Balthasar's Odyssey by Amin Maalouf Page A

only a child!”
    Again she was trying to make excuses for him. Perhaps, too, she wanted to show me that Habib’s jealousy was unfounded. For I might think that if he’d plotted with her to help her escape from her in-laws and join up with us, it was not only out of a spirit of chivalry but also because he felt something for her, and that she hadn’t discouraged him even though she was seven or eight years his senior.
    I think he is jealous. First of all he lay down close to the wall, wrapped up in his blanket. Even though he didn’t say anything, I could hear his irregular breathing — he wasn’t asleep. His presence annoyed me. On the one hand I said to myself that in the morning I must explain to him clearly that my two nights’ proximity to the “widow” was merely the result of circumstances that he knew all about, and no one should make anything of it. On the other hand, I didn’t see, and still don’t, why I should have to justify myself to this urchin. I didn’t put myself in this embarrassing situation! I may be easy-going, but I mustn’t be pushed too far! If ever I did feel like wooing Marta, I wouldn’t ask permission from my nephews, or from anyone else!
    I turned to her firmly and whispered, not too softly:
    â€œIf he really is still a child, I’ll punish him like one!”
    As I moved near her I could smell her perfume more strongly, and I felt like moving nearer still. But Habib, if he hadn’t been able to make out my words, at least had heard me whisper. And, still wrapped up in his blanket, he wriggled over and lay down at our feet. Yes, he stretched himself right up against our feet so that we couldn’t move an inch.
    I was tempted to give him good thump, “accidentally on purpose”, while I was supposed to be asleep. But I preferred to take my revenge differently: I took Marta’s hand in mine and held it there, under the blanket, till morning.
    Near the Orontes, 29 August
    By this morning it had stopped raining and we were able to resume our journey. I’d been so annoyed by my nephew’s unseemly behaviour that I’d had very little sleep.
    But perhaps it was best that the night should end as it did. Yes, on second thoughts it’s better to wake up amid the pangs of desire than amid those of remorse.
    We took leave of our hosts, who put us even more in their debt by loading down our mules with provisions — enough for several days’ journey. May Heaven give us the chance to return their hospitality!
    The going is more pleasant after the rain — no sun, or excessive heat, or clouds of dust. Some mud, of course, but that affects only the hooves of our mules. We kept going until it started to get dark.
    We skirted the town of Horns and halted for the night at a monastery on the banks of the Orontes. I’d stayed there twice before, on a trip to Aleppo and back with my father; but no one here could remember that.
    In the evening, as I was strolling beside the river, in the monastery gardens, a young monk with bulging eyes came up and questioned me excitedly on the rumours circulating about next year. Vehemently though he condemned “false reports” and “superstition”, he seemed distraught. He spoke of disturbing signs recounted by local peasants — a calf born with two heads, the sudden drying up of an ancient spring. He also mentioned the hitherto unheard-of behaviour of certain women, but he did so in such a roundabout style that I couldn’t understand what he was driving at.
    I did my best to reassure him, quoting the Scriptures once more and reminding him of man’s inability to foretell the future. I don’t know if my arguments helped him. No doubt he went away from our encounter having imbibed something of my apparent calm; but I brought away from it a tremor of his fear.
    On the road, 30 August
    I’ve just read what I’ve written in the last few days,