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Authors: Amin Maalouf
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another. Then the oldest among them spoke to me again, as amiably as before:
âIf the Master introduced himself in that manner in order to test us, he knows we are ready to welcome him. And if you are a mere passer-by, may God judge you according to your intentions.â
Not knowing what to say, I took refuge in silence. In any case, he hadnât asked me a question, even though his eyes, like those of his companions, were gulfs of expectation. I assumed an enigmatic expression and walked towards the door. They stood aside and let me pass. When I got out into the street I found my pursuers had taken themselves off, and I could go back to the hostelry without further hindrance.
I do wish someone would explain to me what just happened. But Iâve thought it best to say nothing to my companions about my misadventure. If my nephews found out how rashly Iâd acted, my authority over them would probably suffer. And then theyâd think they could commit whatever folly they liked without my daring to criticise.
Iâll tell them about it later on. Meanwhile, Iâm content to confide my secret to these pages. Isnât that what this journal is for?
But sometimes I ask myself: why keep a diary, and in this ambiguous language, when I know no one will ever read it? When in fact I donât even want anyone to read it? I do it precisely because it helps me to clarify my thoughts and memories without having to tell my travelling companions about them.
Other people write as they speak. I write as I stay silent.
On the road, 8 September
Hatem woke me too early, and I still feel I didnât finish my dream. But although I hadnât had enough sleep, I had to hurry to join the caravan by the Antioch gate.
In my dream I was being followed by some men, and every time I thought Iâd shaken them off I saw them in front of me again, barring my path and baring their teeth at me like wild animals.
Itâs hardly surprising I had such a dream after my experience of yesterday. What does surprise me, and disturb me somewhat, is that I still feel Iâm being spied on even now Iâm awake. But by whom? By the brigands who wanted to rob me? Or by that strange congregation whose prayers I interrupted? I donât suppose Iâm really being pursued by either group, but I canât help turning round all the time.
I only hope this aftermath of last night will fade as I get farther away from Aleppo!
9 September
This morning, after weâd camped out all night in a field strewn with ancient ruins â broken columns buried under sand and grass â the caravaneer came and asked me point-blank whether the woman with me was really my wife. Trying to look offended, I said she was. He apologised, assuring me he hadnât meant any harm but had forgotten whether Iâd told him or not.
This has put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I keep turning it over in my mind. Does he suspect something? There are about a hundred travellers in the caravan; might one of them have recognised the âwidowâ? Itâs not impossible.
But itâs also possible that the caravaneer overheard a snatch of conversation or caught a meaning look between Marta and Habib, and that his question was intended to warn me.
As I write these lines my doubts increase, as if my pen, scratching at the paper, was also scratching at the wounds to my self-esteem . . .
I shanât write another word today.
11 September
Today there was one of those demeaning incidents I promised myself I wouldnât mention. But because it bothers me, and I canât confide in anyone, I might as well write it down.
The caravan had halted for the travellers to have a meal and a short rest before starting out again when it was cooler. Weâd spread out at random, a few people lying or sitting under each tree, when Habib leaned over and whispered something in Martaâs ear that made her laugh aloud. Everybody nearby heard,
âIf the Master introduced himself in that manner in order to test us, he knows we are ready to welcome him. And if you are a mere passer-by, may God judge you according to your intentions.â
Not knowing what to say, I took refuge in silence. In any case, he hadnât asked me a question, even though his eyes, like those of his companions, were gulfs of expectation. I assumed an enigmatic expression and walked towards the door. They stood aside and let me pass. When I got out into the street I found my pursuers had taken themselves off, and I could go back to the hostelry without further hindrance.
I do wish someone would explain to me what just happened. But Iâve thought it best to say nothing to my companions about my misadventure. If my nephews found out how rashly Iâd acted, my authority over them would probably suffer. And then theyâd think they could commit whatever folly they liked without my daring to criticise.
Iâll tell them about it later on. Meanwhile, Iâm content to confide my secret to these pages. Isnât that what this journal is for?
But sometimes I ask myself: why keep a diary, and in this ambiguous language, when I know no one will ever read it? When in fact I donât even want anyone to read it? I do it precisely because it helps me to clarify my thoughts and memories without having to tell my travelling companions about them.
Other people write as they speak. I write as I stay silent.
On the road, 8 September
Hatem woke me too early, and I still feel I didnât finish my dream. But although I hadnât had enough sleep, I had to hurry to join the caravan by the Antioch gate.
In my dream I was being followed by some men, and every time I thought Iâd shaken them off I saw them in front of me again, barring my path and baring their teeth at me like wild animals.
Itâs hardly surprising I had such a dream after my experience of yesterday. What does surprise me, and disturb me somewhat, is that I still feel Iâm being spied on even now Iâm awake. But by whom? By the brigands who wanted to rob me? Or by that strange congregation whose prayers I interrupted? I donât suppose Iâm really being pursued by either group, but I canât help turning round all the time.
I only hope this aftermath of last night will fade as I get farther away from Aleppo!
9 September
This morning, after weâd camped out all night in a field strewn with ancient ruins â broken columns buried under sand and grass â the caravaneer came and asked me point-blank whether the woman with me was really my wife. Trying to look offended, I said she was. He apologised, assuring me he hadnât meant any harm but had forgotten whether Iâd told him or not.
This has put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I keep turning it over in my mind. Does he suspect something? There are about a hundred travellers in the caravan; might one of them have recognised the âwidowâ? Itâs not impossible.
But itâs also possible that the caravaneer overheard a snatch of conversation or caught a meaning look between Marta and Habib, and that his question was intended to warn me.
As I write these lines my doubts increase, as if my pen, scratching at the paper, was also scratching at the wounds to my self-esteem . . .
I shanât write another word today.
11 September
Today there was one of those demeaning incidents I promised myself I wouldnât mention. But because it bothers me, and I canât confide in anyone, I might as well write it down.
The caravan had halted for the travellers to have a meal and a short rest before starting out again when it was cooler. Weâd spread out at random, a few people lying or sitting under each tree, when Habib leaned over and whispered something in Martaâs ear that made her laugh aloud. Everybody nearby heard,
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