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 that allows you to take them throughout Morocco and northerly Africa, to come across the tough realities of Berber competition to French colonial rule and the eagerness of a love for a similar younger French lady. filled with motion, personality and terribly shiny 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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Additional info for Amazir: A Novel of Morocco
A second bar, not so farther along the main street, looked quieter and more genuine. Wilding stepped into the cool interior, momentarily losing his bearings in the dimness, sat down at the first table and ordered. As his sight grew accustomed, Wilding saw that the walls and ceiling were a sickly, tannin shade of brown—years of accumulated smoke and nicotine. It was practically empty and Wilding’s eyes took in the silent clientele—a British sailor asleep at the nearest table, head in his hands and a copy of Movie Times covering his cap; a couple of bleary-eyed old locals dressed in cheap cotton suits and finally a fourth man, in his late twenties, probably English, judging from his clothes, and approximately his age—twenty-nine—guessed Wilding.
The boys turned heels and ran, if only for a few yards or so. Summerfield had the distinct feeling that some of Nassir’s words had also been directed at him and felt vaguely stupid. He was right, thought Summerfield. He was no longer a tourist, but one of them and had to respect the rules of his new home. At last, Nassir beckoned him to get down from the calash. At ground level, things felt a little different and Summerfield was overcome by a brief sensation of being lost. There seemed to be people everywhere and they all seemed to look the same.
Abrach—you want me to write love letters, is that it? Trick her? Isn’t it a little Romanesque—’ ‘Just one letter—a real test. ’ ‘Because, my dear friend, I cannot write French as I speak it. It is one of the reasons I could not continue studying with the Europeans. And, to say the least, I am no poet. ’ A strange, sharp look momentarily came into Abrach’s eyes and he laughed to himself. ’ Abrach nodded. ‘In some of our British dominions, the same law applies,’ added Summerfield. ’ ‘Do you really consider yourself one of them, Harry?