The boy and the ocean (Part 1/3)

Hassan II Mosque – incredible shot by Marko (Creative Commons)

As part of Fiction Friday, I want to start a mini series. This might or might not work but… if you don’t try, you don’t get.
The following excerpt is the first part of the story leading up to a big turning point in my novel. It was inspired by one of my favourite spots in Casablanca – a hidden corner behind the Hassan II mosque where one can look out to the Atlantic for hours.

Come back next Friday for Part 2! 

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Part 1/3 .

The narrator is Angel, a stuttering pianist with a fear of and fascination with the Atlantic Ocean.

I cycle down boulevard Moulay Youssef and reach the Hassan II mosque in less than ten minutes. I need to be away from people, away from the cars and the horns and the commotion of the city. I need to be alone.

I look up at the sky enshrouded in grey clouds. A breeze than I am thankful for has developed. Oblivious to the crowd, I walk along the seawall and around the mosque, all the way behind it. And in the shadow of the minaret, I find solitude. The bustle of cars and motorcycles is still loud but here, on the edge of the city, the call of the sea is louder. Calling to me like a low-frequency hum. The ocean is choppy and waves are breaking against the wind. I climb on the seawall and sit on top of it, legs hanging free, high above the surface.

I sit here for a while, eyes on the horizon, thoughts sailing off to sea. At first, I think of my mother, her moroseness and her puzzling behaviour; but every so often, my mind wanders off to Berlin, ricocheting back and forth like a tennis ball between a racket and the wall. I see Salma, her hazel eyes and bewitching laughter. Her violin, like an extension of her arm, like music built in at the edge of her fingers. I hear a soft melody wandering off to far-away places, waltzing away like golden dust in the wind.

I shut my eyes and find behind my eyelids an unrivalled serenity, a comforting stillness. The conviction that everything will be all right.

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