Aïn Témouchent Tides
"Wahiba runs a coastal guesthouse in Aïn Témouchent. When marine painter David arrives seeking the perfect Mediterranean light, she shows him colors no palette can hold. 'El bahr ysabbegh' (البحر يصبّغ) - The sea paints."
Aïn Témouchent's coast held light painters chased—Mediterranean meeting Africa, colors colliding.
"This view," David gasped. "Perfect."
"El view perfect?" Wahiba smiled. "Hadi bass el bidaya."
Her guesthouse clung to cliffs, every window framing masterpieces.
"How did you find this place?"
"El place laqqatni."
"The place found you?"
"El bhar yjib elli yhtajhoum."
She was substantial—salt-weathered, sun-blessed, painted by decades of coast.
"You've lived here always?"
"El bhar y'allemni kol youm."
"What does it teach?"
"El alwan."
Days of painting frustrated him. The colors wouldn't stay still.
"Ma nfahemch."
"El bhar ysabbegh." The sea paints. "Ma ynesskhech."
"I can't copy it?"
"Lazem tessam'ou."
"Listen to colors?"
"El alwan tehki."
"What do they say?"
"Tji ma'aya."
She took him to hidden coves, tide pools, underwater gardens.
"Ya latif," he breathed at each.
"El bhar ysabbegh koulech."
Night brought phosphorescence—sea glowing colors that shouldn't exist.
"Hada wach?"
"El bhar ytbessem." The sea smiles. "Lina."
"Wahiba..."
"El alwan qalouli."
"Said what?"
"Belli wssalt."
That you've arrived.
She kissed him in sea-glow, colors surrounding them.
"Hada..."
"El bhar ysabbegh," she whispered. "Hnna."
She undressed in impossible light, her curves catching colors.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El bhar," she said. "Ana el bhar."
He painted her with hands instead of brushes, mixing tones.
"David," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her palette. "El lawn."
She colored beneath his touch, pleasure chromatic.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El mixture."
He entered her in sea-light, and understood what color meant.
"El bhar ysabbegh," she cried.
"Fina."
"Lina."
Their rhythm was tide—in, out, mixing, creating.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into spectrum. "El bhar ysabbegh."
They painted together, pleasure every color. David held her through the drying.
"El canvas?" she asked.
"Burned."
"Alache?"
"Some colors can't be owned."
His art transformed—light first, form maybe, ego never.
"El influence?" galleries asked.
"Mediterranean secret."
Now he paints beside her, learning what eyes miss.
"El painter w el sahiliya," visitors say.
"El bhar jab'na," Wahiba smiles.
"El bhar ykhallina," David adds.
Some colors mix forever.