Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

‘Oh, yes, sure.’ He fumbled in the daypack for his watch. ‘Four-fifteen. I’m Paul, by the way.’

‘Dalila.’ She smiled.

‘Are you from around here?’

‘I’m a hairdresser in town. It’s my day off.’

Dalila Kariuki had an oval face with full lips, dark eyes and short dreadlocks. They chatted for a few minutes, then she returned to her towel. Paul watched her go, watched her bum and the loosely tied strings of her bikini top. Damn, he thought.

He went for another dip and walked back to his towel via Dalila.

‘May I sit?’ he asked, dripping from his swim.

‘Of course.’ Her grin was playful. She rolled on to her side and put down the romantic novel she was reading. He struggled through a series of pleasantries, registering the breathlessness between them. She adjusted her bikini top, dragging a triangle of material over a nipple that was in danger of exposing itself. Paul found the gesture almost unbearably alluring.

They talked awkwardly about Johannesburg and Kenya, this and that. She was a Kikuyu from Nairobi and had moved to the coast to start a career.

On an impulse he leant towards her. She hesitated, widened her eyes in mock astonishment, then leant closer. Her lips were duvet soft, feather soft, something-or-other soft. How would her romantic novel put it? So much for the Swahili adage of pole-pole — ‘slowly, slowly’. Which suited him just fine, as there was no time for the prescribed three dates. After all, by the next morning he could be sailing for Lamu.

Mid-kiss, Paul suddenly noticed how low the sun had sunk. It was almost time for his meeting. He apologised, arranged to meet her the next day at the jetty, then jogged back to town feeling happier than he had in weeks.

‘Jambo, Mr Paul, you are late,’ said Yusuf, standing with hands on hips outside his café. ‘I introduce you to Mr Husni Issa. He is my friend. He will take you to Lamu for $120.’

Paul shook the man’s hand, which reeked of fish. Husni was in his late forties, wore cut-off jeans and an ancient Liverpool FC shirt. He was a stocky man with a powerful build and very dark skin; his face had refined, handsome features and a pencil moustache. Husni carried a foot-long dagger in his belt and did not look him in the eye. Paul didn’t have a good feeling about any of this.

‘All right, Husni, it’s a deal,’ he found himself saying. ‘What time should we meet?’

‘Day after tomorrow at sunrise. Next to the jetty. I will need some of the money now. To buy food for the trip. For the crew.’

Paul handed over some cash and a few dollars to Mr Yusuf as reward for his facilitation.

‘Is there something special you want to eat?’ asked Husni.

Paul couldn’t think of anything. Besides, what on earth was on a dhow’s menu? He’d just go with whatever the crew ate.

‘No, nothing special,’ he said.

They shook hands again. Paul watched Husni walk up the street and into the shadows. The man didn’t glance back.

CHAPTER 7

Paul had a day to spare and wanted to visit the Gedi ruins, a likely location for one or two scenes in the documentary. Gedi was a legendary Swahili city, founded in the thirteenth century and mysteriously abandoned in the seventeenth. So many questions still lingered among its eerie, forest-bound ruins. Not surprisingly, local people considered it a place of ghosts and evil spirits.

Paul joined a tour group from one of the beach hotels. The bus dropped them at the gates, where a jocular guide called Harith introduced himself. ‘Gedi means “precious” in the Galla language,’ said the diminutive man. ‘Today, my good people, I will show you its treasures. This way, please.’

Brightly coloured Sykes’ monkeys trailed behind the group, badgering them for snacks. Harith bent down and handed a banana to a pretty young female. ‘My favourite,’ he said with a smile, patting her on the head.

The ruins began to materialise from thick foliage and the group stopped at an overgrown mosque, where Harith gave a short introduction to the site. Dappled light shafted down from a canopy of trees. Paul found it utterly captivating. He let the others walk on and sat on a piece of toppled masonry to write in his notebook.

VISUAL: Subjective Steadicam. The camera moves through trees, brushing aside leaves ... and comes upon Gedi. It follows a ruined street towards the remains of a mosque. Cutaways of birds and monkeys peering from foliage overhead.

Paul trailed after the group, marvelling at the city as it slowly revealed itself. Gedi lay in the heart of the forest, baobabs and tamarind trees towering above the ruins, the tentacle roots of strangler figs climbing over walls. The bark of the trees was the same grey colour and texture as the stonework, lending an organic aspect to the city, as though the buildings had grown from seeds. Streets were narrow, the walls pressing in to create cool shadows and draughts in the humid climate. Every now and then an alley would open on to a small square with a well. Harith pointed out evidence of sophisticated plumbing: lavatories that made use of the tide, and even underfloor, water-cooled air conditioning. Some houses were grand affairs with sunken courts, panelled walls and carved stonework. In one ruined home, Harith showed them a graffito of a dhow which had been dated to the fifteenth century. Paul took a closer look. The vessel had a square sail, not a triangular lateen. It was obviously a mtepe.

He broke away from the group, wanting to let his imagination people the spaces without interference. His mind rebuilt the houses and palaces. Shade extended across the narrow lanes once again as homes rapidly grew around him, stone upon stone. He ghosted through an open doorway. There was the