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

master of the house, clad in a striped caftan and silk turban, reclining on cushions in the courtyard. Paul roved through the apartments where the wives had their bedrooms and private lavatories. One woman sat at a table, applying kohl with a bronze eye-pencil. Gold bangles covered her arms to the elbow, crystal and carnelian beads adorned her neck, and gold chains were wrapped around her ankles. She stood up, sprayed herself with Damascus rose water and, after carefully appraising herself in the mirror, strode through to the kitchen. Paul followed discreetly and heard her talking to the cook, something about using the good blue-and-white porcelain as guests were expected for dinner.

He climbed to a viewing platform in the branches of a tree from where he could survey the ground plan of the houses, the sultan’s palace with its sunken courtrooms and the remains of a double ring of city walls. These ramparts were designed to protect Gedi from attack — but at some point they had failed. The archaeological evidence, Harith had told them, suggested the inhabitants had left in a hurry.

Although the citizens were long dead and the ruins silent, Paul felt that, in a strange way, almost nothing had been lost. Of course, there were still mysteries surrounding Gedi, and its demise remained a riddle; but this form of Swahili urbanity persisted. In Mombasa Old Town and Zanzibar, and on islands to the north, the essence of the culture lived on in the architecture, dhows, Islamic traditions and language. Gedi’s spirit had simply reincarnated itself elsewhere along the coast.

A site-museum housed artefacts that showed the extent of trade. Paul picked his way among displays of glazed earthenware from Persia, furniture and beads from all corners of the Indian Ocean, and intricate silver jewellery. Ming porcelain from China reminded him how far the dhows and junks had travelled. A poster on the wall described the great Chinese voyages of exploration, especially those of Grand Admiral Zheng, a court eunuch with the auspicious title of ‘Three-Jewelled Eunuch of Pious Ejaculation’. Zheng’s seven expeditions in the early fifteenth century put Vasco da Gama’s exploits into perspective.

The fourth of Zheng’s voyages had reached Africa. Here he sought rare commodities such as rhino horn, ivory and ‘dragon’s spittle’ — ambergris. Malindi, and perhaps Gedi, became the source of goods that would astound the imperial court. Not only did his ships return home with a miraculous striped horse and the sabre antelope of Eastern myth, they also brought a beast so strange it had the residents of Peking in raptures. Could the tall creature really be the magical qilin, the unicorn-like creature of Chinese legend? Its appearance was thought to be a good omen for both emperor and country. Crowds thronged the streets of Peking to watch the gentle animal with the elongated neck pass by like a visiting royal.

Paul took notes:

VOICE-OVER (Chinese quote):

‘Now in the twelfth year of which the cyclical position is chia-wu,

In a corner of the western seas, in the stagnant waters of a great morass,

Truly was produced the qilin whose shape was fifteen feet high,

With the body of a deer and the tail of an ox, and a fleshy boneless horn,

With luminous spots like a red cloud or a purple mist.

Gentle is this animal that in all antiquity has been seen but once,

The manifestation of its divine spirit rises up to Heaven’s abode.’

The bits of broken porcelain in Gedi museum were no less a link to Ming-dynasty Peking than the Malindi giraffe which caused such a stir. Their journey across the oceans was just as miraculous.

Back at Ozi’s, Paul took a cold shower, dug out the cleanest shirt and jeans from the bottom of his backpack, and applied less insect repellent and more deodorant than was malarially prudent. He hated the aftertaste of Tabard on the end of a kiss. He found he was both excited and a little nervous.

Paul waited at a bus stop above the jetty. Dalila came walking up the coast road with a lazy swaying of the hips, her short dreads bouncing against her cheeks. White shirt and black miniskirt, sparkling eyes and gloss on her lips.

They walked along the beach for a while, carrying their sandals and holding hands. The sun had dipped behind the palms, casting long, shaggy shadows and a choppy shore break slapped the sand. The sky turned salmon, then purple. They stopped and he kissed her lightly on the forehead, then the lips.

‘Do you want to come back to my room?’ Paul asked impulsively. ‘Or should we go to dinner?’

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘I’m leaving at sunrise, by dhow. To Lamu.’

She looked confused. ‘You mean, this is the last time we’ll see each other? You mean this is hello and, really, goodbye?’

‘I might come back to Malindi, after ... one day… But yes, this is maybe the last time. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ Dalila said. She glanced down at her feet, then took his hand and seared him with a look that was deadly serious. ‘Let’s go to your place,’ she whispered.

They walked back to Ozi’s in silence. There was an awkward moment at reception. A notice above the desk said no visitors were allowed in the rooms, so they pretended to be collecting something Paul had forgotten. The befezzed concierge gave them a filthy look as they scuttled up the stairs.

Dalila thought his room was ‘wonderful’ and threw open the shutters with glee, which made his heart ache. If this unfurnished shell appeared glamorous to her, what kind of living conditions did she have to endure? He felt suddenly empty, as though all energy had drained out of him through his shoes. Dalila stood in the terrace doorway and unbuttoned her shirt to reveal a cream-coloured bra.

She came over to undo the top buttons of his shirt and began kissing his neck.