chapitre six
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Isra clutched the money Etienne had given her to her chest as she stood out on the street, the Moulin Rouge and its bright lights flashing behind her while she waited for a taxi to drive by.
She wasn't sure of the time, but she suspected that at least an hour must have gone by since Aisha left with her lover, leaving her stranded in the city, on a street she didn't know, surrounded by men and women who seemed to leer and jeer, their eyes following her every movement, making her feel as though she were being watched by a pack of hungry wolves.
As Isra stood alone in the dimly lit street, she couldn't fathom how Aisha could so easily believe Etienne's words over hers. After all, wasn't it crystal clear that the man was nothing but a charmer, with a history of playing with women's hearts? Yet, despite all of this, Aisha had chosen to believe in the deceptive facade that Etienne had put on. Isra knew deep down that the bond she had forged with Aisha over the recent months was worth far more than the transitory attentions of a man like Etienne. She refused to let him destroy their friendship and hoped that Aisha would eventually come to see through the veil of lies that he had woven around them.
Desperately, she searched for any sign of a taxi, but none seemed to be in sight. Her eyes darted around, taking in the strange faces and unfamiliar surroundings. The Moulin Rouge with its bright lights and seductive music felt like a distant memory. Only hours ago, she was laughing and dancing with Aisha, enjoying the vibrant energy of the city. Now, she was abandoned, forgotten.
Lost in the labyrinth of her melancholic thoughts, she failed to detect the approaching figure that raced toward her. It wasn't until a voice called out her name that she raised her head and looked around, scanning the unfamiliar faces in search of the source of the sound.
"Isra!"
She recognized the tall silhouette, albeit vaguely, clad in a simple soft collared shirt and black trousers, making its way toward her. The moonlight highlighted his blonde locks, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed with a hint of shock and disbelief. It wasn't until he called her name that she finally lifted her gaze and locked her eyes with Marcel.
She was taken aback, as she had not expected to see him again, let alone in this unexpected situation.
For a moment, the two of them just stood there, staring at each other, until Marcel finally broke the silence. "What are you doing here, Isra? I was just taking a walk and then I saw you..."
To her, he was still just a stranger, but seeing somebody she knew brought her so much relief that tears accumulated in her eyes, and she cried.
She was overwhelmed with emotion, so much so that her voice caught in her throat, and she could not speak. Marcel noticed her tears and reached out to her with a hand outstretched in concern. "Isra, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"
She sniffled and wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. "I've been stranded here for so long, and I was so scared."
"Stranded? What do you mean?"
Isra explained the situation to him, telling him about how Aisha had left with Etienne and how she had been waiting for a taxi for what felt like hours. "Well, I'm here now. I'll get you home, alright? You don't need to worry."
Isra sensed the gentle touch of his hand on her arm, and she threw herself into his arms, burying her face into the soft fabric of his shirt.
At first, Marcel stood frozen, staring down at the top of her head, unsure of how to proceed. But as her sobs grew louder, his muscles softened, and he pulled her closer, enveloping her in a tight embrace. He felt her tremble against his chest, and he whispered words of comfort into her ear, hoping to offer her some solace.
"I told my father that I was staying with a friend tonight. If I go back now, dressed like this, he'll start to ask me questions," she explained dismally, her tears subsiding as his arms tightened around her frame. "I don't have anywhere else to go."
"What if you spent the night in my apartment? It's not too far from here. We can walk if you'd like, or take a taxi, whichever you prefer."
The offer he just made was tempting, and she was tempted to accept it, but she didn't want to impose on him, especially since they barely knew each other. She pulled back slightly, peering up at him with blurry vision. "I don't want to impose."
Marcel smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's no imposition at all. Besides, it's not safe for you to be wandering around alone at this time of the night."
"I'm sorry for causing you so much trouble, Marcel."
"It's no trouble at all, Isra," he said gently, wiping away the tears that had streaked down her cheeks. "I can't leave you here in this state. It wouldn't sit well with me if I did."
She found herself lost in his gaze, mesmerized by the tenderness that radiated from within. He was a stranger but had shown her more compassion than anyone else in the past hours.
"I live ten minutes from here, but we'll take a taxi. Tomorrow, I'll drop you off at home."
"Thank you, Marcel. I'm grateful."
Marcel led the way, serving as a shield against the chaos of the peculiar streets. His confident stride and reassuring presence gave her a sense of security that she hadn't felt since her arrival in Paris. As they reached the busy intersection, he raised his hand, signalling for a taxi. She watched as the car slowed down and pulled over. Marcel opened the door for her and waited until she settled inside before joining her in the back seat, giving the driver his address.
The cab ride was quiet, the sound of the engine and the wheels on the streets filling the space between them. But Isra didn't mind the silence. She was too lost in her thoughts, grateful for Marcel's company, and too tired to say much of anything. All she could do was gaze out the window at the passing city, watching as the bright lights of Paris blurred into one another, feeling awed by the beauty of it all.
They arrived at his apartment in ten minutes like he had said. When she handed him the money Etienne had given her earlier, he declined, opting to pay from his own pocket.
Marcel's apartment building was a grand old building, with its elegant façade and tall, narrow windows. The brickwork was clean and well-maintained, with intricate detailing around the entrance that spoke of a bygone era. The building's entryway was adorned with polished brass fittings, and the double doors were made of heavy, rich mahogany. The buildings were all impeccably maintained, and the sidewalks were free of any litter or debris. It was a peaceful and idyllic setting, a stark contrast to her neighbourhood.
As Isra followed Marcel into the lobby of his apartment building, she couldn't help but notice how clean and kempt everything appeared, especially in comparison to her own shabby apartment building. The floors were polished to a shine, and the walls were painted a crisp white. The air was perfumed with a delicate scent of lavender and rose, which combined with the soft lighting to create an atmosphere of tranquillity and serenity.
A broad staircase led up to the upper floors, and Marcel led her up to the fifth floor.
"This place is lovely," she started, scanning her surroundings in wonder. "Is it very expensive?"
Marcel chuckled at her question. "There are certainly more expensive apartments in the city. My father rented this one out for me for a reasonable price while I'm in the city completing my residency."
Arriving at his door, he fetched the key from his pocket and opened it, inviting her inside the warm, cozy space. The walls were painted a soft shade of cream, and the furniture was tasteful and elegant She could see the delicate touches of feminine influence in the subtle details of the décor. The space was filled with moonlight from large windows, and the view outside was spectacular. From here, they could see the Eiffel Tower, its metal structure illuminated against the night sky.
She immediately rushed to the window forgetting to remove her shoes. "Wow..."
Marcel smiled at her reaction and gestured for her to take a seat. "I'm glad you like my apartment."
"I'm envious that this is your view every day. All I see from my window are other buildings."
As she pivoted around, she stumbled into the solidity of Marcel's chest, taken aback by his close proximity. Her cheeks flamed with a sudden heat as she raised her gaze to meet his, noting the gentle quality of his eyes. They appeared to glimmer with a softness that welcomed her, as if she were basking in the comforting warmth of a crackling fireplace.
"I hardly have any time to enjoy this place with all the hours I put in at the clinic."
"It must be a difficult job, but also very fulfilling."
Marcel smiled, "It is, especially when you can help someone in need. It's why I became a doctor in the first place."
Isra looked around the apartment. "And yet, you have such a lovely home. It seems a shame not to enjoy it more."
He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose so, but it's just a place to sleep and work for me."
Her eyes followed him as he took a seat on the sofa, motioning for her to join him. "Are you feeling alright? Would you like something to eat or drink? Tea, perhaps?"
Isra sat down beside him, the reminder of tonight's events draining whatever was left of her energy. "I'm fine. I don't have much of an appetite at the moment."
Even after Aisha had hurt her, she wondered where her friend was and if she was safe with Etienne.
"Why don't you get some rest? You look like you could use it." Every line on his face seemed to convey the depth of his empathy. "You can sleep in my room. I'll sleep on the sofa tonight."
Her expression was warped with guilt. "You don't have to. I can sleep on the sofa."
"I wouldn't be a gentleman if I let you do something like that. I insist, Isra. You go ahead and take my room. It's only for one night, after all."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Let me show you to the room."
Marcel ushered Isra through a hallway, leading her to a bedroom that appeared sparsely furnished. The room was clean and neat, but it lacked the personalized touches that made a space feel lived in. The furniture was functional but plain, and the bed had a simple white coverlet with no embellishments. She noticed the lack of personal items in the room, and she wondered if Marcel hardly spent any time there.
"If you need anything, I'll be out there." He pointed in the direction of the sitting room. "Make yourself comfortable, okay?"
Isra nodded, bidding him goodnight, and he closed the door softly behind him.
In the dress Aisha had let her borrow, she lay down on Marcel's bed once he left, feeling her entire body sink into the softness of the mattress. The sheets were crisp and cool against her skin, and the soft scent of fresh linen enveloped her. She gazed up at the ceiling, the patterns in the plaster casting dancing shadows across the room. The stillness of the night was punctuated only by the sound of her own breathing and the occasional creak of the floorboards. She felt so at peace here, in this room that seemed to hold so much of Marcel's calm energy.
The moon was casting a silver light through the window, and she watched as shadows danced across the walls. A soft breeze ruffled the curtains, and the sound of leaves rustling outside was soothing. Isra couldn't remember the last time she had felt this at peace.
As the tendrils of sleep crept up on her, she thought of Marcel and his kindness, how he'd helped her twice now, even though she was nothing to him.
The rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock lulled her into a peaceful slumber, and she knew that she was in safe hands.
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As the first rays of sunlight began to filter into the room, Isra stirred from her slumber. Her senses were filled with the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the soft sounds of footsteps padding across the floor. It took a moment for her to fully comprehend her surroundings, but as she felt the plush mattress beneath her and caught a glimpse of the glimmering sequins on her dress, the events of the previous night came flooding back with intense clarity.
Memories of the Moulin Rouge, Etienne's ill-fated kiss, Aisha's burning anger, and Marcel's unwavering kindness surged through her mind like a tumultuous storm. And yet, amidst the chaos, a sense of peace and gratitude settled within her heart.
As she rose from the bed, Isra felt a grogginess that was amplified by the stress of the previous night. Her yawn echoed through the room, and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes before making her way to the door. The alluring aroma of coffee and the soft footsteps beckoned her forward, and she followed them to the kitchen where Marcel stood, his back to her as he carefully poured the steaming brew into two mugs.
Her cheeks flushed when he turned to face her, his expression alight with a gentle warmth that made her heart skip a beat. Isra's gaze rested upon him, taking in his warm, gentle features and the easy smile that played across his lips.
"Good morning, Isra," he greeted her. It was evident that he had had a restless night, for his hair was dishevelled, and his attire from the previous night still hung off his lean frame. Despite his apparent disarray, Isra found Marcel's rumpled appearance quite endearing, and it added to his charm.
"Good morning," she replied shyly.
"Did I wake you? I'm sorry. It's still early, but I have to be at the clinic in about two hours. You can go back to sleep if you'd like and I'll wake you up when I'm ready to go."
Isra appreciated his concern, but she couldn't dally here for much longer. "It's alright. I'm an early bird too. I don't usually sleep for long and I like to wake up early."
He nodded as if he was relieved. "I made coffee. Do you drink coffee or do you prefer tea?"
"Coffee is fine."
Marcel carried the mugs carefully as they walked through the spacious sitting room, filled with the morning light that illuminated everything in its path. The view of the Eiffel Tower seemed to be even more breathtaking in the daylight, and Isra marvelled at the beauty of the city. As they settled onto the sofa Isra breathed in deeply, grateful for the warmth it brought her on this cool morning.
He studied her closely as he asked, "How did you sleep, Isra?"
Her lips curved into a gentle smile as she replied, "I slept well, thank you for letting me borrow your room. I apologize that you had to make do with the sofa."
His expression softened as he took a sip of his coffee. "Nonsense, it was no trouble at all. I'm just glad that you had a good night's sleep."
As her eyes trailed over Marcel's hand, she noticed a glinting piece of metal adorning his ring finger, immediately recognizing it as a wedding band. A whirlwind of emotions churned within her, and she tried to push away the feelings of confusion that threatened to overwhelm her.
Taking a deep breath, she mustered the courage to speak. "You're married?"
The sunlight illuminated his face, casting a faint light upon his features and accentuating the lines etched upon his forehead. His eyes, once bright and cheerful, were now filled with quiet sorrow, as if he had experienced a loss so great that it had left a permanent mark upon him. "Was married. She died young of tuberculosis, just six months after we had our wedding last year in the south of France."
"I'm sorry," Isra said softly, her voice hushed with understanding. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."
He chuckled good-naturedly. "It's alright. I know you meant no harm."
Isra nodded, her gaze returning to the glinting metal band on his finger. She couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose a spouse, especially so early on in their marriage. "Do you miss her?"
Marcel sighed, his eyes glancing down at his ring as if it held all the memories and pain of his past. "Of course I do. She was my wife, even though it was for a short while."
Her heart ached for him, watching as he tried to banish his sadness as he drank his coffee. "What was she like?"
He looked wistful as he spoke of his late wife. "She was a Moroccan beauty," he said, "with dark hair and deep brown eyes that could see into your soul. We met when I went to volunteer at a clinic in Morocco. She was a nurse." He paused, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "She was different from French women, you know. Strong and resilient, yet gentle and caring. Her culture and traditions were so different from mine, but I found that I loved learning about them. We would spend hours talking about everything and nothing, and I never got tired of listening to her stories. We fell in love despite my parents' disapproval. And we were going to have a baby together until she got sick and had a miscarriage. I blamed myself for not being able to help her through any of it."
"Marcel, do you think you'll ever love another woman?" she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.
His expression changed, his face becoming pensive and contemplative. He took a deep breath before answering, his words slow and deliberate. "I don't know, Isra," he said. "I loved my wife deeply, but I also know that life is unpredictable. Who knows what the future may hold? Perhaps one day I will find love again, but for now, I am content with the memories of the love I once had."
His heart was still tender from the loss of his wife, and she didn't want to push the subject any further. Instead, she picked up her mug and sipped her lukewarm coffee.
"I remember you mentioned a boy that day I dropped you off at home," he put in, observing her with his blue eyes over the rim of his mug.
She suddenly felt as though she could talk to him about anything, that he wouldn't judge her decisions.
"Haadi and I have been friends since we were young. I can't imagine being with anyone else."
"His name is Haadi?"
"Yes, Haadi Brahimi." Her eyes softened as she recalled memories of them together at home, walking to school, and on Plage des Pins. "He's such a spunky boy, always making me laugh. But he's also brave and strong-willed. He doesn't care what anyone thinks of him, he just does what he wants."
Then she grinned. "One time, we went on a picnic at the beach and he accidentally sat on the cake we had brought. He had frosting all over his trousers and he looked so embarrassed. And another time, he tried to jump over the fence around my house but ended up getting his foot stuck. He was hanging upside down, and I had to help him get down. It was hilarious."
Marcel chuckled at her stories, enjoying seeing Isra's face light up with joy. "He sounds like quite the character," he remarked.
"He is," she replied, her smile fading slightly. "But my father doesn't approve of him. He desires a better future for me. A future that takes me far from the strife that we encounter at home with the French. He believes that I ought to wed someone who is more affluent and educated."
"He's just worried about you, Isra. That's how all fathers are."
"I wish he'd stop worrying about me. I know what I'm doing. And I know what I want to do with my life. He can be so overbearing sometimes."
"My father was the same way with me and my late wife." He put the mug down on the table and leaned back on the sofa, suddenly overtaken by exhaustion. "I think if he had gotten to know her and given her a real chance, he would have loved her."
"I am truly sorry to hear about her, Marcel."
"Thank you, Isra. I appreciate your concern. But believe me, I'm in a much better place now."
They drank the rest of their coffee in comfortable silence and every so often, would steal glances at each other.
An hour passed before they both left his apartment and took a taxi back to her apartment. The car whizzed down the street and they arrived at the 18th arrondissement but had Isra looked out the window instead of studying her dress, she might have glimpsed her heartbroken friend on a morning stroll.
Aisha walked down the cobblestone street with her head down, lost in thought. The weight of what had transpired the previous night was like cold hands around her neck. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and she hadn't bothered to put on any makeup, nor had she taken the time to fix her hair. She was wearing a plain brown day dress that did nothing to flatter her figure and a pair of practical oxfords that were well-worn from use.
As she walked, she noticed the beauty around her, the quaint shops with their colourful awnings, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the bakery, and the cheerful chatter of the locals. But none of it lifted her mood. She couldn't stop replaying the moment when she had told Etienne that she couldn't be with him any longer, that she wanted more from him. She felt like a fool for not seeing it coming, for falling for his lies and believing that they had a chance at a future together.
She turned a corner and found herself in a small park, dotted with benches and flower beds. She sat down on a bench, feeling the sun's warmth on her face, and took a deep breath. It was then that she noticed the flowers, the bright and beautiful tulips swaying gently in the breeze. They reminded her of Etienne somehow, and she couldn't help but cry again.
Aisha's eyes were fixed on the ground, lost in thought, but every once in a while, she would catch a glimpse of a happy couple walking hand in hand, or a mother playing with her child, and her heart would ache with longing for something more meaningful than the shallow life of a courtesan. She envied their ability to love and be loved without the constraints of society, but deep down, she knew that such a life was not meant for her.
And then she thought about Isra, about all the plans she made with Haadi in the letters they exchanged, and she burned with anger. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. Since the age of seventeen, she had been used and exploited by Etienne, and it had taken her a long time to come to terms with what had happened, so she went on wistfully hoping that perhaps some good would come out of their transactional relationship; that as she grew and matured, he'd view her differently, his perspective of her would change and he'd want to be with her. But no. No, she was just his pretty whore, his dependable pet, the girl he could always fall back on should another disappoint him.
Isra, however, had Haadi. She had true love, and she roiled with envy just picturing her friend happy with him in Algeria whilst she had to accept her fate that nothing would become of her in Paris. She was more intelligent than that, more robust than that. But something about Etienne had made her weak, had made her want to please him, to be everything he wanted her to be. And now, she was left with nothing but a broken heart and shattered dreams.
She absentmindedly ran her fingers through her hair as the morning breeze rustled it, pulling out knots and tangles.
At only seventeen, she had become more woman than girl, but not in the way she had hoped. She caught the attention of men everywhere she went, and not always in a way that made her feel comfortable. They would leer at her, whisper to each other as she passed by, and sometimes even call out to her. It was as if she had become a seductress just by existing.
But the worst part was that Etienne had never viewed her as anything more than a pretty face and a warm body. Despite all her hopes that he would come to see her differently, that he would want to be with her for who she was, he had never changed his opinion of her. She was just another girl in his collection, someone he could turn to when he was bored or lonely. It was a harsh realization to come to.
She cast a glance at the ring he had given her and chewed on her lip, debating whether she should remove it from her finger and cast it into the pond. She remembered the promises he made when he'd given it to her that morning. He promised to take care of her, he promised to cherish her, but one encounter with Isra and he threw it all away. And she couldn't even blame Isra. It wasn't her fault that Etienne had a wandering eye.
Alas, she decided not to discard the ring. It would be her last memento of their relationship.
Aisha rose slowly to her feet, a sense of weariness tugging at her limbs. As she began to walk back home, she glanced up at the sky, and his grey eyes flashed in her mind. Suddenly, however, as she emerged onto the sidewalk, she caught sight of a familiar car out of the corner of her eye.
Etienne?
But as she turned to face it head-on, she saw that it was not his car after all. Her shoulders slumped. Feeling foolish and crestfallen, she trudged on in no particular direction. Her mind was lost in thought as she moved, the streets around her melting into a blur of colours and shapes.
She continued on her way to nowhere, and just as she raised her head slightly, her heart leapt in her chest as she caught sight of a figure in the distance, a familiar silhouette that sent her pulse racing. She quickened her pace, hoping to catch up to him.
"Etienne!"
She reached out to tap the man on the shoulder, to determine if it truly was her Etienne, but before she could make contact, he wheeled around. And noticing her, he recoiled and scowled, as if she were some sort of insect.
"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, his voice laced with contempt. "Don't touch me, you harlot."
Her eyes filled with tears, but she tried to hold them back, not wanting to give this stranger the satisfaction of seeing her cry. The insults stung, but she was used to them after so many years of living in Paris. She had heard them all before. She was an outsider, an unwelcome guest in this country that was not her own. She didn't belong here, and she knew it.
"I'm sorry."
She could feel the eyes of the other people around her watching her, some with pity, others with disgust.
Aisha walked with her head down, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to avoid the prying eyes of strangers. The world around her seemed to blur, the sounds of the city muted by the deafening sound of her own thoughts. She couldn't help but wonder if this was all there was to life, a never-ending cycle of disappointment and heartache.
Eventually, she reached her home, the small apartment building that housed tens of broken dreams. The air was thick with the smell of cheap cigarettes and the sound of the neighbors' constant arguing filled the air. Aisha hated this place. She hated how it was a constant reminder of her family's poverty and how they couldn't afford a better life.
As she made her way upstairs and to her unit, the familiar scent of her mother's cooking wafted through the air, momentarily distracting her from her pain. She forced a small smile, trying to hide the turmoil inside her.
"Aisha, darling, what's the matter?" Her mother instinctively knew that something was wrong, so she left her cooking and approached her with a gentle touch. "Why are you crying?"
"It's nothing, mama. I'm not crying." She kicked off her oxford shoes and beelined past her mother's arms, open for an embrace, and marched to her room. It was too late for a mother's comfort. She had committed so many grievous sins that being in the presence of that woman only dug her guilt deeper.
Once alone in her room, she collapsed onto her bed, tears flowing freely as she allowed herself to finally let go of the pain and frustration she had been carrying for so long. Was this going to be her destiny? With Etienne, she had dared to dream of something more, of a life beyond the struggles of the present. Now that dream lay in pieces, and she was left with the harsh reality of her life-that she lived in poverty with her family.
There were no pretty dresses, no expensive shoes, no fancy makeup, and no money. Her father repaired watches for a living and her mother managed the home. If it hadn't been for Etienne and his payments, they would have hardly been able to pay rent. Her brother was married and lived with his wife in another part of the city, working day and night to support his own family, so she couldn't have reached out to him for financial support. Her only two options were Etienne or marriage, and she would never choose the latter.
With a languorous movement, she rose from the bed. The room was dimly lit despite the sun outside. Her eyes lazily scanned the room, finally coming to rest on the vanity where her prized possession sat - a packet of cigarettes and her trusty lighter. She sauntered towards the vanity, the floorboards creaking slightly beneath her bare feet. As she picked up the packet of cigarettes and ran her fingers over the familiar texture, memories flooded her mind. She slowly turned towards the window, feeling the cool morning air brush against her skin. With a delicate hand, she pushed open the window, allowing the sounds of the buzzing city to fill her room. And then, with a flick of her wrist, she lit the cigarette and took a long, slow drag.
The bitter taste of nicotine filled her mouth, but she savoured it, nonetheless. It reminded her of Etienne, of the times they shared together. He had been the one to introduce her to smoking when they had just met - coaxing her, tempting her with his persuasive words. She had been hesitant at first, but the fear of losing him had been too great. And so she had smoked, smoked some more until the habit became an inseparable part of her. Now, as she stood by the window, lost in thought and consumed by the ritual of smoking, she couldn't help but wonder how different her life might have been if she had never followed Etienne home that day. But it was too late for regrets now - the past was set in stone, and all she could do was keep smoking, keep inhaling, and keep remembering.
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By some stroke of luck, Isra's father had already departed for his day's work when she returned home, her heart heavy and her spirits low. As she approached the threshold, her mother's expectant gaze met her own, only to be met with a sight that left her momentarily speechless - her beloved daughter, clad in a lavish dress, appeared to be in a woeful state.
Isra, feeling the weight of her weariness dragging her down, had no desire to entertain her mother's questions or comments. Instead, with a grateful nod and a hurried "thank you" that barely escaped her lips, she scurried away to her own room, eager to be alone with her thoughts. It seemed as though her mother was attuned to her daughter's emotional turmoil, for she made no attempts to follow Isra or prod for explanations.
Besides, she had guests to attend to.
Samia welcomed her friends Camille and Amina into her home for their daily morning tea. The three women gathered around a quaint table, filled with a colourful assortment of teas and sweet delicacies. They immersed themselves in the warmth of each other's company, sewing and indulging in light-hearted chatter, the air filled with the infectious sound of laughter and girlish giggles.
But despite the lighthearted ambiance, Samia's thoughts couldn't help but wander to Isra. She had observed the growing isolation that seemed to weigh on her daughter's shoulders since their relocation to Paris. The burden of quiet grief seemed to loom over her daughter, and it pained Samia to see her suffer in silence.
Her mind wandered to the familiar faces of home and the loved ones they left behind. She knew how much Isra longed to return to Algiers, to her cherished memories with Haadi. Yet, they couldn't afford to abandon this incredible opportunity her husband had bestowed upon them. And though she longed for her daughter to embrace the new adventure that awaited them, she couldn't shake off the feeling that she was pushing her into something she didn't truly want.
Noting her friend's low mood, Camille asked, "What's the matter, Samia?"
Samia picked up her needle and thread and began repairing the small tear in her black skirt. "Nothing... I just worry about Isra. It's been months since we came to Paris and she still hasn't adjusted. She's angry with me and her father for moving so suddenly, and I can't say that I blame her. We didn't give her a choice in the matter."
"You'll need to give her more time. She left the home she grew up in all her life and came here. It's hard to readjust in a place full of strangers."
Amina sipped her tea thoughtfully, considering Samia's concerns. "Camille is right," she said with a reassuring nod. "Perhaps it's time to have an open and honest conversation with Isra. Encourage her to see the silver lining in their new life in France. Here, she'll have endless opportunities that she would not have had in Algeria - an education, a career, and even the possibility of attending university one day!"
Samia let out a tired sigh, her face reflecting her worries. "But the thing is," she began, "Isra told me that there's someone she wants to marry, and she's asked for my blessing."
Amina's expression turned skeptical. "Isn't she too young for that? She's only sixteen, isn't she?"
"She is," Samia confirmed, "but she's insistent."
Amina shook her head, her tone grave. "You can't let her throw her life away, Samia. She's got so much ahead of her. Don't let her tie herself down, especially at such a young age."
"I know, I know," Samia agreed, "but the truth is, she really does love him."
Her friend listened intently, her brow furrowed. "As a mother, it's your duty to guide her. To advise her. You have to dissuade her. Talk to her, reason with her. Help her see the bigger picture."
Samia sighed, her doubts creeping back. "I know, but I fear she won't listen to me or her father."
Camille nodded along. "Change her mind, Samia. With a bit more persuasion, she'll listen to you. She's too young. Too young. Believe me... marriage isn't easy, and if I could go back in time, I wouldn't have married so soon. I would have enjoyed my life for a while longer."
"You're right, Camille," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "Isra deserves to have a chance at life. To experience all the joys and opportunities that come with youth. I'll talk to her, and I'll do my best to change her mind."
As the night wore on and the moon cast a gentle glow across the room, Samia lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling in silence. Her thoughts were heavy with worry, and she felt a growing sense of guilt gnawing at her conscience. She knew she had to tell her husband, Tarek, about Isra's plans to wed Haadi in secret, even if it meant risking her daughter's anger.
Gently, she shook Tarek's shoulder, his warm breaths filling the room as he slept soundly beside her. As he stirred awake, his eyes opened to find Samia gazing at him with tears in her own eyes.
"What's the matter, darling?" he inquired softly, sensing the gravity of her distress.
She explained everything.
"That boy is nothing but trouble," he fumed, his voice rising with each word. "He's filling her head with foolishness and leading her down a dangerous path."
Samia placed a soothing hand on his arm, trying to calm his temper. "We can't control who she loves, Tarek. All we can do is guide her and offer her our support."
With a heavy heart, she recounted Isra's plan to elope with Haadi during their upcoming visit to Algiers. She feared for her daughter's future, knowing that she was not yet ready for the responsibilities and challenges of marriage. Tarek listened patiently, his brow furrowed with concern.
"They're going to do it this summer. And I... oh, Tarek-I'm so worried about her. She's not thinking clearly."
"I will not permit her to wed that boy," Tarek asserted firmly, his tone resolute. "Now that you've brought this to my attention, I will speak with her tomorrow. We'll put an end to this matter once and for all," he added with conviction.
"Will she hate us?"
"She may resent us at present, but in due time she will be grateful," Tarek responded with a sombre expression.
He drew his wife into his warm embrace, holding her close and comforting her as she silently wept. "I'm just so worried about her, Tarek."
"Me too, but we're her parents. We'll help her." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I promise."