The Hand of Fatima

The dining table was unusually quiet on the first night back home in Essaouira. Everyone except Mrs. Mansoor sat at the dining room table, eating dried fruits with sour bread and honey.
Mrs. Mansoor stood at the head of the table, preparing Harira, a common Moroccan soup. Meanwhile, she lectured the family on a woman’s place in the home.
“So, my daughter has had her great adventure,” sighed Mrs. Mansoor.
She quickly chopped onions and tomatoes, placing them into a stockpot.
“I do not like all this adventure one bit,” she said, still chopping food, “you are still a little girl. I would like you to stay that way for quite some time. I could’ve used you around the house yesterday.”
“Fatima, it was only one day,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“It was only one day. It was only one uncovered face. What next?”
Mrs. Mansoor added rice and lentils to the stockpot before going into the kitchen. When she returned, she continued her lecture.
“Ameena, come with me into the kitchen.”
Ameena quietly followed her mother into the kitchen.
“Put the stockpot under the faucet and fill it with hot water.”
Ameena filled the stockpot. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mansoor reached around her to toss in a handful of celery seeds and parsley.
“That’s enough. Turn it off.”
Ameena obeyed her mother once again.
“Add some pepper, too.”
Ameena grabbed the pepper mill and begain grinding. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mansoor continued adding ginger, saffron, and coriander.
“That’s enough.”
Mrs. Mansoor turned the stove on, then chopped a piece of lamb into small cubes. She browned the lamb in a pan before adding it to the soup. Soon, the main course was ready.
“Go on to the dining room table.”
Mrs. Mansoor followed Ameena, with a steaming stockpot full of Harira. She filled everyone’s bowls and then continued where she left the conversation.
“I think I am taking Ameena under my wing for awhile.”
Everyone ate their harira, but made no argument against their mother. If Fatima Mansoor wanted to do something, nobody was going to stand in her way.
After the meal, the boys got up from the table while Ameena cleared the table. She also helped her mother wash the dishes.
“The bowls go in this drawer,” pointed Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena cleaned the stockpot last. She held it in her hand as she looked around the kitchen.
“Right there in the cupboard,” scoffed her mother.
When Ameena got her chance, she escaped to her room. Unfortunately, the next day was the first day of Ameena’s time with her mother, Mrs. Mansoor took her to the market.
“We should pick up some mackerel for your father.”
Mrs. Mansoor threw three thin, black fish in her basket.
“And some sea perch for Jamal and Yusef.”
She added two sea perch to her basket.
Ameena looked at the bright pink Sea Perch. Their eyes stared back at her. It scared Ameena a little.
“And I would like some eel.”
There was no question about it as the fishmonger wrestled the eels. They looked like a combination of a slimy worm and an evil snake. They wriggled in the man’s hands until he wrapped them in old newspaper and placed them in Mrs. Mansoor’s basket.
Mrs. Mansoor bent down to arrange her basket.
“Ameena, order some blue crab, too.”
Ameena pointed to the one of the blue crabs and the fishmonger picked it up. Unlike the rest of the seafood, the crabs were still alive. They crawled over each other in the deep basket. The fishmonger handed the crab to Ameena. She immediately backed away.
Just then, Mrs. Mansoor rose to her feet.
“Ameena, it’s not going to hurt you. It’s a tiny, little crab.”
Ameena grimaced at her mother.
“Pick it up.”
Ameena stretched her hand toward the crab and picked it between her two fingers. It wiggled gently in her grip, its legs and claws flailing about anxiously.
Ameena quickly moved the little blue crab from the fishmonger’s hand to the basket. She dropped it on top of the other fish. It crawled around, lifting its claws toward Ameena.
Ameena shuddered. Her mother just rolled her eyes.
“If you’re going to be a fine young woman in Morocco, you’ll have to know how to deal with the fishmonger and all the seafood you’ll cook.”
Ameena peered down into the basket. She didn’t know if she could handle all that staring, smelly, slimy, grabby seafood.
“Let’s get going. There’s still more to be done.”
Mrs. Mansoor and Ameena walked up the steps from the fish market to the medina. The street was crowded with vendors and patrons.
Vendors came from near and far to sell their goods. Some made crafts, like wooden tools and toys. Other vendors sold produce, harvested from their gardens. Still, other vendors stood in their stalls behind rows of baskets. Each basket was filled with different colored and different smelling spices. This would be Mrs. Mansoor’s first stop.
“I have a list of things we need. That includes spices.”
Mrs. Mansoor handed Ameena a piece of paper. Ameena looked through the list. It included several spices. Ameena pointed out each spice and the vendor carefully measured each spice, pouring it into a small glass bottle. He capped the bottles and attached each bottle to a piece of twine with a loop knot. The spices looked like a fish stringer full of fish. When Ameena was finished, she tied the bottles to her belt. Mrs. Mansoor counted coins in Ameena’s hand and Ameena paid for the spices.
“We’ll buy bread, too.”
They walked throught he alley, stopping at a stall where a man sold breads. Mrs. Mansoor picked out a pair of baguettes, long rolls of bread, just like the long Italian rolls sold at the restaurants.
Mrs. Mansoor tucked the rolls carefully next to the fish, making sure to keep a layer of newspaper between the two. As she leaned over, Ameena noticed the small blue pendant hanging around her mother’s neck. It looked just like the ones sold in the stall next door.
Ameena placed her hand beneath the pendant to get a closer look.
“What are you looking at?” asked her mother.
Ameena looked at the tiny blue hand with the eye inscribed in the center.
“It’s a Hamsa,” said her mother, “My mother gave it to me when I was a child. It’s also called the Hand of Fatima.”
Ameena nodded, carefully dropping the pendant from her grasp. She followed her mother through the alley. They moved from shadows to light and back to shadows again as they walked under the awnings of each vendor. A jewelery vendor sat at the corner.
“Do you want one?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena looked at her mother. Mrs. Mansoor pointed to a necklace just like the one she wore. Ameena grabbed the necklace and carefully investigated it.
“Well?” asked Mrs. Mansoor impatiently.
Ameena nodded.
Mrs. Mansoor handed several dirham to Ameena and Ameena gave the coins to the cashier.
“Do you want a bag?” asked the girl.
Ameena shook her head.
“Turn around, I’ll put it on,” the cashier offered.
Ameena turned about and the girl fastened the necklace.
“Now you’re just like your mother.”
Ameena glanced up at her mother. She wasn’t so sure about that.
They walked, side-by-side, to the bus stop and waited patiently. When it arrived, they got on and went home.