2009, ISBN: 9780500277560

Gollancz. Good. 5.08 x 0.91 x 7.72 inches. Paperback. 2008. 356 pages. <br>Part mystery, part speculative fiction, and wholly unforgettable, Jon Courtenay Grimwood's celebrated… Mehr…

Gollancz. Good. 5.08 x 0.91 x 7.72 inches. Paperback. 2008. 356 pages. <br>Part mystery, part speculative fiction, and wholly unforgettable, Jon Courtenay Grimwood's celebrated Arabesk serie s portrays the dark, hard-boiled story of a man out to prove his innocence in an alternate world where the facts aren't always the same as the truth . . . and murder isn't the worst that can happ en. It's a twenty-first century hauntingly familiar-and yet star tlingly different from our own. Here the United States brokered a deal that ended World War I, and the Ottoman Empire never collap sed. And lording it over all sits the complex, seductive, and blo odthirsty North African metropolis of El Iskandryia. Almost nothi ng is what it seems to be in El Isk, and Ashraf Bey is no excepti on. Neither the rich Ottoman aristocrat everyone thinks he is, nor the minor street criminal once shipped off to prison when he fell foul of his Chinese Triad employers-the fact is that Raf has as little idea who he is as anyone else. With few clues and no money, all Raf has is a surname hinting at noble heritage and an arranged marriage to a woman who hates him. But nothing Ashraf a l Mansur learns about himself is as unexpected-or as terrifying-a s the brutal murder he's accused of committing. Now, as a hunted man with the welfare of a precocious young girl in his irresponsi ble hands, Raf must race after a killer through an unforgiving ci ty as foreign to him as the truth he'll uncover about himself. E ditorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly In this clever first boo k of a trilogy that blends alternative SF and hard-boiled mystery from British author Grimwood (Lucifer's Dragon, etc.), ZeeZee, w ho has spent his youth largely in boarding schools and in trouble , is also Ashraf al-Mansur, though that identity is unknown to hi m. Whisked away from a Seattle prison, ZeeZee is transported to E l Iskandryia, an exotic, exquisitely detailed North African city. Whether Ashraf or ZeeZee, he's adaptable but not compliant. The world of wealth and privilege he's expected to accept without que stion comes with strings he's not to question either, like marria ge to the willful Zara. Misunderstanding and mishandling his prec arious situation, Ashraf becomes prime suspect in a murder, on th e lam with only a vague understanding of where he is and who he i s supposed to be. He's not only responsible for his own fate but also, surprisingly, the sole protector of a young girl. Grimwood artfully unveils the changed world that has developed in the many decades since WWI ended differently. Ashraf, a lifelong underdog and pawn, emerges as a resourceful and deadly foe, adapting quic kly to survive in a game where the rules and the playing field sh ift repeatedly. SF and mystery fans will be pleased. Copyright ? Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavail able edition of this title. Review All brilliant light and scorc hing heat . . . Grimwood has successfully mingled fantasy with re ality to make an unusual, believable, and absorbing mystery. -Sun day Telegraph A mature balance between sensibility and action in what's essentially a rite of passage story allied with a detecti ve thriller-deftly told and laced with neat ideas. -Time Out Nea r perfect. -Murder One --This text refers to an out of print or u navailable edition of this title. About the Author Jon Courtenay Grimwood lives in England. The first book in his acclaimed Arabe sk series, Pashazade, was shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke Aw ard, the British Science Fiction Association Award, and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Inside Flap Part mystery, part speculative fiction, and wholly unforgettable, Jon Courtenay Grimwood's celebrated Arabesk series portrays the dark , hard-boiled story of a man out to prove his innocence in an alt ernate world where the facts aren't always the same as the truth . . . and murder isn't the worst that can happen. It's a twenty- first century hauntingly familiar-and yet startlingly different f rom our own. Here the United States brokered a deal that ended Wo rld War I, and the Ottoman Empire never collapsed. And lording it over all sits the complex, seductive, and bloodthirsty North Afr ican metropolis of El Iskandryia. Almost nothing is what it seems to be in El Isk, and Ashraf Bey is no exception. Neither the ri ch Ottoman aristocrat everyone thinks he is, nor the minor street criminal once shipped off to prison when he fell foul of his Chi nese Triad employers-the fact is that Raf has as little idea who he is as anyone else. With few clues and no money, all Raf has i s a surname hinting at noble heritage and an arranged marriage to a woman who hates him. But nothing Ashraf al Mansur learns about himself is as unexpected-or as terrifying-as the brutal murder h e's accused of committing. Now, as a hunted man with the welfare of a precocious young girl in his irresponsible hands, Raf must r ace after a killer through an unforgiving city as foreign to him as the truth he'll uncover about himself. --This text refers to a n out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One 6th Ju ly The sound of fountains came in stereo. A deep splash from the courtyard below and a lighter trickle from the next room, where open arches cut in a wall overlooking the courtyard had marble ba lustrades stretched between matching pillars. It was that kind o f house. Old, historic, near-derelict in places. Ambient temp e ighty-one Fahrenheit, humidity sixty-two per cent . . . The Ameri can spoke clearly, reading the data from the face of his watch, t hen glanced through a smashed window to what little he could see of the sky outside. Passing cloud, no direct sunlight. Dropping clumsily onto one knee, Felix Abrinsky touched the marble floor with nicotine-stained fingers, confirming to himself that this st atement was correct. The tiles were warm but not hot. No latent h eat had been stored up from that morning's sunshine to radiate ba ck into the afternoon air. Bizarrely, it took Felix less effort to stand than it had done to kneel, though he needed to pause to catch his breath all the same. And the silver-ringed hand that ca me up to wipe sweat from his forehead only succeeded in smearing grease across his scalp and down his thinning ponytail. Police r egulations demanded he wear a face mask, surgical gloves and--in his case--a sweatband to stop himself from accidentally polluting biological evidence. But Felix was Chief of Detectives and so fa r as he was concerned that meant he could approach the crime scen e how he liked, which was loose, casual and lateral. Not to menti on semi-drunk. All the virtues that first got him thrown out of t he police in Los Angeles. Besides, if you wanted to talk about s hould have been, then he should have been onholiday. And he would have managed it, too, if this particular buck hadn't been bumped up the line so fast it practically hit the wall parking itself r ight outside his office door. The body in the chair was fresh, s till warm to his touch. Stiffness had set in to the arms--but the n, rigor happened fast when a victim was borderline anorexic. And even without the woman's thinness there was North Africa's heat to add into the equation. Heat always upped the rate at which rig or gripped a corpse. On his arrival Felix had considered obtaini ng an immediate body temperature. But habit made him do the crime -scene grabs first, then work a grid through the victim's office, tweezering up clues. And technically, since she was obviously de ad, he'd already broken his own regulations by checking under her jaw for a carotid pulse. Covering the body prior to site shots. Some cities used electronic observers, 360-degree fish-eye vids , wired for movement and sound. El Iskandryia used the human kind , when it bothered to use observers at all. The silksuit Felix ha d selected stood in the doorway, doing exactly what he'd been tol d, which was shut up and stay out of the way. From a foil packet Felix extracted a sheet of tissue-thin gauze designed to protect the woman's modesty in death, as surely as a scarf round her hea d would have hidden her hair on the streets in life. Except there was no scarf, because the woman had been stabbed in her own hous e, at her own desk, in her own office . . . Starting location sh ots, said the fat man and lifted an old Speed Graphic. The camera was linked to his even more ancient LAPD-issue chronograph, whic h would back up each shot as it was taken, just as the camera wou ld automatically stamp time, date and orientation across the bott om edge of each new shot. 15.30: July 6: SouthSouthWest. All the same, Felix dictated a description of what he was doing, work ing fast to photograph the little office from every angle. Only w hen this was done could he start work on the body. Exposure five . Al-Mansur madersa. Upstairs. Interior. West wall and corner of office taken from door. Speed Graphic Digilux. Fifty-millimetre l ens. K400-equivalence. The dictation did no more than tell the c ourt what camera had been used, what the shot showed and what the light was like: something the camera readouts told them anyway. But he'd learned his craft back when Speed Graphics still took ac etate and defence attorneys jumped on any conflict of technical i nformation, no matter how small. And besides, Felix spoke not rea lly to his camera or watch but to himself. These days defence at torneys weren't an issue. If the Chief of Detectives said someone had committed a crime that was usually good enough for a judge. The suspect went down. Unfortunately it had taken Felix a few mon ths to realize this and there were three cases from his early day s in El Iskandryia which still gave him sleepless nights--four ca ses, if he was being unusually hard on himself. Exposure eleven. Al-Mansur madersa. Upstairs. Interior. Open door to office, take n from broken mashrabiya window in south wall adjacent to Rue She rif . . . Mashrabiyas were, originally, shaded balconies where w ater jugs could be left to cool. But the term had long since come to signify both the balcony and the ornately carved screen that hid those in the balcony from the street below. Marble was common place for the screen, as was gilded or painted wood. The smashed mashrabiya at the al-Mansur madersa had been carved two hundred years before from a single slab of alabaster and now lay in shard s on the floor, apparently kicked in from outside. That the balco ny was fifteen feet above a traffic-laden street only made the br eak-in more unlikely. Unless one factored in the Thiergarten who apparently could move unseen, kill silently and climb walls like flies . . . Felix sighed. Whatever else Berlin had to buy for it s agents abroad, their deadly reputation came free. Officially, of course, Berlin was El Iskandryia's ally. Merely an equal partn er in a bigger, three-way alliance with Stambul and Paris. Unoffi cially, French influence kept itself to Morocco, while Berlin's a dvisers flooded the rest of the littoral and Stambul banked its t aking from the Suez Canal and did pretty much what it was told. Politics--now there was one subject Felix spent a lot of time try ing to avoid. Grunting crossly, the fat man wiped fresh sweat fr om his face and grabbed two shots of a ridiculous rag dog, quite out of keeping with the cold elegance of the Khedivian desk on wh ich it sat. And then, having put off what came next for long eno ugh, Felix turned his camera on the corpse. Exposure thirteen. A l-Mansur madersa. Upstairs. Interior. The body, taken from front of desk . . . Felix whipped off the modesty cloth and took his se cond look at the dead woman's wounds. They were no more pleasant than the first time round. Once started, he worked swiftly on th e crime grabs, moving in to get specific shots of the ripped-open blouse, the nails broken on one hand, the trickle of blood dried to a stark black ribbon down her side. The woman was in her ear ly forties. Middle height. Brown eyes staring blankly at the ceil ing. Short, expensively cut black hair--elegant, obviously. The v ery fact her eyes were clear and the cornea unclouded told Felix that she was less than six hours dead, but he knew that anyway an d put her death at two hours ago at the most. One of her elbows was flopped across the arm of her chair and her head had tipped r ight back, the muscle relaxation that precedes rigor having smoot hed her face until it looked more serene in death than it ever di d in life: infinitely more serene than it did glaring out from th at afternoon's Iskandryian open on the desk in front of her. Ber lin furious as society widow slams RenSchmiss. And those in El I skandryia's German community who believed in the legal right to s lash open each other's face for the sake of highly-prized duellin g scars had slammed right back, from the look of things . . . Pun ching a button on the side of his Speed Graphic, Felix reduced th e depth of field until it showed only what he wanted the judge to see. The injuries in sharp focus. To him the victim was no long er human: that was where he differed both from his boss and under lings--and from Madame Mila, the coroner, who would already be on her way. To them, what slumped in that chair was still a woman. Deserving all the respect and modesty that the law allowed. Whic h was why Felix had put the rest of his day on hold to make it to the scene of the crime first. Back in the City of Angels, where Felix had trained, he'd have grabbed a few more corpse shots, lif ted dabs, collected up handleable bio like hair and stashed it in evidence bags and then vacuumed the victim's clothes, one garmen t at a time, again putting the dust into separate sachets. And t hen, with the victim's original position recorded beyond all poss ible doubt, he'd have had a medical technician take the body some place near but non-critical and remove the clothes so Felix coul d photograph the naked corpse, wound by wound and bruise by bruis e. But that wasn't the way crime against women was handled in El Iskandryia. At least not officially, and this, regrettably, was unquestionably a very official crime. The victim had once been ma rried to an important man, there were rumours that she was badly in debt--to whom, nobody seemed to know--and she'd been outspoken enough to upset the young khedive's German advisors. This was t he kind of crime that require, Gollancz, 2008, 2.5, Vintage. Good. 5.22 x 0.8 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 256 pages. Cover creased<br>A NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW BEST BOO K OF THE YEAR ? WINNER OF THE PEN/FAULKNER AWARD ? Netherland tel ls the fragmented story of a man in exile--from home, family and, most poignantly, from himself. --Washington Post Book World In a New York City made phantasmagorical by the events of 9/11, and left alone after his English wife and son return to London, Hans van den Broek stumbles upon the vibrant New York subculture of cr icket, where he revisits his lost childhood and, thanks to a frie ndship with a charismatic and charming Trinidadian named Chuck Ra mkissoon, begins to reconnect with his life and his adopted count ry. As the two men share their vastly different experiences of co ntemporary immigrant life in America, an unforgettable portrait e merges of an other New York populated by immigrants and strivers of every race and nationality. Editorial Reviews Review Fascin ating.... A wonderful book. --President Obama, interviewed by Jon Meacham in Newsweek (May 25, 2009 issue) Stunning . . . with ec hoes of The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald's masterpiece . . . a resona nt meditation on the American Dream. --Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times Exquisitely written. . . . A large fictional achievem ent, and one of the most remarkable post-colonial books I have ev er read. . . . Netherland has a deep human wisdom. --James Wood, The New Yorker I devoured it in three thirsty gulps, gulps that satisfied a craving I didn't know I had. . . . It has more life i nside it than ten very good novels. --Dwight Garner, The New York Times Book Review Elegant.... Always sensitive and intelligent, Netherland tells the fragmented story of a man in exile--from ho me, family and, most poignantly, from himself. --Washington Post Book World Suspenseful, artful, psychologically pitch-perfect, a nd a wonderful read.... Joseph O'Neill has managed to paint the m ost famous city in the world, and the most familiar concept in th e world (love) in an entirely new way --Jonathan Safran Foer auth or of Everything is Illuminated Haunting.... O'Neill's elegant prose makes for a striking read. --Entertainment Weekly A beauti fully written meditation on despair, loss, and exile. --USA Today Remarkable.... Note-perfect. --Vogue Outstanding.... A coming- of-middle-age tale. --Newsweek O'Neill's writing is unendingly b eautiful. --The Los Angeles Times Brilliant.... A post-9/11 nove l that takes us closer to understanding the emotional wreckage. - -GQ Provocative, luminous.... A fine, darkly glowing novel. --Th e Boston Globe A dense, intelligent novel... O'Neill offers an o utsider's view of New York bursting with wisdom, authenticity, an d a sobering jolt of realism. --Publisher's Weekly (starred revie w) O'Neill writes a prose of Banvillean grace and beauty, shimme ring with truthfulness, as poised as it is unsettling. He is a ma ster of the long sentence, of the half-missed moment, of the stra nge archaeology of the troubled marriage. Many have tried to writ e a great American novel. Joseph O'Neill has succeeded. --Joseph O'Connor, author of Star of the Sea Somewhere between the towns of Saul Bellow and Ian McEwan, O'Neill has pitched his miraculous tent. Netherland is a novel about provisionality, marginality; i ts registers are many, one of the most potent being its extremely grown-up nostalgia. The dominant sense is of aftermath, things f lying off under the impulse of an unwanted explosion, and the hum an voice calling everything back. --Sebastian Barry, author of A Long Long Way About the Author Joseph O'Neill was born in Cork, Ireland, in 1964 and grew up in Mozambique, South Africa, Iran, Turkey, and Holland. His previous works include the novels This I s the Life and The Breezes and the nonfiction book Blood-Dark Tra ck, a family history centered on the mysterious imprisonment of b oth his grandfathers during World War II, which was a New York Ti mes Notable Book. He writes regularly for The Atlantic Monthly. H e lives with his family in New York City. About the Author Josep h O'Neill was born in Cork, Ireland, in 1964 and grew up in Mozam bique, South Africa, Iran, Turkey, and Holland. His previous work s include the novels This Is the Life and The Breezes and the non fiction book Blood-Dark Track, a family history centered on the m ysterious imprisonment of both his grandfathers during World War II, which was a New York Times Notable Book. He writes regularly for The Atlantic Monthly. He lives with his family in New York Ci ty. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The afternoon before i left London for New York-Rachel had flown out six weeks previously-I was in my cubicle at work, boxing up my p ossessions, when a senior vice-president at the bank, an Englishm an in his fifties, came to wish me well. I was surprised; he work ed in another part of the building and in another department, and we were known to each other only by sight. Nevertheless, he aske d me in detail about where I intended to live (Watts? Which block on Watts?) and reminisced for several minutes about his loft on Wooster Street and his outings to the original Dean & DeLuca. He was doing nothing to hide his envy. We won't be gone for very lo ng, I said, playing down my good fortune. That was, in fact, the plan, conceived by my wife: to drop in on New York City for a yea r or three and then come back. You say that now, he said. But Ne w York's a very hard place to leave. And once you do leave . . . The S.V.P., smiling, said, I still miss it, and I left twelve yea rs ago. It was my turn to smile-in part out of embarrassment, be cause he'd spoken with an American openness. Well, we'll see, I s aid. Yes, he said. You will. His sureness irritated me, though principally he was pitiable-like one of those Petersburgians of y esteryear whose duties have washed him up on the wrong side of th e Urals. But it turns out he was right, in a way. Now that I, to o, have left that city, I find it hard to rid myself of the feeli ng that life carries a taint of aftermath. This last-mentioned wo rd, somebody once told me, refers literally to a second mowing of grass in the same season. You might say, if you're the type pron e to general observations, that New York City insists on memory's repetitive mower-on the sort of purposeful postmortem that has t he effect, so one is told and forlornly hopes, of cutting the gra ssy past to manageable proportions. For it keeps growing back, of course. None of this means that I wish I were back there now; an d naturally I'd like to believe that my own retrospection is in s ome way more important than the old S.V.P.'s, which, when I was e xposed to it, seemed to amount to not much more than a cheap long ing. But there's no such thing as a cheap longing, I'm tempted to conclude these days, not even if you're sobbing over a cracked f ingernail. Who knows what happened to that fellow over there? Who knows what lay behind his story about shopping for balsamic vine gar? He made it sound like an elixir, the poor bastard. At any r ate, for the first two years or so of my return to England, I did my best to look away from New York-where, after all, I'd been un happy for the first time in my life. I didn't go back there in pe rson, and I didn't wonder very often about what had become of a m an named Chuck Ramkissoon, who'd been a friend during my final Ea st Coast summer and had since, in the way of these things, become a transitory figure. Then, one evening in the spring of this yea r, 2006, Rachel and I are at home, in Highbury. She is absorbed b y a story in the newspaper. I have already read it. It concerns a group of tribespeople that has emerged from the Amazon forest in Colombia. They are reportedly tired of the hard jungle life, alt hough it's noted they still like nothing better than to eat monke y, grilled and then boiled. A disturbing photograph of a boy gnaw ing at a blackened little skull illustrates this fact. The tribes people have no idea of the existence of a host country named Colo mbia, and no idea, more hazardously, of diseases like the common cold or influenza, against which they have no natural defenses. Hello, Rachel says, your tribe has come to light. I'm still smil ing when I answer the ringing phone. A New York Times reporter as ks for Mr. van den Broek. The reporter says, This is about Kham, ah, Khamraj Ramkissoon . . . ? Chuck, I say, sitting down at th e kitchen table. It's Chuck Ramkissoon. She tells me that Chuck' s remains have been found in the Gowanus Canal. There were handcu ffs around his wrists and evidently he was the victim of a murder . I don't say anything. It seems to me this woman has told an ob vious lie and that if I think about it long enough a rebuttal wil l come to me. Her voice says, Did you know him well? When I don' t answer, she says, It says somewhere you were his business partn er. That's not accurate, I say. But you were in business togeth er, right? That's what my note says. No, I say. You've been misi nformed. He was just a friend. She says, Oh-OK. There is a tappi ng of a keyboard and a hiatus. So-is there anything you can tell me about his milieu? His milieu? I say, startled into correctin g her mooing pronunciation. Well, you know-who he hung out with, what kind of trouble he might have gotten himself into, any shad y characters . . . She adds with a faint laugh, It is kind of unu sual, what happened. I realize that I'm upset, even angry. Yes, I finally say. You have quite a story on your hands. The next d ay a small piece runs in the Metro section. It has been establish ed that Chuck Ramkissoon's body lay in the water by the Home Depo t building for over two years, among crabs and car tires and shop ping carts, until a so-called urban diver made a macabre discover y while filming a school of striped bass. Over the next week ther e is a trickle of follow-up items, none of them informative. But apparently it is interesting to readers, and reassuring to certai n traditionalists, that the Gowanus Canal can still turn up a mur der victim. There's death in the old girl yet, as one commentator wittily puts it. The night we receive the news, Rachel, in bed next to me, asks, So who's this man? When I don't immediately ans wer, she puts down her book. Oh, I say, I'm sure I've told you a bout him. A cricket guy I used to know. A guy from Brooklyn. She repeats after me, Chuck Ramkissoon? Her voice contains an amuse d note I don't like. I roll away onto one shoulder and close my e yes. Yes, I say. Chuck Ramkissoon. Chuck and I met for the first time in August 2002. I was playing cricket at Randolph Walker Pa rk, in Staten Island, and Chuck was present as one of the two ind ependent umpires who gave their services in return for a fifty-do llar honorarium. The day was thick as a jelly, with a hot, glassy atmosphere and no wind, not even a breeze from the Kill of Kull, which flows less than two hundred yards from Walker Park and sep arates Staten Island from New Jersey. Far away, in the south, was the mumbling of thunder. It was the kind of barbarously sticky A merican afternoon that made me yearn for the shadows cast by scoo ting summer clouds in northern Europe, yearn even for those days when you play cricket wearing two sweaters under a cold sky patch ed here and there by a blue tatter-enough to make a sailor's pant s, as my mother used to say. By the standards I brought to it, W alker Park was a very poor place for cricket. The playing area wa s, and I am sure still is, half the size of a regulation cricket field. The outfield is uneven and always overgrown, even when cut (once, chasing a ball, I nearly tripped over a hidden and, to cr icketers, ominous duck), and whereas proper cricket, as some migh t call it, is played on a grass wicket, the pitch at Walker Park is made of clay, not turf, and must be covered with coconut matti ng; moreover the clay is pale sandy baseball clay, not red cricke t clay, and its bounce cannot be counted on to stay true for long ; and to the extent that it is true, it lacks variety and complex ity. (Wickets consisting of earth and grass are rich with possibi lity: only they can fully challenge and reward a bowler's reperto ire of cutters and spinners and bouncers and seamers, and only th ese, in turn, can bring out and fully test a batsman's repertoire of defensive and attacking strokes, not to mention his mental po wers.) There is another problem. Large trees-pin oaks, red oaks, sweetgums, and American linden trees-clutter the fringes of Walke r Park. Any part of these trees, even the smallest hanging leaf, must be treated as part of the boundary, and this brings randomne ss into the game. Often a ball will roll between the tree trunks, and the fielder running after it will partially disappear, so th at when he reemerges, ball in hand, a shouting match will start u p about exactly what happened. By local standards, however, Walk er Park is an attractive venue. Tennis courts said to be the olde st in the United States neighbor the cricket field, and the park itself is surrounded on all sides by Victorian houses with elabor ately planted gardens. For as long as anyone can remember, the lo cal residents have tolerated the occasional crash of a cricket ba ll, arriving like a gigantic meteoritic cranberry, into their flo wering shrubbery. Staten Island Cricket Club was founded in 1872, and its teams have played on this little green every summer for over a hundred years. Walker Park was owned by the club until the 1920s. Nowadays the land and its clubhouse-a neo-Tudor brick str ucture dating back to the 1930s, its precursor having been destro yed by fire-are the property of the New York City Department of P arks and Recreation. In my time, a parks department employee, a p hantom-like individual who was never seen, reportedly lived in th e attic. The main room was rented out to a nursery school, and on ly the basement and the beaten-up locker room were routinely made available to cricketers. Nevertheless, no other New York cricket club enjoys such amenities or such a glorious history: Donald Br adman and Garry Sobers, the greatest cricketers of all time, have played at Walker Park. The old ground is also fortunate in its t ranquillity. Other cricketing venues, places such as Idlewild Par k and Marine Park and Monroe Cohen Ballfield, lie directly beneat h the skyways to JFK. Elsewhere, for example Seaview Park (which of course has no view of a sea), in Canarsie, the setting is marr ed not only by screeching aircraft but also b, Vintage, 2009, 2.5, Hemel Hempstead: Nexus, 1996. 66 pp, 11 5/8" H. Profusely illustrated in colour and b&w with photographs and drawings. Contents: Imperial Cavalry in Zululand: Modelling a trooper of the 1st (King's) Dragoon Guards; Poste Militaire Excellence!: Painting Blood Warrior and Pawnee busts; The Black Prince: Painting Andrea Miniatures' model of Edward, Prince of Wales; Military History in Flat Figurines: The Thirty Years War and its influence on manufacturers; Aussies Go For Eight Wheels: Exclusive look at Australia's new ASLAV 25; The Tank Modelling Course: Returns with a Panther tank conversion; A Superb Half-Century from Dragon: Building the 50th model kit - a German Jagdtiger; Fields of Plaster: WWI diorama as an educational model; The 1871 Pattern Yeomanry Officers' Helmet: Part three - conclusion of the series; Notice Board: All the latest news for military modellers; Soldier Box: A monthly column for collectors of toy soldiers; Small Scale Scene: Monthly column for military vehicle modellers; Observation Post: The monthly news column for wargamers; Readers' Models: A chance to see your model in colour in the world's leading military modelling magazine: Despatch: Readers' letters; "Atten-shun!"; New products reviewed. Interior - clean and tight with no previous ownership marks. Exterior - minor edge wear, large soft crease at top corner of rear cover - migrates into adjacent pages.. Stapled in Wraps. Very Good., Nexus, 1996, 3, Hemel Hempstead: Nexus, 1997. 66 pp, 11 5/8" H. Profusely illustrated with colour and b&w photographs. Contents: An Officer of the Naval Brigade: Figure conversion - a Royal Navy officer in the Zulu War 1879; The Tank Modelling Course: Working with white metal part one - M3 Half-track conversion; The Battle of the Bulge: World War Two US Infantry historical reconstruction; Super Skoda: Building CMK's 1:35 scale kit of the Czech tank; Out of the Jaws of Death: Part one of a Crimean War diorama based on an 'after the charge' incident; This Tiger's Got Guts: Review of the new Academy 1:35 scale Tiger I kit which has interior details; Desert Soldier: Warriors' 120mmm Afrika Korps figure kit ; Notice Board: All the latest news for military modellers; Despatch: Readers' letters; Readers' Models: A chance to see your model in colour in the world's leading military modelling magazine; Observation Post: The monthly news column for wargarmers; On Parade!: Books Reviewed; Soldier Box: A monthly column for collectors of toy soldiers; Small Scale Scene: Monthly column for military vehicle modellers; "ATTEN-SHUN!": New products reviewed. Interior - clean and tight with no previous ownership marks. Exterior - minor edge wear, very light wear on spine, small soft crease at bottom corner of covers - some migration into pages.. Stapled in Wraps. Very Good., Nexus, 1997, 3, Thames and Hudson. Very Good. Paperback. 1977. Cast iron flourished during the 19th century in an amazing variet y of forms, often of extreme richness of design. This volume surv eys cast iron decoration worldwide in over 500 illustrations - sp ecially taken photographs of surviving work supported by reproduc tions of pattern books and drawings. All national variations are covered, from Victorian Brighton to New Orleans, from Paris and L isbon to the relics of colonial empire in South Africa, India, Ta hiti and Mexico. The author details its relationship to architect ure and its aesthetic contribution to buildings. ., Thames and Hudson, 1977, 3<

1977, ISBN: 0500277567

[EAN: 9780500277560], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Thames and Hudson], Cast iron flourished during the 19th century in an amazing variet y of forms, often of extreme richness of de… Mehr…

[EAN: 9780500277560], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Thames and Hudson], Cast iron flourished during the 19th century in an amazing variet y of forms, often of extreme richness of design. This volume surv eys cast iron decoration worldwide in over 500 illustrations - sp ecially taken photographs of surviving work supported by reproduc tions of pattern books and drawings. All national variations are covered, from Victorian Brighton to New Orleans, from Paris and L isbon to the relics of colonial empire in South Africa, India, Ta hiti and Mexico. The author details its relationship to architect ure and its aesthetic contribution to buildings., Books<

1994, ISBN: 0500277567

[EAN: 9780500277560], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 18.0], [PU: Thames & Hudson], 1st Paperback edition. Heavy, extra postage may be required if posted outside South Africa. Wraps are ed… Mehr…

[EAN: 9780500277560], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 18.0], [PU: Thames & Hudson], 1st Paperback edition. Heavy, extra postage may be required if posted outside South Africa. Wraps are edge worn, have a small tear on spine, creased, a bit chipped and marked. Tanning. Rubber stamp. Minor marks. However, it is in good condition, excellent binding. MK. Our orders are shipped using tracked courier delivery services., Books<

1994, ISBN: 0500277567

[EAN: 9780500277560], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 16.0], [PU: Thames & Hudson], 1st Paperback edition. Heavy, extra postage may be required if posted outside South Africa. Wraps are ed… Mehr…

[EAN: 9780500277560], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [SC: 16.0], [PU: Thames & Hudson], 1st Paperback edition. Heavy, extra postage may be required if posted outside South Africa. Wraps are edge worn, have a small tear on spine, creased, a bit chipped and marked. Tanning. Rubber stamp. Minor marks. However, it is in good condition, excellent binding. MK. Our orders are shipped using tracked courier delivery services., Books<

1994, ISBN: 9780500277560

Thames & Hudson, 1994. Softcover. Good. 11x8x1. 1st Paperback edition. Heavy, extra postage may be required if posted outside South Africa. Wraps are edge worn, have a small tear on… Mehr…

Thames & Hudson, 1994. Softcover. Good. 11x8x1. 1st Paperback edition. Heavy, extra postage may be required if posted outside South Africa. Wraps are edge worn, have a small tear on spine, creased, a bit chipped and marked. Tanning. Rubber stamp. Minor marks. However, it is in good condition, excellent binding. MK.. Our orders are shipped using tracked courier delivery services., Thames & Hudson, 1994, 2.5<