Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

the students, everyone in the restaurant was singing along to the easy lyrics — even Paul.

That was the problem. These damn Americans did have a way of building camaraderie and team spirit. It was one of their greatest strengths, from the clean-up at Ground Zero to Hapa Hapa Restaurant. He found himself secretly envying their gregariousness, their way of drawing people in. In the long run, they got further and achieved more than a cynic like himself.

As Bob said, ‘all their wicked intentions are destroying the human race’ — but when they’re singing it, it’s somehow okay. Right? And the Kenyan lads, chanting down wicked Babylon every lunchtime, would do almost anything to emigrate to one of those Babylons, be it New York, London or even Joburg.

Paul found evenings harder than the days. Hannah still visited his thoughts when he wasn’t working. Beer took the edge off. Paul sensed that each day he was doing better, getting stronger. Then she would find him again, often late at night, or in his dreams. She’d come strolling in, all playful and coquettish, and wreck his equilibrium. Each visitation would set him back.

One muggy, windless night, he lay on his bed, unable to sleep because of the heat. Images of Hannah, and Dalila, spooled through his head. The bedclothes were wet with his sweat; even the overhead fan offered little relief. Finding sleep impossible, he got up and took a walk along the promenade. It was after midnight, but there were still a few islanders about. Candles flickered from windows overlooking the water. The sea gave off a musty scent and sounded like a leviathan taking tiny sips.

His imagination spiriting him back through the centuries once more, Paul noticed a woman in black seated on a bench at the end of the pier. She was staring towards the mouth of Lamu Channel and the open ocean beyond. As if in a vision, he was drawn along the jetty towards her.

She was quietly singing a traditional love song to herself:

Yana nalikikungoja

Kamaria

Hata goma likapigwa

Khasindia

Saa ya sita mbeja

Ikangia.

 

Yesterday too I waited for you

O shining moon

When they beat the drum

I went to sleep

It was midnight

O lady.

Having got so close to her, Paul couldn’t very well turn around and steal away; she might notice and assume he’d been eavesdropping. He called a greeting and she turned. Her face appeared ghostly, her expression absent, as though she didn’t recognise the place and time they inhabited. It was a disturbing look. Was there disappointment in her eyes: perhaps she’d been expecting someone else?

The woman had pale brown skin, S-shaped eyebrows and full lips. A lock of black hair curled from beneath her headscarf.

He sat down beside her.

‘Hello, I’m Paul.’

She looked down. ‘Maryam,’ she said softly.

‘What a lovely name.’

‘Back home they called me Mariamu.’

‘Home?’

‘A long way from here, the mountains. Tigray, in Abyssinia.’

‘That’s very far.’

‘Yes. I was, ah … brought here. I am Christian. The Muslim raiders came. I was given to my master. I was lucky. He is not a bad man. His sons, well, they are not as good. I have been given a Muslim name and I am part of the household. There is a daughter of the house. She is fifteen and I am her personal servant. You will not tell my master I was here, will you?’ Her voice was suddenly anxious.

‘Of course not. But why are you out so late?’

She hesitated.

‘I … you see … it’s him.’ She started to cry and shielded her face in her hands.

An embarrassed Paul glanced round to see whether there was anyone near enough to notice the mzungu and a local woman in what must look like a love tangle. Finding no one, he reached out to touch her shoulder.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked lamely. When her crying subsided, she spoke hesitantly.

‘He is a Muslim and I am a Christian, you see. He is a prince from far Arabia and I am merely a slave girl, hardly fit for his bed, let alone anything more. He is from a great merchant family in Oman and has been schooled in the Koran. He has his own ship. And me? What am I? What can I give him?’ she asked, sniffing and starting to cry again.

Paul didn’t know what to say, so he asked her to tell him more about the man she loved. She appeared eager to talk. It was clear that her secret love was weighing on her and during the nakhoda’s absence, there was no one to speak to. As a faranji, Paul would soon be gone and was thus a safe confidant. The story that unfurled was a familiar one: rich boy meets girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Only the temporal frame was wrong.

His name was Ahmed and, according to Maryam, he was the bravest and most handsome of the merchant captains who sailed from Oman to Africa each year. His family had close links to her master and, during the weeks or even months that his dhow lay at anchor in Lamu, he lodged with them. Two years earlier they had fallen in love. But she was only a house slave and they kept their affair secret.

Maryam had been entranced by Ahmed’s description of his home. He came from the port city of Sur and lived in a mansion built by his father’s father. It was a grand house with many slaves. In the evenings, the ground before it was swept and watered, the air grew temperate and town notables gathered to talk and listen to singers and lute players. Sometimes there would be feasts in the garden where tables were garnished with sweet-scented herbs and flowers and laden with meats and fruit. Beautiful slave girls danced for the