Free White Masks by Elias Khoury

divorcée, and it surprised me that a man of Musa’s wealth who owned a fabric store in Souq Taweeleh would marry a divorced woman with two children. But, I guess those are love’s hidden ways and love overcomes all things . . . Then we all became friends. One day my wife went to Musa’s
store to buy some fabric, and he wouldn’t take any payment from her. We exchanged visits, and the two women grew close; over time our relationship deepened and grew stronger.
    The war didn’t seem to affect Musa. The store burned down, but he opened another one, on Television Avenue. To tell the truth, he wasn’t really working anymore - the sales clerks were the ones who ran the store, he just came by around ten every morning to check in and have some coffee, then he headed home. He really didn’t do much of anything and behaved as if there was nothing wrong.
    I found out from my wife that Nadia had come into a lot of money-I mean millions - after the death of one of her uncles in the Congo. It seems that my friend Musa was looking for ways to spend this windfall, so one day he came to see me and told me that he had bought a new house. “But you’ve already got a really nice place,” I told him.
    â€œOh, but this one is much better, with both sea and mountain views. It’s amazing!” And he asked me to help him refurbish the place.
    â€œI want parquet everywhere - we’ll rip out all the tile floors and replace them with parquet! No tiling anywhere! And all the furniture must be Italian. Cost is not an issue. I want a stupendous house!”
    I agreed, and we set to work. When I went over to the new house, I was dumbfounded: marble floors stretched all the way from the entrance to the end of the living room!
    â€œIt’s a pity, Musa, a real pity to replace this marble with parquet,” I told him.
    â€œNo, that’s how I want it. All wood, just like houses in Europe,” he insisted.

    I was baffled. I said, “I don’t agree with you but will do whatever you wish.”
    Musa’s eyes danced with delight as he glanced over at his wife, who was there in some tight-fitting black pants with one of her sons, wandering around the apartment. And so we set to work. Nadia was at the worksite every day, and Musa came by once in a while. The fact is that nothing happened between us, nothing at all, the thought didn’t even cross my mind, nor hers I am sure - and in any case, the place was teeming with workmen! Nevertheless, somehow or other, the devilish thought took hold of him.
    He came over to our apartment one day and asked to see me alone. After my wife left us in the living room, he got up and closed the door.
    â€œIt’s about Nadia,” he said.
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œYou and her-I know everything!”
    What was this man talking about? His face had gone crimson, and he had this glazed look in his eyes.
    â€œNadia and you,” he repeated. “I know about it . . . But you’re a friend, how could you?”
    I tried to explain, but it didn’t do any good. “Honestly, Musa, there’s nothing like that going on. Your wife is a respectable woman - she’s like a sister to me. I don’t know how you got that idea into your head - it must be all the stress . . .”
    â€œIt’s true I’m very tired,” he answered. “I’m at a loss, at a complete loss what to think . . . but you’re a friend . . .”
    Then he asked how the work was progressing at the house, questioning
Nadia’s frequent presence there, our long conversations, and our visits to furniture galleries and cafés together. I told him that when she went to the Italian furniture dealer - because she liked to pick things out for herself - she requested, indeed demanded, that I accompany her. I assured him that he was my friend, and that nothing had happened, I swore, nothing.
    I’m not sure why he believed me so quickly,