Oran Oceanside
"Nawal runs a seafront café where raï legends once performed. When music journalist Patrick arrives documenting the scene, she gives him stories no interview can capture. 'El moussiqa f'el dam' (الموسيقى في الدم) - Music is in the blood."
Oran's seafront had witnessed raï's birth, rebellion, triumph. Nawal's café had witnessed it all.
"You knew Khaled? Cheb Mami?"
"Knew?" She laughed. "Jebdethom coffee w conseils."
I served them coffee and advice.
Her café walls held photographs—legends young, hungry, unknown.
"El raï twalad hna," she said. Raï was born here.
"In this café?"
"F'hada el quartier." In this neighborhood. "El café just... witnessed."
She was substantial—voice roughened by smoke, body shaped by decades of service.
"You've heard everything."
"El moussiqa f'el dam." Music is in the blood. "Ana 'andiya dam dyal raï."
Days in her café taught him what Wikipedia missed. Nawal told stories that made legends human.
"Khaled was scared that night."
"Scared?"
"Koulech khayfin fi el bedaya."
Everyone's scared at the beginning.
"And you?"
"N'aref wach tsawwet el khouf." I know what fear sounds like. "W wach tsawwet el courage."
Night brought different customers—old timers who remembered, young ones who dreamed.
"Chantez," someone requested.
"La." But Nawal hummed. "Bas hada."
The melody was raï before raï had a name.
"Ya latif," Patrick breathed.
"El moussiqa f'el dam," she repeated. "Khrajthali mn jeddi."
I got it from my grandfather.
After closing, she poured them both Mascara wine.
"Ma tedkhoul f'el article?" Not for the article?
"Ma nedkholch."
"Then..."
She kissed him where legends had sung.
"Patrick..."
"El moussiqa f'el dam," he said. "N'aref wach tesm'i."
I know what you hear.
She led him to her apartment above—filled with vinyl, with memory, with music.
"Hna n'aysht el raï."
"Show me."
She undressed while records spun—curves that had swayed to every hit.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El moussiqa," she said. "Ana el moussiqa."
He listened to her body like hearing a song—finding rhythms, noting changes.
"Nawal," he groaned.
"Hna." She pulled him close. "El chorus."
They made music without instruments—her cries the melody, his groans the bass.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El beat."
He entered her while raï played, and understood what made the music.
"El moussiqa f'el dam," she cried.
"F'ik."
"Fina."
Their rhythm was raï—rebellion, pleasure, life persisting.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into the music. "El moussiqa f'el dam."
They came together like songs climaxing, pleasure harmonic. Patrick held her through the fade.
"El article?" she asked.
"Changed."
"Wach ktebti?"
"The truth."
His piece captured what others missed—raï as survival, as blood, as love.
"El source?" editors asked.
"El moussiqa nefsha."
The music itself.
Now he returns yearly, learning songs beyond recording.
"El journalist w el café owner," readers note.
"El moussiqa jab'na," Nawal smiles.
"El moussiqa tkhallina," Patrick adds.
Some music never stops.