Free Out of Egypt by André Aciman

in the world.
    Everyone was sufficiently hurt and shamed, including the Princess, who found herself implicated in a quarrel that should have stayed strictly between the men. Monsieur Jacques vowed never to set foot chez les barbares, Monsieur Albert thanked him for staying out of people’s homes, and both resolved never to say bonjour whenever they happened to meet on Rue Memphis. Only the Saint was left untouched, though she was the most perturbed of the four, and would continue to do everything to bring about a reconciliation between both families. “You may say whatever crosses your mind when you’re angry, Monsieur Albert,” she chided, a few days after the incident, “but that—never! Never!” she repeated, her nether lip quivering, her eyes welling up. Her simple, stainless soul had peered into an ugly, scurrilous world from which her strict upbringing had always protected her.
    â€œBut he didn’t mean anything by it,” the Princess said to Monsieur Jacques, trying as well to repair the damage. “Do you think the kettle means anything when it goes about calling other kettles black? How could it if it’s a kettle itself?”
    â€œ How could it, madame? Easily. First, by forgetting it’s black. Then by forgetting it’s a kettle in the first place—which it should be proud of being, considering such kettles don’t survive five thousand years unless there’s a good God watching over them. And let me tell you something else, Madame Esther: any kettle that slanders its own kind is no kettle worthy of my home, and certainly not of God’s kitchen!”
    â€œMonsieur Jacques, don’t get carried away now. I was only
speaking about a sixty-year-old man who is very sick and to whom life has been good in such small doses you’d think God’s kindness was squeezed out of an eye dropper. He is a very unhappy and bitter man. His is an old kettle with hardly a whistle left to it.”
    â€œThe whistle is quite intact, thank you very much,” said the infidel Turk when the Saint reported this conversation to him and, as usual, was lured into playing cards with him. “My wife should be the last to judge such things, seeing she is the most unmusical woman in the world.”
    â€œBut she loves to hear me play the piano,” the Saint responded.
    â€œI wasn’t talking about piano music.”
    The Saint paused.
    â€œOh, I see,” she said.
    â€œNo, you don’t,” he was about to reply but caught himself and said, “You see through everything, don’t you, down into the most hidden recesses of the heart. And yet you never let on that you do. Meanwhile you’ve figured us all out, you with that dangerous flair of yours.” To which she replied with her favorite little apothegm. “I may not be learned, Monsieur Albert, but I am sharp, sharp enough to see that you are poking fun at me right now.” She sorted out cards and produced a winning combination. “Thank God I can win at cards, for otherwise you would think me a real dolt.”
    â€œMadame Adèle, where were you when I was a young man?”
    â€œMonsieur Albert, don’t speak like that. God gave each of us the life we deserve. You yours, and me mine.”
    â€œYou yours, and me mine,” he mimicked as he shuffled the cards. “Do you think we can persuade Him to reserve a berth for you in my cabin when it’s time to take the long journey?”
    â€œWhen the time comes for that, I want to return to my parents.”
    â€œNot to Monsieur Jacques?”

    â€œMonsieur Jacques has given me his life. His afterlife he can give someone else.”
    She pondered her cards a moment. “Will your wife be joining you in the afterlife?” she said with a lambent tremor on her lips, averting her eyes.
    â€œJealous as she is—”
    â€œWho, your wife? How little you know women, Monsieur Albert.”
    â€œAnd