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

‘Ahmed told me that one day he will take me home with him across the sea,’ she said. ‘To make me his bride, but I am not so sure any more.’

Ahmed’s father wanted him to remain in Sur, take over the business and run their small fleet from home, but the son had always been captivated by the sea. Since childhood, he’d loved dhows and had wandered the shore, talking to fishermen and merchants about their voyages and about the vast ocean that washed their doorstep. His eyes would follow the departing fleet at the start of each season, heading south to trade with wondrous foreign lands, returning again after many months, their bellies swollen with riches. He was sure his destiny lay beyond the horizon.

‘Ahmed has seen many an adventure on the high seas. He has told me of the things that have befallen him, and I fear for his safety. The ocean is dark and dangerous. There are pirates. He has had narrow escapes. He might not always be so lucky. The people here and in his homeland know and love the sea, but I am from the highlands. For me the mountains hold no terror, but the sea is a bad place. I am scared of it, and what it can do. Look, he gave me this.’ She held up a tortoiseshell comb.

‘It’s lovely.’

‘He will return soon. The Kaskazi will start to blow any day now. It will bring him to me.’

‘And this time, will you return to Sur with him?’

‘I … he … I do not know.’ Just then, a donkey let out a loud braying. He saw a flash of fear cross her face. ‘I must go. If they find that I am gone, they will beat me. Thank you for listening, Mr Paul. Goodbye.’

She stood up and walked briskly away, dissolving into the darkness. He had asked the wrong question.

CHAPTER 13

Paul was sitting at his usual table on the first-floor terrace when a dhow taxi tied up below. Three young backpackers disembarked and made their way across the wharf towards Sunsail. He watched their progress and, a few minutes later, heard them being led up the stairs to their rooms. They emerged on the terrace and greeted him.

Katja was an attractive blonde with an open, engaging face. She was a Dutch lawyer who’d spent the last few months in northern Kenya helping an NGO involved in aid work. Her friends, Lorike and Pieter, both worked for a law firm in Amsterdam and had joined her for a three-week tour of Kenya. Pieter was a lanky fellow with round, wire-framed spectacles. Lorike was a petite and pretty brunette.

‘How long will you be staying on Lamu?’ asked Paul.

‘About ten days,’ said Katja. ‘It’s the last leg of our trip before we head home for the winter, so we want as much sun as possible.’

The Dutch chatted to Paul for a while about the usual backpacker concerns: where to find alcohol in a Muslim town, cool things to do and the cheapest prices for everything. Katja was the more gregarious of the three and did most of the talking; Pieter made a few comments about dhows. Lorike remained aloof and didn’t say a word. Paul had to force himself not to stare. He decided Lorike was not, after all, pretty; she was beautiful. Katja announced that they were going to find a dhow to take them to the beach and they trooped off downstairs. Paul thought about asking if he could tag along, but decided against it.

That night he dined at The Mangrove, another open-sided, makuti-roofed establishment on the promenade. The Dutch arrived and sat at a table in the far corner. Paul kept glancing at them over his plate of chicken and avocado milkshake. Lorike had her back to him. A lovely back, he thought, with shoulder blades like angel’s wings. After their meal, Pieter came over and invited him to a game of pool.

There was a sloping table in a mosquito-filled back room of the restaurant. It was boys versus girls and Paul kept catching Lorike’s eye across the table. It was Hannah all over again; dark hair falling in loose curls round a wide face, a well-defined jaw, high cheekbones, big green eyes and the same wretched Cindy Crawford mole above the lips. Her voice even had some of Hannah’s huskiness. The girls beat the boys, Pieter went off to bed and a beach bum called Roy latched on to them, offering a great disco just outside town. He wore a Manchester United FC jersey and kept brushing back his dreadlocks and drawling, ‘Yeah man, is cool.’ Roy was so stoned he needed the walls on both sides of the darkened lane to stay on course.

Beyond the town, a sandy path led through palm trees to a white house. A couple of dozen locals sat on plastic chairs under an awning. The lights were bright neon and Celine Dion rent the balmy air. Most of the men were far gone on khat, which they chewed endlessly like ruminating cows. There was no sign of a disco and many patrons seemed to be in the process of leaving. Paul bought a round of beers.

‘Do you like living in Johannesburg?’ said Lorike when they were seated at a table. ‘I hear it’s a dangerous city.’ Clichéd, but at least they were speaking.

‘Yes, I do, actually. It’s crime-ridden, crazy and dangerous, but it has real energy. The people are amazing, not at all like the snooty Capetonians and dopey Durbanites. What about Amsterdam?’

‘Yes, I like it, I suppose. But it’s so urban; there’s no nature. I want change. Something completely different, like Africa. Kenya has opened my mind. I really envy Katja working for the NGO. I would give my right leg —’

‘Right arm,’ he corrected her, grinning.

‘Right arm,