Spencer Hawke
The Violinist. Book 5 in the Ari Cohen Series - A short extract.
He stood on the observation deck high above the sea on the ferry 'Tassili'. The boat had slowed to a crawl. He no longer needed to hold onto the handrail, the rough crossing was over. The aromas of the clean Mediterranean breeze giving way to the faint scents of land coming on the gentle breeze from the south. Diesel, fish and something else he struggled to identify. He sniffed the air again, trying to place the aroma. With a slight nod of his head, he affirmed that he had recognized it. Cinnamon...... cinnamon mixed with something..... nutmeg.
His slight nod changed to a frown as the thought back to the last time he had smelled that combination of spices. Zanzibar. His frown of concentration changed. It was as if the weight of the world was suddenly etched on his persona, even his demeanor was altered. His stature seemed to diminish and bend slightly. Ah, Katarina he mouthed to himself. Katarina had still been alive then. Imperceptibly his head shook from side to side. If only.....
He looked up from the deck of the ship, at the town in front of him. The glistening white of the buildings surrounding the port, so bright he had to squint. Another older settlement rose up the steep hill behind the port area and its modern facade. Standing at the summit of the steep hill, as if maintaining a vigil over the old and new, stood a casbah. Behind the casbah, the Atlas Mountains.
The ferry blasted its horn, destroying his melancholy bitter sweet memories. The noise precipitated a flurry of activity onboard as deck hands secured messenger ropes on the bow in front of him to throw to waiting hands lining the quay. The southerly wind already carried the heat from the desert behind the mountains. He took off his raincoat, folded it over his arm. His expression changed from sadness to determination. He turned around, walking purposefully towards the disembarkation area.
He stood on the observation deck high above the sea on the ferry 'Tassili'. The boat had slowed to a crawl. He no longer needed to hold onto the handrail, the rough crossing was over. The aromas of the clean Mediterranean breeze giving way to the faint scents of land coming on the gentle breeze from the south. Diesel, fish and something else he struggled to identify. He sniffed the air again, trying to place the aroma. With a slight nod of his head, he affirmed that he had recognized it. Cinnamon...... cinnamon mixed with something..... nutmeg.
His slight nod changed to a frown as the thought back to the last time he had smelled that combination of spices. Zanzibar. His frown of concentration changed. It was as if the weight of the world was suddenly etched on his persona, even his demeanor was altered. His stature seemed to diminish and bend slightly. Ah, Katarina he mouthed to himself. Katarina had still been alive then. Imperceptibly his head shook from side to side. If only.....
He looked up from the deck of the ship, at the town in front of him. The glistening white of the buildings surrounding the port, so bright he had to squint. Another older settlement rose up the steep hill behind the port area and its modern facade. Standing at the summit of the steep hill, as if maintaining a vigil over the old and new, stood a casbah. Behind the casbah, the Atlas Mountains.
The ferry blasted its horn, destroying his melancholy bitter sweet memories. The noise precipitated a flurry of activity onboard as deck hands secured messenger ropes on the bow in front of him to throw to waiting hands lining the quay. The southerly wind already carried the heat from the desert behind the mountains. He took off his raincoat, folded it over his arm. His expression changed from sadness to determination. He turned around, walking purposefully towards the disembarkation area.
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