Cherchell Charms
"Dalila runs an antique shop in ancient Cherchell. When historian Marc arrives searching for Roman artifacts, she shows him that some treasures can't be purchased—only earned. 'El qadim yebqa' (القديم يبقى) - The ancient remains."
Cherchell had been Caesarea—capital of Roman Africa. Now it was Dalila's kingdom.
"La," she said before Marc finished his request. "Machi lil bi'."
"I haven't named a price."
"El qadim ma yet'bich." The ancient isn't sold. "Yet'hfed."
Her shop overflowed—Ottoman lamps, Berber jewelry, Roman fragments that museums would kill for.
"Mnin jat hadou?"
"El bahr yjib." The sea brings them. "El ard tjib."
"You find them?"
"Ylaqouni." They find me.
She was substantial—built to last like the artifacts she protected. Dalila's eyes assessed him like evaluating provenance.
"Wach thawwes el haqiqa?"
"Knowledge."
"Machi relics?"
"Knowledge of relics."
Days passed. Marc researched while Dalila watched, occasionally correcting his assumptions.
"Hadi machi Romaine." This isn't Roman.
"The style—"
"Numidian. Qbel Roma." Before Rome. "El jdoud qbel el jdoud."
"Kifeh te'rfi barsha haka?"
"'Aysht m'a el qadim." I live with the ancient. "Yehdrouli."
"Wach yqoulou?"
"Yqoulou sabber." They say be patient. "El haqiqa ma testerjlech."
She took him to hidden sites—buried mosaics, underwater ruins, places official archaeology missed.
"Ya latif," he breathed at each discovery.
"El qadim yebqa." The ancient remains. "Lazem bass te'ref win tchouf."
"'Almini tchouf."
"Ma yetalmech." Can't be taught.
"Yet'aych?"
"Dima yet'aych."
Night found them in her shop's back room, surrounded by centuries.
"El qadim ychahhed," she said. The ancient witnesses.
"Yqabel?"
"Nchoufou."
She kissed him between Byzantine icons and Punic amulets.
"Dalila..."
"El qadim yebqa," she whispered. "Hna zeda."
Us too.
He unwrapped her like uncovering a find—carefully, reverently, marveling at what emerged.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"Kbira kima el taarikh."
"Kamla kima el taarikh."
He studied her body like precious text—every curve a paragraph, every response a footnote.
"Marc," she moaned.
"Hna." His mouth found ancient places. "Treasure."
She came apart like discovering lost cities—sudden, overwhelming, rewriting everything.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El mawqi'."
The site.
He entered her among artifacts that had watched centuries of love.
"Ya rabbi," she cried.
"El qadim yebqa," he groaned. "Hna nebqou."
We remain.
Their rhythm was archaeology—layer upon layer, digging deeper, finding more.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into history. "El qadim yebqa."
They came together, pleasure echoing off ancient walls. Marc held her through the ages.
"El artifacts?" he asked later.
"Ma zel machi lil bi'."
"W enti?"
"Earned." She smiled. "Machi purchased."
His research transformed—less extraction, more collaboration. Museums complained about his new ethics.
"El sir?" they demanded.
"El qadim yebqa," he quoted. "Only if we let it."
Now they run the shop together, protecting heritage from those who'd only purchase.
"El historian w el antiquaire," visitors say.
"El qadim jab'na," Dalila corrects.
"El qadim ykhallina," Marc adds.
Some treasures guard themselves.