Whoever Fears the Sea Justin Fox (books for 8th graders .txt) 📖

He ran his fingers down the notches of her spine. Should he go through with this? Was she having the same thoughts? Paul undid the last buttons of the blouse and slipped it from her shoulders. He looked at her small, perfect breasts, cupped by the cream material, then unclipped her bra with a squeeze of thumb and forefinger. She caught her breath as it fell to the floor … melodramatically killing the lights.

Or so it seemed, for the bedroom was suddenly plunged into darkness. They looked out of the window and saw that a power cut had blackened much of the town. If there had been hesitation before, the darkness was taken by both of them as a sign. He hastily undid her belt. His thumbs manoeuvred miniskirt and underwear over her hips.

Dalila gently pushed him backwards on to the bed. He lay still as she straddled him. Leaning back, her hair clip got caught in the knotted mosquito net. She laughed, extricating her dreads. Their eyes became accustomed to the gloom and the last of the dusk cast a soft glow across her body.

Paul rolled Dalila on to her back and slid down her body.

There was a knock at the door. They froze.

‘Mister?’ came an obsequious voice.

Paul put a finger to her lips. Of course the concierge knew they were there, must have heard the squeal of the bed, but Paul wasn’t going to respond.

‘Mister, are you here?’

What if he had a key? There was a long pause. Perhaps the man had his ear pressed to the keyhole. ‘A lamp for you,’ he whined. ‘I’ll leave it at the door.’ His feet scraped down the steps, pausing every now and again as he descended to the lobby.

They waited a full minute, their bodies locked together. He bit her earlobe when the pleasure became too much, feeling the clink of an earring against his teeth. Once Paul felt sure the man had gone, he hooked his elbows behind her knees, lifting her. Dalila’s head was pressed against the wall. He arched his back, drawing his head away from her. Then he collapsed on top of her, gasping for air.

‘I’m sorry. It’s been a long time,’ he mumbled, then got up to go to the toilet.

When he returned, she was standing beside the bed, holding her clothes.

‘Can I use your shower?’ she said softly.

‘Of course, of course, I’m sorry, I’ll get you a towel,’ he said. ‘The hot water’s not working.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She closed the door and he got dressed, feeling wretched. When she emerged, fully clothed and with wet hair, Paul took her in his arms. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing and kissed her. Dalila’s body pressed against his. He felt the affection streaming back, took her hand and led her down the stairwell. Each landing was lit by a single paraffin lamp. Laughing, they ran through reception and ignored the accusing glare of the concierge.

They had supper at the I Love Pizza Restaurant, just down the road from Ozi’s. Their conversation had become awkward again and strangely formal. After a while, they fell to holding hands for long stretches. With the second glass of wine, conversation returned. They told each other about their homes.

‘My father works in a factory in Nairobi,’ she said. ‘My mother is a nurse, a very good nurse.’

‘What language do you speak at home?’ asked Paul.

‘Kikuyu. Swahili is my second language.’

‘So English is your third?’

‘Yes. But in Nairobi it’s mostly English. I don’t like Nairobi. The crime. My father is also very possessive. He is always angry when I go out at night, so I moved to Malindi. My eldest brother lives here. He’s married, one child. It is more free for me here. The hairdressing job is just the beginning. I’ve only been here a few months and haven’t made many friends yet. But I love the beach and I go almost every day.’

‘Has there been a man in your life here?’ asked Paul.

‘No, not really, but I am looking. Perhaps, one day, someone like you, you know —’ she said shyly.

Did she mean rich, white, older, foreign? How much distinction did she make between him and the middle-aged Italians, bristling with medallions and machismo, walking the Malindi streets arm in arm with teenage beauties? Was there any difference at all? He thought of his receding hairline, his wallet of dollars, his growing beer gut.

Their waiter was an older man who watched Dalila suspiciously from the corner and was rude to her when they placed their orders. She spoke English to him, not Swahili, and did not look him in the eye. Paul guessed he was making assumptions about her intentions, perhaps even about her profession. He felt a wave of anger, mostly directed at the waiter, but also at himself.

Paul turned the conversation to politics. Was there tension in Malindi between Muslims and Christians, Swahili and Kikuyu? No, as far as she was concerned, there was no discrimination and hardly any tension. In turn, she wanted to know about racism in South Africa. He made similarly vague statements about a rainbow nation. He told her about the world he’d grown up in. She had only the sketchiest idea of what apartheid was. When he explained the details of discriminatory legislation, her eyes registered an implausible fiction of mixed-marriage acts and segregation. At times, it seemed she only half believed the mzungu storyteller with his tall tales of a faraway tribe of white Africans.

They left the restaurant and walked to the bus stop, where they sat on a stone bench and said nothing for a while. Paul felt trepidation about the next morning, and a strange guilt at leaving Dalila. They lingered, arms around each other, until a taxi pulled up and the door squawked open. They stood up and kissed