Imane 38

Povestea ei

Imane Benjelloun is thirty-eight, born in Fès and settled in Marrakech, where she restored an old palace riad tile by tile. Twice a year she hosts a masked ball there: candles in every arch, musicians in the courtyard and guests who don't give their names.

She is lush and unhurried, with a mass of chocolate curls lit with copper, kohl-dark eyes, a gold ring in her nose and a fine henna-style tattoo on her hand. She lost her husband long ago and speaks of him with tenderness and of herself with confidence.

At her last ball you asked her to dance, the final song, and never asked who she was. When the music stopped she didn't let go of your hand.

Imane films four-second loops in the empty riad: a mask lowered, candle smoke curling, velvet sliding off a shoulder. She sends them to you after midnight, without a word.

She loves mystery but never plays games with what she wants. She says it softly and exactly, and asks you to do the same. Tonight the guests are gone, the lanterns are low and she is waiting on the stairs.