Balthasar's Odyssey by Amin Maalouf Read Free Book Online Page A

me. Then I turned round.
    It was Marta.
    â€œThe widow.”
    Dressed in black, and smiling all over her face.
    No, I admit I didn’t understand anything till now, didn’t even suspect. And Habib handled it well, I agree. He’s usually up to all sorts of tricks in order to charm both men and women, but in the last few days he didn’t indulge in one knowing smile or a single teasing allusion. He pretended to be as shocked as I was by Rasmi’s accusations. Which turned out in the end to be less flimsy than I thought.
    I suppose in due course my nephew will tell me how it was all arranged. But what’s the point? I can guess most of it. I can guess why he so surprisingly sided with his brother to urge me to make this journey to Constantinople. I imagine he then hurried off to tell “the widow”, and she must have thought that was a good moment to run away. So she left Gibelet, and must have spent one night in Tripoli staying with a cousin or in a convent. That’s all so plain I don’t need any confessions. But until the whole thing was put right under my nose, I didn’t have an inkling.
    So what should I do now? For the rest of the day I just walked straight ahead, without expression, without saying a word. Sulking solves nothing, I know. But unless I want to lose all dignity and all authority over my family, I can’t act as if I hadn’t been led up the garden path.
    The trouble is, I’m forgetful by nature, easy-going, and always inclined to forgive. All day I’ve had to make an effort to keep up my attitude of injured innocence. And I’ll have to keep it up for another day or two, even if it hurts me more than the people I’m trying to punish.
    The four of them trail along behind me, not daring to speak to one another above a whisper. Good.
    The village of the tailor, 27 August
    Today we’ve acquired another unexpected companion. But a respectable one this time.
    We had a terrible night. I knew this inn we stopped at, but I hadn’t been there for a long while. Perhaps I’d stayed there at a more auspicious time: I didn’t remember those swarms of mosquitoes, those cracked and mouldering walls, that stench of stagnant water. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, clapping my hands together every time I heard that menacing drone approaching.
    In the morning, when it was time to set out again, I’d hardly closed my eyes. Later on during the day, I fell asleep in the saddle several times, and nearly fell off my mule. Fortunately Hatem came and rode close beside me, to prop me up from time to time. He’s a good fellow — I’m not really cross with him.
    Towards noon, after we’d been travelling for a good five hours and I was looking for a shady spot to have our midday meal in, we found our way suddenly barred by a big leafy branch from a tree. It would have been quite easy to move it out of the way, or just to go round it, but I halted, puzzled. There was something strange about the way it had been put there, right in the middle of the road.
    I was looking around to find some explanation when Boumeh came up and suggested in a whisper that it would be best to turn off on to a path on the right that rejoined the main road a bit further on.
    â€œIf that branch was blown off its tree,” he said, “and the wind dropped it there just like that, it must be a warning from Heaven, and we’d be mad to disregard it.”
    I derided his superstition but followed his advice. True, as he was speaking to me I’d noticed, some way along the path he wanted me to take, an inviting-looking copse. Just looking at the greenery from a distance, I seemed to hear the cool plash of running water. And I was hungry.
    As we started along the path we saw some people riding away in front of us — three or four of them, I thought. They’d probably had the same idea as us — to leave the road and have their meal in the