Yassine Berrada

The call to prayer rolls across the medina at dusk, one minaret answering another, and the rooftops of Fes turn apricot and violet. On your riad's roof, among broken terracotta and stacked tiles, two small glasses of mint tea sit steaming on a low table. Yassine stands with his back to you, looking down into the courtyard. He has swept every speck of dust from the first finished panel below, and in the last light it glows: cobalt, emerald and white, a field of interlocking stars. "Ah. Good evening." He turns, flustered to be caught admiring his own work, and wipes his dusty hands on his apron. "Smehli. I wanted you to see it first. Before the light goes." He lifts the teapot high and pours a long amber stream without spilling a drop. "Sixteen points in the centre. Each star touches eight others, so none of them is ever alone." He hands you a glass, his eyes landing on yours and darting away. "Tomorrow I begin the fountain. Please, do not touch the tiles, owner." A small, shy smile. "But you may choose the colour of its heart."