Tidetown by Robert Power Page B

days later he was dumped on a quiet road on the outskirts of their village. His head was swollen and bloodied and both his shoulders had been popped out of their sockets. Even in the face of his mother’s tears and pleas Valence would not bring himself to renounce his commitment to freedom from tyranny. If anything, the brutality and interrogation of the regime had toughened his resolve. Carmel finished her letter expressing worry that there’d be no protecting Valence if he was apprehended again.
    As Aimu walks down the gangplank, kitbag slung over his broad shoulder, it is his sister Carmel who is first to greet him.
    â€˜My darling big brother,’ she says pulling him close, kissing him tenderly on his cheek and neck.
    â€˜Carmel, my baby sister,’ he says stroking her hair, returning her kisses. ‘And here,’ adds Aimu, spinning on his heels, ‘is my shadow. Young Oscar, meet my sister Carmel. We will be staying with her while we’re in port.’
    â€˜You will be most welcome, young man. You and your own handsome little dog,’ she says, noticing Stigir planted between my heels. Carmel’s eyes twinkle and, although her hair is peppered with grey and white, she has a youthful sense about her.
    The sun is on the rise and the heat is setting in as I follow Carmel and Aimu as they walk up the hill from the quayside. We head along a cobblestoned thoroughfare where chickens, goats and donkeys mingle with a steady flow of men, women and children hurrying to and fro, carrying all manner of food and goods on handcarts, in bags, and on foot, shouting out in a babble of languages. Presently we turn away from the hubbub and enter a small courtyard. There is a shady palm tree in the far corner and a gently bubbling fountain in the centre. It is peaceful and quiet and you would hardly know that such a hive of industry was so close by. I follow the two through a narrow doorway that opens out to a simple room of whitewashed walls and open windows. Carmel bids us to sit on the floor on a large patterned rug. The room is refreshingly cool, with fruit and water waiting for us on a low wooden table.
    â€˜I saw Valence on his boat in the bay,’ says Aimu, peeling a pomegranate, sucking out the bitter crimson fruit from the pith. ‘He called out to me. He said I was needed.’
    Carmel remains silent, pouring water from a glass jug into earthenware goblets.
    She passes a cup to Aimu and then one to me. Aimu catches her eye; she looks down at the rug.
    â€˜I’m afraid the situation here has got much worse since I last wrote to you.’

    So exotic: these vistas of whitewashed buildings, these smells of cypress trees and peppered air. The home of Omar El Prins is situated at the top of the hill. The one lane leading to it winds and twists between the last houses and shops of the town until it ends at a lookout with a breathtaking view of the harbour and bay below. A place where lovers have stood and pledged eternal devotion. A secluded spot where once a young man, spurned by life more than by love, leapt to his death on the jagged rocks below. Omar El Prins, Aimu’s venerable uncle, is waiting for us on the verandah of his magnificent house. It stands in splendid isolation, the clear blue sky sharply outlining its fine rooftop and towers and the brilliant white of its walls. As we get closer I can see that this tall figure of a man, dressed in a long flowing djellaba and headscarf, is older than his striking physique at first suggests. He has a lush grey beard and deeply lined skin. His olive complexion is dappled dark by the years and weather, and his deep brown eyes convey both wisdom and gentleness.
    â€˜Welcome, As-Salaamu Alaikum ,’ he says, as we make our way up the stairs to him.
    Inside, his house is cool and inviting, with small windows offering enticing views of the blue sky while holding the heat of the sun at bay. We are led into a hexagonal-shaped room with