سِرُّ النَّسَّاجَةِ في فَاس

The Weaver's Secret of Fez

الفَصْلُ الأَوَّل: خُيُوطُ القَدَر

Chapter One: Threads of Fate

كَانَتْ صَفِيَّةُ بِنْتُ يَعْقُوبَ أَشْهَرَ نَسَّاجَةٍ فِي فَاسَ القَدِيمَة. سَجَّادَاتُهَا تُبَاعُ لِلْمُلُوكِ بِأَثْمَانٍ لَا تُصَدَّق، لِأَنَّهَا تَحْمِلُ سِرًّا: كُلُّ سَجَّادَةٍ تَحْكِي قِصَّةَ حُبٍّ حَقِيقِيَّة.

Safiyya bint Ya'qub was the most famous weaver in old Fez. Her carpets sold to kings for unbelievable prices, for they carried a secret: each carpet told a true love story.

كَانَتْ صَفِيَّةُ فِي الأَرْبَعِينَ، أَرْمَلَةً لَمْ تَتَزَوَّجْ ثَانِيَةً. جَسَدُهَا مُمْتَلِئٌ وَدَافِئٌ كَالصُّوفِ الَّذِي تَنْسُجُ مِنْه، وَأَصَابِعُهَا نَحِيلَةٌ وَسَرِيعَةٌ كَالعَنَاكِب. كَانَتْ تَجْلِسُ وَرَاءَ نَوْلِهَا طَوَالَ النَّهَار، وَفِي اللَّيْلِ تَبْكِي عَلَى وَحْدَتِهَا.

Safiyya was forty, a widow who had not remarried. Her body was full and warm as the wool she wove, her fingers slender and quick as spiders. She sat behind her loom all day, and at night she wept over her loneliness.

الفَصْلُ الثَّاني: التَّاجِرُ الغَرِيب

Chapter Two: The Foreign Merchant

جَاءَ إِلَى دُكَّانِهَا تَاجِرٌ مِنْ تِلِمْسَانَ يُدْعَى مُوسَى بنَ إِسْمَاعِيل. كَانَ فِي الخَمْسِينَ، طَوِيلًا وَوَسِيمًا، وَفِي عَيْنَيْهِ حُزْنٌ عَمِيق.

A merchant from Tlemcen came to her shop called Musa ibn Isma'il. He was fifty, tall and handsome, with deep sorrow in his eyes.

"أُرِيدُ سَجَّادَةً تَحْكِي قِصَّتِي،" قَالَ.

"I want a carpet that tells my story," he said.

"مَا قِصَّتُكَ؟"

"What is your story?"

"أَحْبَبْتُ امْرَأَةً مُتَزَوِّجَةً عِشْرِينَ سَنَة. مَاتَتْ وَلَمْ أَلْمِسْهَا إِلَّا مَرَّةً وَاحِدَة."

"I loved a married woman for twenty years. She died and I touched her only once."

نَظَرَتْ صَفِيَّةُ إِلَيْه، وَشَعَرَتْ أَنَّهَا تَرَى رُوحَهَا فِي مِرْآة. "سَأَنْسُجُ لَكَ قِصَّتَك. لَكِنَّكَ يَجِبُ أَنْ تَحْكِيهَا لِي كَامِلَة."

Safiyya looked at him and felt she saw her soul in a mirror. "I will weave your story. But you must tell it to me complete."

الفَصْلُ الثَّالِث: حِكَايَاتُ المَسَاء

Chapter Three: Evening Tales

كُلَّ مَسَاءٍ، كَانَ مُوسَى يَأْتِي إِلَى دُكَّانِهَا وَيَحْكِي فَصْلًا مِنْ قِصَّتِه. وَكَانَتْ صَفِيَّةُ تَنْسُجُ مَا تَسْمَع: خَيْطًا أَحْمَرَ لِلشَّوْقِ، وَأَزْرَقَ لِلْحُزْنِ، وَذَهَبِيًّا لِلَحَظَاتِ السَّعَادَة.

Every evening, Musa came to her shop and told a chapter of his story. Safiyya wove what she heard: a red thread for longing, blue for sorrow, gold for moments of happiness.

"وَحِينَ لَمَسْتَهَا،" سَأَلَتْ، "كَيْفَ كَانَتْ؟"

"And when you touched her," she asked, "how was it?"

أَغْمَضَ مُوسَى عَيْنَيْه. "كَانَتْ لَيْلَةً وَاحِدَة. كَانَ جَسَدُهَا دَافِئًا كَالصُّوفِ الطَّازَج، وَمُمْتَلِئًا كَأَكْيَاسِ القَمْح. ذُقْتُ جِلْدَهَا فَكَانَ أَحْلَى مِنَ التَّمْر."

Musa closed his eyes. "It was one night. Her body was warm as fresh wool, and full as sacks of wheat. I tasted her skin and it was sweeter than dates."

شَعَرَتْ صَفِيَّةُ بِحَرَارَةٍ تَسْرِي فِي جَسَدِهَا. "أَكْمِل."

Safiyya felt heat coursing through her body. "Continue."

الفَصْلُ الرَّابِع: النَّسْجُ بِالجَسَد

Chapter Four: Weaving with the Body

فِي لَيْلَةٍ مِنَ اللَّيَالِي، وَبَيْنَمَا كَانَ يَحْكِي، بَدَأَتْ صَفِيَّةُ تَبْكِي. "أَنَا أَيْضًا أَحْبَبْتُ وَلَمْ أُحَب،" قَالَتْ. "زَوْجِي لَمْ يَلْمِسْنِي إِلَّا لِيُنْجِبَ. مَاتَ وَتَرَكَنِي جَائِعَة."

One night, as he told his tale, Safiyya began to weep. "I too loved and was not loved," she said. "My husband touched me only to bear children. He died and left me hungry."

قَامَ مُوسَى وَجَلَسَ بِجَانِبِهَا. "نَحْنُ مِثْلُ خَيْطَيْنِ مَقْطُوعَيْن،" قَالَ. "رُبَّمَا نَسْتَطِيعُ أَنْ نَلْتَقِي."

Musa rose and sat beside her. "We are like two cut threads," he said. "Perhaps we can join."

أَمْسَكَ يَدَهَا، ثُمَّ قَبَّلَهَا. كَانَتْ شَفَتَاهَا جَافَّتَيْنِ مِنَ الوَحْدَة، لَكِنَّهُمَا سُرْعَانَ مَا اشْتَعَلَتَا. وَضَاجَعَهَا عَلَى السَّجَّادَةِ نِصْفِ المُكْتَمِلَة، خُيُوطُهَا تَتَشَابَكُ مَعَ شَعْرِهَا.

He held her hand, then kissed her. Her lips were dry from loneliness, but they soon ignited. He took her on the half-finished carpet, its threads tangling with her hair.

الفَصْلُ الخَامِس: السَّجَّادَةُ الأَخِيرَة

Chapter Five: The Final Carpet

أَكْمَلَتْ صَفِيَّةُ السَّجَّادَةَ بَعْدَ شُهُور. كَانَتْ أَجْمَلَ مَا نَسَجَتْ: فِيهَا قِصَّةُ مُوسَى، وَقِصَّتُهَا، وَقِصَّةُ لَيَالِيهِمَا مَعًا. كُلُّ خَيْطٍ يَحْمِلُ ذِكْرَى: هُنَا حَيْثُ قَبَّلَهَا أَوَّلَ مَرَّة، وَهُنَا حَيْثُ بَكَتْ مِنَ اللَّذَّة.

Safiyya finished the carpet after months. It was the most beautiful she had ever woven: containing Musa's story, her story, and the story of their nights together. Every thread held a memory: here where he first kissed her, here where she wept from pleasure.

"هَذِهِ السَّجَّادَةُ لَا تُبَاع،" قَالَتْ. "سَنَنَامُ عَلَيْهَا كُلَّ لَيْلَة."

"This carpet is not for sale," she said. "We will sleep upon it every night."

تَزَوَّجَهَا مُوسَى وَعَاشَا مَعًا حَتَّى المَوْت.

Musa married her and they lived together until death.

الخَاتِمَة

Epilogue

يُقَالُ إِنَّ السَّجَّادَةَ مَا زَالَتْ فِي مَتْحَفٍ فِي فَاس، لَكِنَّ لَا أَحَدَ يَعْرِفُ قِصَّتَهَا الحَقِيقِيَّة. وَمَنْ يَنْظُرُ إِلَيْهَا طَوِيلًا، يَشْعُرُ بِحَرَارَةٍ غَرِيبَةٍ فِي صَدْرِه.

It is said the carpet is still in a museum in Fez, but none knows its true story. Whoever gazes upon it long feels a strange warmth in their chest.