Sinbad The Sailor’s Wife

Behind Every Great Adventurer Is a Woman Losing Her Patience

Despite his stealth, his new felt footwear, and the cover provided by the falling night, Sinbad’s attempt to sneak into the riad via the courtyard’s back gate proved singularly unsuccessful.

Set aside the fact that his long-suffering wife, Yasmine, had the night vision of an owl and the hearing of a bat, their back gate was badly in want of oil.

“Oh, you do come home sometimes, then!” his wife shrilled, causing him to start and trip. “Too much to hope, I suppose, that you’ve brought back something useful this time. Some fancy jewellery? A few gold coins? Something nice for us to eat, perhaps? Even that would be good.”

Sinbad straightened up, slunk over to the kitchen, and stood sheepishly in the open doorway.

Yasmine dropped the brass lamp that she’d just rubbed into the out basket, and took up another from the hundred or more still remaining in the in pile. She’d been rubbing away, lamp after lamp, for the last couple of hours, and had yet to bring forth a single genie. Her husband’s repeated assurance that these lamps were ‘the exact same as the one that Aladdin got from the market’ was starting to lose what little currency it had in the first place.

He opened his mouth to explain his late return but Yasmine cut him dead.

“No! Don’t try and tell me you’ve been out working,” she said. “Because I know damned well you haven’t. Scheherazade saw you and came and told me.”

Her husband raised a corrective finger and made to protest but Yasmine again cut him dead.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said, “but walking along the mountain paths and standing and shouting Open Sesame in front of every big rock you find, does not constitute working!”

“Well, Ali B—”

“Yes, yes. We all know about Ali bloody Baba and the treasures he took from the forty thieves, thank you. He dined out on that story for months! But where is he now though, eh? Where is he now? I’ll tell you where. He’s selling moth-eaten second-hand fezzes off a stall round the back of the souk. That’s where he is. Hasn’t got two dinar to call his own anymore. Frittered away every last coin on that gold-digging floozy, Fatima, that he shacked up with.”

She paused to draw breath but quickly fired on.

“I’ve told you time and time again — you need to do some real work. Get a proper job. You can’t just keep gallivanting after quick riches all the while.”

“I did okay when I went on my seven voyages,” Sinbad protested.

“No, you bloody well didn’t!” his wife yelled back, pausing just briefly to wipe spittle from her lip. “You wrecked your ship five times. Lost every man jack of your crew twice! Whichever way you look at things, dearest, you did not do okay!”

Sinbad began visibly to sulk but refrained from reply.

“Even supposing you could get some mug of a sultan to give you another ship,” Yasmine continued, “you’d never get the maritime protection and indemnity insurance. The premium would just be ridiculous.”

She had a quick rub of the lamp she was holding, waited a second or two, tossed it into the out pile, and then carried on.

“Take that lad from Britain that came over here,” she said. “Jon … Jake, or something or other.”

“Jack,” Sinbad offered up. Now looking distinctly nervous.

“Yes, him.” Yasmine nodded. “Well, he’s not off chasing after angry giants and magic birds and harps anymore. He’s got himself a nice steady job down at the leather tanning works. Granted, he does smell a bit ripe when he gets home of a night, but at least he’s bringing in a steady wage now. He may not be able to give his mum fancy clothes and jewellery anymore, but he regularly takes her down the working men’s club on a Friday — and she absolutely loves the karaoke.”

She paused to let the message sink in, and then finished off.

“Oh, don’t look so bloody miserable, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like I’m asking for anything unreasonable. Just get yourself a job, is all I’m saying. A proper job. A normal job. One that brings in a regular pay packet …  Because — and I promise you this now — if I catch you down by the oasis snogging random amphibia again, you can kiss goodbye to your conjugals and sleep down here with the dog!”

She took up another lamp from the in pile but then stopped, suddenly remembering something else.

“And, actually, while we’re on the subject of beds,” she said. “Why was it, when I turned our top mattress this morning, I found a load of peas sandwiched underneath?”

Sinbad gave a weak smile but instantly regretted it.

“No, don’t look like that. It’s not funny, it’s insulting,” Yasmine snapped. “You know perfectly well that I’m a royal princess, and me sleeping peacefully even when there’s little green veg under the bed, doesn’t prove a damned thing!”

Sinbad sighed, came over to give his wife a kiss, but changed his mind smartly when he saw the look in her eyes. He opted instead just to say sorry.

“I did get you these,” he said, pulling a bag from his pocket, and offering up a hopeful smile.

Yasmine emptied the contents of the bag into her open palm, and looked up with a face like thunder.

“I don’t believe you, Sinbad. I really don’t. You leave me slaving away here all day every day while you go off kissing fucking frogs, and talking to bloody rocks, and all I’ve got to show for it is a pile of old lamps … and A BAG OF BLOODY BEANS!”

“Oh, but they’re not just ordinary beans, love,” Sinbad began. “They’re ma—

“GOD GIVE ME STRENGTH!” Yasmine squealed.

And the unrubbed lamp flew through the air, quite unaided by supernatural powers, and caught Sinbad squarely between the eyes.