The Corniche

As the amber sun swells on the horizon, bringing with it rosy plumes of cloud, I lean my forearms on the railing and feel the first warm rays reflecting off the water. The city behind me slumbers on, the early morning air calm except for the light breaking of waves in harbours below and the gentle clinking of milk bottles on hillsides above.

Remember when we used to sit on benches along the Corniche and rate the girls passing by? Five, eight, ten. Granted we were young, but there seemed to be a lot of tens in that city. A city of beautiful women! I like to remember it that way; before everything happened. Before all I had of you were the notes you scribbled for me in your passport. Do you remember how we used to scatter the pigeons that gathered like dust on the square? And Michel, shouting in French. I don't suppose you kept in touch with him. I heard he was married back in Sicily, but of course that's probably just wishful thinking.

Ah, imagine getting the old group together. I realize the impossibility of such an endeavour, but through a mix of memory and nostalgic imagination I can conjure up new meetings; at the soda-shop, or in Ali's garden... and of course on the Corniche.

Ah, our favourite meeting place, when we didn't know what we would like to do but knew we wanted to see each other. In the dry summer heat, that was the one place where we could feel the sea breeze. Of course it's completely different now. The Corniche that we knew is gone, drowned in bad memories. Our old favourite place exists now only in photographs and Sunday afternoons, in memories and on the wind.

As I lean back on the railing to look at the city above me, that familiar breeze gently strokes the back of my neck. The gentle tinkling of waves breaking becomes the rhythmic chatter of distant machine guns; the sound of milk bottles in a cart along a winding, cobbled street becomes the clatter of spent shell casings spilling onto the ground. The dull glow of churning flames through glass windows shines down from on high, as thick smoke moves to choke out the sunrise. Although I never left, I am so very far from home.