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Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Trafford
ISBN-10: 1553696778
Type: Fiction
Pages: 238
Copyright: July, 2002
At once a road novel, an offbeat love story and a mystery, Paris Bound will appeal to both male and female readers, especially those who have experienced the pains and pleasures of culture-clashed romance.
Paris Bound is the story of two lovers, Roy Musgrave, a British professor and Nadia Benbouzid, his North African student, who travel by car from Morocco to Paris, staying at campsites in Spain and finally a hotel in Paris. Their escapades along the way include almost running out of petrol in the Rif and smuggling out of Morocco not only contraband currency but a Moslem girl. Only Nadia's charms and initiative save them from disaster.
In the intimacy of tent sharing their relationship deepens, each seeing in the other the answer to their future happiness, for Roy's divorce is nearly through and Nadia is eminently available. Moreover, each seems to have exactly what the other needs for completion, his scholarly prowess complementing her youthful zest, and his stability (financial!) her daring.
Excerpt
They met at the profs' room every mid-day. Some had already left for London, New York or Paris, but he was in no hurry. On their last Tuesday in Morocco they found themselves once more spinning away towards the turquoise ocean with its white breakers crashing on the shore.
These days they preferred to take their picnic by the sea, perching on the rusty-coloured outcrops some five kilometres from Harhoura Plage, away from prying eyes and the playgrounds of the city. She like to bring along a cooked chicken, which they would tear apart, throwing the gristle and bones to the seagulls. He would provide soft drinks, or for himself sometimes a can of beer.
After eating they would lie flat, he cushioning his head in her lap, she stroking or tickling his face. They didn't talk much, there was no need.
From time to time he would sneak glances at her, at the dark eyes with their suggestion of mature wrinkles at the corners, at the bare flat feet that felt no pain in clambering over granite peaks, at the (today) shaven legs. All this was his for the taking. It defied logic, it was almost too much.
'What are you thinking?'she asked.
'I'm not.'
'What are you dreaming then?'
'Oh, I don't know really - about Paradise, I believe.'
'About love?'
'No, not especially.'
He sat up now and looked at her, wondering if he could tell her, wondering if he dared. Was it really worth the effort to start unpacking the mind's storehouse? Here, where the time, the place and the girl cohered so perfectly? Could he ever begin to tell her about Wordsworth and Proust, those self-parasites who epitomised man's need to return? To her it was just work, something to be got through for exams; to him it was the blood of life itself.
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