At breakfast time, I feel out of sorts. Wednesday morning already. The week is going really quickly. I am tired (I did not sleep much and I did not sleep well) and stressed with the thought of all the things I have to accomplish by three in the afternoon on Friday, the day after tomorrow, the time set for the Merlercians' arrival.
        I also can't help thinking about Melshu's prophecy, that "He will come at ten in the morning and he will tell you your death". Melshu did not specify a day, but why not today?
        It's now 07:25, and the TV news is telling us about train delays in and around the city of Yendo. Momentarily, the train delays make me think about the Merlercians. But the delays are irrelevant. The train problems will have cleared up by the time Kitty and her team get off the plane, which won't be today. And in any case I expect them to use taxis rather than trains.
        Their plane is scheduled to land at Bakufueki International Airport at 09:10 on Friday, after which they will go through immigration and customs then get a connecting flight at 11:20. After they land at Yendo airport they will go to their hotel, the Royal Transmutation, leave their baggage then make their way here by taxi.
        There's probably no need to hold all these details in my head, but I do, and keep going over them, looking for a problem. Though, really, it doesn't matter if there is a problem. A delayed flight? A traffic holdup? An overbooked hotel room? No problem. Scratches on the surface of perfection don't matter. The Merlercians are on their way and I don't seriously expect anything short of the end of the world to derail the process.
        Still, I keep reviewing the possible negatives. My compulsive detail-worrying is an index of how tense I am. Iola is also tense and snappy, as if she, too, didn't sleep well. And perhaps she didn't.
        "You weren't in bed last night," she says.
        "I came downstairs," I said. "Melshu was up, and he was getting too noisy."
        "And?" says Iola.
        "He went to sleep. After we'd had our little talk. He told me that salt can be trusted. It will never betray my secrets."
        I have invented this quote. In reality, Melshu said no such thing. But that is the kind of thing he would say, if he were in the mood. At times, an unexpected streak of creativity prompts me to invent a quote and attribute it to Melshu. Is this verbal play a sign of well-balanced good health or a symptom of senile decay coming on prematurely?
        "Who else did you talk to?" says Iola.
        "That was it," I say.
        Lying to my wife comes naturally. I can't say how I got into this habit. In this case, I could comfortably tell the truth. Instead, a lie comes automatically.
        I think it's our money problems, more than anything, which have warped me in the direction of deceit. Because I'm responsible for keeping us financially afloat, I've become defensive. It's as if I've begun to interpret any inquiry into any aspect of our situation as a form of assault. I protect myself with lies.
        Better any form of a lie than the exposure of the naked truth. Which is that we are broke. Almost broke. No, we are truly broke. Or will be if all of our creditors ask for payment at once. Or if Zudadera Finance refuses to renew the loan that is keeping us afloat. We're lucky to have Zudadera Finance as our main bank. They believe in reciprocal loyalty and we have been doing business with them for a long time. Even so, there is no absolute guarantee that they will renew the loan that we are depending on for our financial survival.
        It occurs to me to wonder why I am I being so defensive. I've already confessed the bad news to my wife, haven't I? Yes. I've leveled with Iola. I've told her just how bad things are. I've shared the news of our disaster. Even so, a habit of secrecy remains. I still see open honesty as danger. I remain deceitful even after making my peace with the truth.
        "Chelooza was in the house, wasn't she?" says my wife.
        "Chelooza?" I say, startled.
        "There!" says Iola. "You admit it!"
        "No," I say, annoyed beyond measure at this nonsensical accusation. "Chelooza has never been in our house."
        "Never?" says Iola scornfully. "Don't be ridiculous. Do you think I don't know anything?"
        "What's that supposed to mean?" I say.
        Her hostility is like a carving knife slicing through onions. Amputation in action. If Iola has somehow gotten the idea that I might possibly be having an affair with Chelooza then she must be a little bit crazy. The very notion of getting intimate with Chelooza makes me think of, well, pubic lice. Or worse.
        This morning, my wife does look slightly crazy, her hair unkempt from the pillow. I'm decidedly angry now, and on the offensive. I'm ready to get seriously argumentative if Iola persists with this accusation.
        "Well, someone was in the house," says Iola. "I want to know who."
        "All right," I say, forced into confession. "If you want to know, it was the twins. They came back after midnight, stinking of cigarette smoke."
        That is when we hear Tanto and Helena come quarreling down the stairs. We can't hear exactly what they are arguing about, and they fall silent with suspicious abruptness as they enter the living room.
        "Well?" says Iola, going on the offensive without preamble. "What's your excuse for coming home in the small hours of the morning?"
        There follows one of the protracted mother-twins confrontations that I hate so much, after which the twins are ordered upstairs to take a shower.
        "You stink," says Iola. "Your hair is full of cigarette smoke."
        "We'll be late for school," says Helena.
        "Your father will drive you," says Iola.
        I don't really have time to do any such thing, because I have some tricky paperwork to do for Zudadera Finance, and it is going to be difficult to fashion a screen of protective lies ("the indications are that our ongoing cash flow will be favorable") without accidentally putting in writing something so blatantly fraudulent that it will one day put me in jail. (Maybe I'll end up in jail regardless of the cunning of my lies, but that's no reason to cultivate hazard.)
        "We don't want to be driven," says Helena, with the vehemence of someone protesting against a threat of torture.
        However, Iola has spoken, and that's that.
        With the twins having gone upstairs for their showers, Iola suggests that we think again about the Camp Exile plan, our name for the offer which came to us a couple of weeks ago from Grandmother Sarka, my maternal grandmother. After my mother was killed, Grandmother Sarka refused to live a day longer in the city of Yendo. She left, withdrawing to her ancestral home in Dataporo, in the far north, and we have not had much to do with her since.
        Grandmother Sarka has not forgotten us, however, and her offer is an all-expenses-paid "study skills upgrade course" at the Dataporo Youth Development Paradise, which, as the name would suggest, is in far-off Dataporo.
        This would be a solution of sorts. Sending the twins into exile would get them off our hands. And, although I do not intend to share my security concerns with Iola, I can see that sending the twins away would be a simple way to break any connection they might have with Chelooza, at least in the short term.
        "Let's sit the twins down," I say, "when we get a chance. Talk it through and see what they say."
        Not right now, though. This morning we are in a rush. I am glad that Iola goes along with my suggestion. Evidently we are agreed that this is not something we will force on the kids if they are negative, which is just as well as I have no stomach for any conflict unless it is absolutely necessary. I, in a word, am overloaded.