Fisherman's wife, Al-Jedida
The three of them stood in the middle of the little road, in their dark clothes and lively shawls. They cast long shadows in the morning sun, long shadows on the sand.
"You are beautiful, Monsieur," said Fatima. She was big, friendly and standing in front. Behind her, her two friends talked with her in a hearty arabic. She alone spoke with me, a few words of French, a few words of English. With the abandoned Portuguese houses of Al-Jedida around them, it is striking how similar they are to our own; any of them could have been a Portuguese wife in a fishing village just like this. "This one," she said, holding up the baby from her warm bosom, "she can be your femme. Marriage." I laughed, loud and long.
"No, no, thank you!"
"This one, then!" She said, pointing at her second daughter. This one old enough to walk, had just come running around the corner. "No? I have third one, in here-" she wrapped two thick arms around herself.
I thought about it for a second. I laughed and took my leave and left the three fates behind me.