Miliana Music
"Rym repairs antique musical instruments in Miliana's old city. When luthier Stavros arrives sourcing Algerian woods, she shows him that some instruments play their makers. 'El 'oud y'aref 'azafou' (العود يعرف عازفه) - The oud knows its player."
Miliana's old city held instruments that had played for Ottoman pashas. Rym made them sing again.
"Antique oud repair?" Stavros inquired.
"Machi repair." Not repair. "Shfa."
Healing.
Her workshop smelled of cedar, rosewood, centuries of music.
"These instruments should be in museums."
"El 'oud ma yhtajch museum."
"What does an oud need?"
"Y'azfou."
She was substantial—hands that knew wood's grain, body that resonated with sound.
"How do you know what's wrong?"
"El 'oud yqouli."
"The oud tells you?"
"El 'oud y'aref 'azafou."
Days in the workshop taught him. Stavros saw instruments respond to her—tuning themselves, resonating differently.
"Impossible. Wood doesn't—"
"El khashab hay."
"Wood is alive?"
"El 'oud y'aref 'azafou."
"Who does this oud know?"
"Y'aref man yhtaj shfa."
Night brought different music—instruments playing themselves, songs from other times.
"Tesma' hada?"
"El 'oud qadim."
"Old oud playing itself?"
"El 'oud yeftaker."
"Rym..."
"El 'oud qalli."
"The oud told you?"
"Yqoul you need music."
She kissed him surrounded by resonance.
"Hada..."
"El naghma el jadida."
She undressed among instruments, her curves melodic.
"Thee mou," he breathed.
"El 'oud," she said. "Ana 'oud."
He played her like learning an instrument—finding positions, reading responses.
"Stavros," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her sound hole. "El 'ayn."
She resonated beneath him, pleasure harmonic.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El maqam."
He played into her, and understood what music meant.
"El 'oud y'aref 'azafou," she cried.
"N'azfek."
Their rhythm was maqam—modal, building, resolving.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He played into her. "El 'oud y'aref 'azafou."
They resolved together, pleasure musical. Stavros held her through the sustain.
"El luthiery?" she asked.
"Different."
"Kifeh?"
"Listening to wood."
His instruments transformed—woods that chose players, ouds that knew their homes.
"El approach?" luthiers asked.
"El 'oud y'aref 'azafou."
Now he repairs beside her, learning what building missed.
"El luthier w el 'azzafa," they say.
"El 'oud jab'na," Rym smiles.
"El 'oud ykhallina," Stavros adds.
Some instruments tune their makers.