Oran Oranges
"Nassima sells oranges at Oran's souk. When agricultural engineer Fouad arrives to modernize orchards, she teaches him that some harvests can't be mechanized. 'El bortuqal yehki' (البرتقال يحكي) - Oranges speak."
Oran smelled of oranges in autumn—the whole city drunk on citrus.
"Bortuqal!" Nassima's voice rose above the souk. "Bortuqal ta' Oran!"
Fouad stopped, grant proposal forgotten.
Her stall overflowed—golden fruit piled like treasure. But his eyes found her first.
"Shhal el kilo?"
"Kilo wla qalb?" Kilo or heart?
He bought both.
She was substantial—arms strong from lifting crates, body shaped by orchard work. Nassima assessed him while selecting his fruit.
"Engineer?"
"Ki 'raft?"
"El ness elli ytsawrou el 'alam b'el chiffres 'andhom nahwa." People who see the world in numbers have a look.
His project aimed to modernize Oranian orchards—irrigation systems, yield optimization, scientific farming.
"El jdoud 'refou kifeh yfalhou," Nassima said when he explained. The ancestors knew how to farm.
"But yields could double—"
"El bortuqal machi chiffres." Oranges aren't numbers. "El bortuqal roh."
She took him to her family's orchard, trees heavy with fruit.
"Hna men sab'in sna." Here for seventy years.
"The techniques are outdated."
"El ta'am outdated?" She handed him an orange.
He tasted. "Ya latif."
"Hada 'ilm." That's science.
Days in the orchard changed his perspective. Nassima's hands knew each tree.
"Hada mreid." This one's sick. "Hada hazin." This one's sad.
"Trees can't be sad."
"Inta ma tesma'homch."
"'Almini." Teach me.
"El bortuqal yehki." Oranges speak. "Lazem tesma'."
He listened—to wind through leaves, to fruit dropping, to her voice explaining centuries of knowledge.
"Nsma'."
"Wach?"
"El bortuqal yqoul thabb."
"Mnin 'raft?"
"Qalli."
She kissed him between orange trees, citrus perfume surrounding them.
"Nassima..."
"Sss." She pulled him deeper into the grove. "El shajar ma yhedrouche."
The trees don't talk.
"W el bortuqal?"
"Yhedroulna."
She undressed in dappled shade—all curves and earth and harvest.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El ard jamila." The earth is beautiful. "Ana bent el ard."
He tasted her like tasting her oranges—slowly, savoring sweetness.
"Ya rabbi," she moaned.
"Aktar." He found her center. "Thmar."
Fruit.
She came apart beneath orange branches, pleasure sweet as fresh-squeezed.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El mawsim."
The season.
He entered her on her ancestral earth, and understood what couldn't be measured.
"El bortuqal yehki," she cried.
"Tsam'i?"
"Aktar. Aktar."
Their rhythm matched the harvest—patient, thorough, gathering everything.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove deep. "El bortuqal yehki."
They came together, pleasure bursting like ripe fruit. Fouad held her through the sweetness.
"El project?" she asked later.
"Needs revision."
"Wach revision?"
"Less machines. More listening."
His grant was revised—combining traditional knowledge with modern support. Yields improved anyway.
"Kifeh?" colleagues asked.
"El bortuqal yehki."
Now they run the orchard together, selling fruit that tastes of love.
"El sir?" customers ask.
"El bortuqal 'arf," Nassima says.
The oranges know.
"W hnna n'arf el bortuqal," Fouad adds.
And we know oranges.