By Tom Gamble
An idealistic younger Englishman, Harry Summerfield, befriends an American oil explorer in Gibraltar within the Nineteen Thirties. Their assembly sparks a trip for either males so one can take them throughout Morocco and northern Africa, to come across the cruel realities of Berber competition to French colonial rule and the fervour of a love for a similar younger French girl. packed with motion, personality and terribly brilliant neighborhood color, this can be a large novel ofadventure and romance which retains the reader guessing web page after web page.
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Extra info for Amazir: A Novel of Morocco
Apparently, they had been invited to a soirée given by the Bridge Club and would be back late. Leaving Soumia to prepare tea, Jeanne climbed the stairs to her bedroom. It was a medium-sized house, one built especially for civil servants coming from the French Métropole, and located in an avenue with twenty others built in exactly the same, whitewashed colonial style. There were four bedrooms upstairs and two in the outhouse where Soumia and Mohammed respectively slept.
Summerfield had never seen such large yellow teeth—it gave them a very dromedary air. ‘Piss off,’ muttered Summerfield, feeling uncomfortable, but they drew closer, nodding in the direction of his cigarette. ‘Go away,’ he added, catching their smell in his nostrils, a mixture of sweat and hay. He repeated himself first in French, then in Spanish but to no avail. Perhaps they were deaf, thought Summerfield and, much in the way the British Naval officers had snubbed him in Gibraltar, he continued smoking and sipping his tea as though they didn’t exist.
As he finished, the creak of the entrance door echoed in the courtyard. Only Summerfield turned his head. Into the riad stepped the man who had insisted on advising him in the square. Noticing Summerfield, the large Moroccan sent him that same, exaggerated smile and walked over. ’ A gesture of welcome, hand to heart. ‘Perhaps,’ answered Summerfield, warily. He rose and, for some reason, offered his hand in much the same way as the American, Jim Wilding, would have done. ‘I am obliged to offer you this tea,’ said the man, nodding at the great urn, ‘In return for the tea you lost through no small fault of mine.