Balthasar's Odyssey by Amin Maalouf

eyes. There wasn’t any laughter in mine. I’d have expected her to be even more embarrassed than I was. Not at all! It wouldn’t have taken much to make her split her sides. It was downright indecent. I was feeling embarrassed enough for two.
    After a few false starts, we ended up stretching out on the same couch under the same blanket, but fully clothed and a long way apart.
    Then came some long minutes of silent darkness and unsynchronised breathing. Then Marta moved her head close to mine.
    â€œYou mustn’t be angry with Habib. It’s my fault if he hid the truth from you. I made him swear not to say anything — I was afraid that if my plans for running away got out, my brother-in-law would have cut my throat.”
    â€œWhat’s done is done.”
    I’d spoken coldly. I had no desire to start a conversation. But after we’d both been silent for a while, she went on:
    â€œOf course, it was wrong of Habib to tell the officer I was your wife. But he was taken unawares, poor lad. But you’re very well respected, and all this is embarrassing for you, isn’t it? I your wife! God forbid!”
    â€œWhat’s said is said!”
    I hadn’t thought before I spoke. It was only afterwards, when Marta’s words and my own had echoed together in my head, that I realised the meaning that could be attributed to my reply. In the comical position we’d been put in, every word was as slippery as an eel.
    â€œI your wife?”
    â€œWhat’s said is said!”
    I almost started to correct and explain myself. But what was the good? I’d only have sunk deeper in the mire. So I looked in my neighbour’s direction to try to make out if she’d understood. It seemed to me she wore the mischievous expression of her youth. I smiled too. And, in the dark, waved a hand in resignation.
    Perhaps we needed that exchange to be able to sleep peacefully side by side, not too near and not too far from one another.
    28 August
    I was in a very good humour when I woke up, and so was my “wife”. My nephews kept staring at us all day, intrigued and suspicious. But my clerk seemed amused.
    We’d planned to set out again at dawn, but we had to give up that idea. It had started to rain in the night, and in the morning it was still pouring down. The day before had been pleasantly cloudy for anyone travelling, but we knew the clouds wouldn’t be content with bringing us only shade. So we had no choice but to stay another night or two with our hosts. God bless them, they made us feel welcome every moment we were there, and as if our presence gave them no trouble at all.
    When bedtime came around, the good tailor swore again that as long as we were under his roof, my “precious wife” and I would sleep nowhere else but in his room. For the second time I offered no objection. Too meekly, perhaps… We lay down side by side again, Marta and I, without any fuss. Still fully dressed, still some distance apart. Just neighbours, as we were yesterday. The difference being that now we chatted away without stopping — about this and that, about how welcome our hosts were making us, about what the weather would be like next day. The “widow” was wearing a perfume that I hadn’t noticed the night before.
    I’d just begun telling her some of the reasons why I’d decided to go on this journey when Habib came into the room. He approached soundlessly, barefooted, as if he’d hoped we wouldn’t notice him.
    â€œI’ve come to sleep in here because of the mosquitoes,” he said when he realised I knew he was there. “I was getting eaten alive in the other room.”
    I sighed.
    â€œYou were right to come. The door here’s too small for the mosquitoes to get in.”
    Had I let my annoyance show in my voice? My neighbour moved her head closer to mine and said in a whisper as quiet as she could make it:
    â€œHe’s still