De Amerikaanse schrijver Douglas Kennedy werd geboren op 1 januari 1955 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Douglas Kennedy op dit blog.
Uit: The Heat of Betrayal
“Out of nowhere, Paul suddenly began to mumble something in his sleep, its incoherency growing in volume. When his agitation reached a level that woke our neighbour — an elderly man sleeping in grey-tinted glasses — I touched Paul’s arm, trying to rouse him out of his nightmare. It was several more unnerving moments of shouting before he snapped awake, looking at me as if he had no idea who I was. `What . . . where … I don’t . . .?’ His wide-eyed bemusement was suddenly replaced by the look of a bewildered little boy. `Am I lost?’ he asked. `Hardly,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘You just had a bad dream.’ `Where are we?’ `Up in the air.’ `And where are we going?’ `Casablanca.’ He appeared surprised at this news. `And why are we doing that, Robin?’ I kissed him on the lips. And posed the question: `Adventure?’
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FATE IS BOUND up in the music of chance. A random encounter, a choice impulsively made . . . and fate suddenly has its own interesting momentum. It was fate that had brought us to Casablanca. The ‘fasten seat belts’ sign had now been illuminated. All tray tables stored away. All seats upright. The change in cabin pressure was wreaking havoc with the eardrums of all the babies around us. Two of the mothers — their faces veiled — tried to calm their children down without success. One of the babies was staring wide-eyed at the cloaked face in front of him, his anguish growing. Imagine not being able to see your mother’s face in public. She is visible at home, but in the world beyond, all that can be seen is a slitted hint of eyes and lips: to an infant jolted awake by a change in cabin pressure, it would be even more reason to cry. little charmers,’ Paul whispered, rolling his eyes. I entwined my hand with his, saying: `We’ll be down on the ground in just a few minutes.’ How I so want one of our very own ‘little charmers’ sitting next to us. Paul suddenly put his arm around me and said: `Am I still your love?’ I clutched his hand more tightly, knowing just how much reassurance he craves. `Of course you are.’ The moment he walked into my office three years ago I knew it was love. What do the French call it? A coup de foudre. The overwhelming, instantaneous sense that you have met the love of your life; the one person who will change your entire trajectory because you know .. . What exactly?”

Douglas Kennedy (New York, 1 januari 1955)
