Le mariage

Le mariage.

My friend Feiza, Walid’s mother, is my student in Milan. My feelings to her are difficult to explain. When I look into her eyes I see my mother, my grandmother, and the female side of the family I grew up with in Napoli. We are Mediterranean women and we know the same language, and that is enough to understand each other. This language is love. Love for her children and her husband Mansour, for her house, for her cooking, for her house at the top of a road with no asphalt. Half of her family lives between Italy and Belgium. The other half stayed in Tunisia: Walid and his sister, Hanane.

I sleeply open the door and a pair of cosy slippers show up at the threshold. They say welcome.
Walid advices staying in Zeramdine today, there is so much to do for the wedding.
We go back at the Grandfather’s house under a boiling sun. On two sides of the big court two shelters reassure me I can find shade to my body already longing for water.

I was just figuring out what would be the soundtrack for such a spaghetti movie scenario (of course Ennio Morricone’s "A Fistful of Dollars" theme https://youtu.be/i_UD-zxgRUs ) when slowly the protagonist entered the scene.

My senses were taken by the supernatural aura of this man in his tunic and with his straw hat on. I shook my hand with the Grandfather.

Under the shelter two beautiful women were peeling dozens of garlics and in one of the rooms two women were preparing couscous in a huge casserole. As a guest I had to be the first one to try. I shared the delicious dish with Mansour, amazed by the habit of sharing but happy for such a generous offering.Weiterlesen