"Her revelations struck me like a sudden jolt of electricity, leaving me completely speechless."

“How can that be possible? …But then, really you…?” I was immediately interrupted. “Come in, come!” Fadya appeared, wearing a long, flowing skirt and a richly decorated short blouse, both in bright orange.

As I observed her, I felt a mixture of astonishment and wonder wash over me. Her almost unreal figure seemed to emerge from a dream. I felt my heart quicken, and in an instant, I lost my train of thought, unable to tear my gaze away. She had a natural, spontaneous charm that drew me in and held me in a hypnotic state of anticipation.

For a moment, I thought I recognized the sound of an ancient chant or perhaps the whisper of sand flowing in an hourglass. She reached out her hand without looking at me, hinting at a smile suspended between languor and innocence.

She seemed to do nothing to please me, or perhaps she was unaware that she could. Yet, in the silence, she had the grace of a sculpted Venus, a classical beauty that required no adornments to enchant. It was as if she didn’t realize the natural aura surrounding her.

I grasped her fingers between mine, and our gazes crossed. Unconfessed emotions and desires surged into an impulse to draw closer to her.

My heartbeat quickened, but a loud noise caught us by surprise. A metallic clang, followed by the sound of breaking glass from who knows where, made the walls tremble.

We pulled away abruptly, Fadya’s smile fading, replaced by an expression of fear. The outside world burst violently into our intimacy.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of the commotion. “Where did that come from?” I asked, my voice shaky. Fadya took a step back, peering toward the source of the noise.

I wanted to protect her, but uncertainty was imprisoning us in a sort of limbo. Then, suddenly, the noise repeated, this time with an unsettling bang, and in an instant, I was overwhelmed by a sense of immeasurable emptiness, as if the world around me had lost all meaning.

Everything began to blur, losing its contours and details, while her face dissolved into a play of light and shadow, suspended between the ethereal and the real. Time seemed to stretch and shorten at irregular intervals, as if it prolonged into an endless moment.

I saw myself sitting in the cold house in Sudbury, with a copy of the Toronto Journal in my hands, surrounded by grandchildren, while Fadya was cooking a soup with lentils, chickpeas, tomatoes, and spices. Outside, icicles hung like stalactites on the porch, shiny and sharp, while snow fell incessantly.

I began to cry my eyes out, inconsolable, for long, never-ending minutes