SINKHOLES, Chapter Five: A new chapter.
Retrace the pages of the novels and their Protagonists, making each chapter a journey, an “Author ‘s Journey”, where the protagonist is the reader. Choose and read your novel, but when you’ve read all the pages back in Meeting Benches, in the section “Author ‘s Travels” where each chapter is an unusual type of travel.
Jacques was still on the deck overlooking the Rufiji River, waiting for the arrival of Petra, but having now spent a few days he concluded – interpreting the silences – that the left-handed from the Slovak mercurial temperament was not interested in traveling by air to Dar-as-Salam with him, the first leg of their return to Europe from Nairobi, would take them to Zurich, where their paths were to be split. For reason unknown to him she wanted to return to Europe independently, without having bought the Boss aftershave, without having sent her photos of Skype profile, without having given him a name, without having delivered the anchoring of a mobile phone number or address, without having withdrawn from the envelope with Francesca pictures of his children. Theirs was a meta-relationship is completely unbalanced, where Petra had only a button on his computer to click “delete” on request for contact Jacques, who now had unexpectedly disrupted his life. Evidence of these blunders, it was as if on this occasion were to rewrite something of the history of his life, perhaps a “Africa corrects mistakes”.
Jacques, Masai gave the order to disband the top of the boat from the pier, along with starting not far from the small tourist airport, where a small plane would have brought back to reality, away from that experience how devastating an oil painting had step by step, gradient shading added after the years of maturity some shades forget, those of love. At the bow of the small motor boat, Jacques picked up the wind and the smell of the water, listening to the sound of a small outboard motor and the cacophony of nature, which was the color of the eyes of Petra. When the tiny aircraft gained altitude over the Rufiji River, observed with disillusioned eye the places he had shared with the ethereal woman, capable of tenderness and most shocking of silences longer, more intimate confidence of estrangement and more challenging. Looked once more the little hill of Luhombero, the Lake Nzerakera and distant hills of Beho Beho, while two saltwater evidence tentatively filled her eyes blue-green, and spilling down to his lips that day had not touched any except the wind and the air of this magical nature, where along the river-bank the woods gave way to the forest from bird-watching challenging. Many species of birds could only be heard but not seen, and where the best time to listen to their concert was the early morning or evening. He knew that among the green trees that ran under her eyes from the plane was flying too curious sound of Broadbill Africa, produced by the feathers of his wings hard, but he also knew that he would never had the chance to see that little bird brown.
Completed the turn of that bird iron flew low above the Post Office Box of Mtemere Gate, where without landing picked up with one arm extensible anchoring a post on the grass bag, that the pilot gradually took on board. Now were the white clouds that enveloped Jacques and his thoughts, as if to protect it from the evidence of his vulnerability, hiding the reality of the landscape that was trickling down, along with the long flight a month had passed through that last stretch of his life.