As the conversation spun this way and that, I, too, eventually sat back to observe the proceedings. More, I sat back to observe the youngish woman who now and then brought us more tea, or something stronger if we wished, and more food.

Was she? Were they?

I glanced over at our host, and even as he gazed back at me, I could not judge his expression. Grave, neutral, untelling.

If he were another man, one might know for certain: ba damouss.

Almost all European men in Abyssinia had a mistress or wife of convenience, often set up through an intermediary — a parent or a dealer — who would sell the woman to the man, whereupon she would assume the duties of cook, housekeeper, hostess and what-not. The arrangement, of course, was understood to include more; the arrangement, of course, could be undone with a few thalers and a show of the door by the “husband.”

Almost all European men in Abyssinia had a mistress or wife of convenience, an arrangement often set up through an intermediary…

The woman — her name was Mariam — at least that is what he called her — spoke almost no French. I gathered, afterwards, from our mutual acquaintances, that she was probably Argoban, from somewhere along the Erer Wenz, the river that ran past Harrar to the south. No doubt, the others said, she had a bit of the Portuguese in her, for to them she looked a little European.

Now and then, while the men chattered back and forth, she would stand by him and he would take her hand or she his arm, her other hand resting on his shoulder or touching his hair or the side of his face: if I am any judge, there was feeling between them. She rarely spoke, only bending and whispering to him, then gliding away to take care of this or that request or perceived need.

The home was clean, sparsely furnished in the local style, but homey and easy-feeling, and I had caught a glimpse of books stacked in a small side room. The door was mostly closed, but I had hesitated — I’m nosy, after all — and had spied the business papers atop the orderly desk, the books stacked or crowded onto the one bookshelf that I could see.

All very — civilized.

As if he guessed my thoughts, he smiled at me:

— Simple pleasures.

I nodded:

— Modest. Personal. Low-key. Not wanting in discretion.

— Precisely.

I couldn’t help myself:

— Almost, shall I say, conventional?

He laughed — did he blush? — but made no further reply.

Soon after, the tea party broke up, the men going off to their various schemes, armed with good feelings and new knowledges, and I — well, where? I looked back at the house — after sidestepping the ostrich who seemed intent on murder — but the light was wrong and I could not see through the as if mirror’d windows.