Part 3

As if to ask forgiveness, he blushed and cast a pleading glance toward his father when he answered his own question: "I love my Father and my Mother, but they're both mistaken. I have no affection for my teacher, but he's right." I was unable to respond-I could only pull the boy to my side and kiss him on his unpainted forehead. My heart wanted to overflow, and I also saw how deeply my wife was moved-her eyes filled with tears. It was nothing short of a sacred moment. All the while, his father sat next to me. Mustafa smiled at us, and yet he didn't have the slightest notion about the depth of innocence, the pure candor, and the spell-binding magic of the child's soul which had become so palpably open to us. "So, give me a little time, Thar. When we see each other again, you'll be different than you were previously. On that date, I'll form my opinion of you. Before I leave Jerusalem, I'll tell you what I think."

"Really?" he begged. "Yes, really," I answered. At that moment, his hand gently and tenderly touched my cheekbone as he solemnly declared: "Make no mistake; I also love you. This I know for sure. Do you want to see something that I've created, that I've actually painted?" I said "Yes."

"When are you coming again?" I responded, "Tomorrow at the same time." He quickly chimed in: "Well then, before noon. I must begin my work and finish the pictures this afternoon!" He thought for a couple of moments. A mischievous snicker quivered across his green cheeks and over his blue moustache. Then he asked his father: "May I have your permission to redecorate the garden house today?"

"What do you want to do there?" inquired Mustafa. Thar answered: "Paint two pictures; tomorrow, I'll show them to Effendi." "Good, you may." Thar insisted: "But no one may disturb me. Unless I so desire, no one will be allowed to come into the garden house." "Not even I?" asked Mustafa. "That includes you," said Thar.

That's certainly interesting. I hope that you will be successful in showing Effendi something that's really good; so, I have nothing against your project. "The boy exclaimed: "Thanks be to Allah! I'll begin right away!" In joyful anticipation, he turned a somersault and shot out of the shop. After a few minutes of silence, Mustafa Bustani asked: "Now, what do you say to him? What a good lad! An artist, right?"

"Wait," I answered. "First, let's see. Such judgments should be weighed and regarded closely. I've prayed for an extension of time. Tomorrow will be the next time I see him."

This gave us the occasion to take our leave, so we parted company. It was close to noon, when the hottest time of day begins and one best spends time in the coolness of a room. When the heat was past, we hiked towards the Mount of Olives in order to walk towards Bethany, and then return back to Jerusalem via the sites of Bethphage and Kafr et Tur. We took a photograph; my wife almost never travels without a camera. Due to the fact that carrying photography gear on a tour requires so much time and trouble, I'm always concerned that dealing with such things can greatly interfere with my personal and natural mobility. Yet my wife loves to bring home souvenir-photos that make her happy when she reminisces later on. So today, she also took a couple of pictures in Bethany; I've included one of those, because it shows the remnants of the city's stone wall. We climbed to the summit of the Mount of Olives, upon which there are places where you can see not only the mountains of East Jordan, but even a part of the Dead Sea. As we enjoyed this rich view, we talked about our visit with Mustafa Bustani. Contrasting his earlier, sad appearance, we knew that the years would actually pass quickly as he aged. The death of his wife had very deeply gripped him, which another Muslim might be capable of handling otherwise.

Add to this a second, almost equally deep sorrow and inner-soul- excitement which we were yet to discover. Up to this point, our attention had almost exclusively been directed to the East; we now turned to the West, to the city that lay before us. There in a secluded area near a carob bush, we saw a man sitting with his hands folded as if in prayer-staring motionless at the horizon. This was some time before the shadows of evening. We were compelled to look at him. When we came nearer, he stood up. It was our friend Mustafa Bustani. We mentioned how we had just been talking about him. However, he seemed to be self-conscious about our coincidental meeting. It was as if he were feeling caught in the act of doing something that no one was supposed to know about. His words, which shut down after our greeting, sounded as though he felt that he had a duty to apologize.

He told us how this place has been his favorite spot for some time, one which he visits daily as he looks towards the East. Instinctively, I had to think about his missing, banished brother who had disappeared in the East. We sat closely beside him and soon noticed that he thought it necessary to speak in a peculiar frame of mind which had an exceptionally soft-hearted undertone, one that gave the impression of emotional helplessness. In our enormously scene- gripping, surrounding locale, I didn't pry further. In his psyche, he himself was used to doing a lot of soul-searching.

I was right, for he very soon directed the conversation to his previously mentioned favorite subject, to the connection of the visible and invisible world and to the biblical claim that there are in fact miracles. Regarding this, he confessed to us that a dream drove him to this conclusion, a dream that had been so certain and so clear that it seemed he was awake and not sleeping at all. This clarity had been so great and so convincing, that he had written down its exact date: the 15th day of the Month of Adar. Half-way apologizing and half-way questioning, he added that he would not take on too much by being preoccupied with his dreams. We assured him that all of us were greatly interested in everything that concerned him, especially in matters of his spiritual life.

"Effendi, you know that my brother was cast out because he had become a Christian, and that we all rejected his attempts to reconcile, for he had even married a Christian woman. Ever since, no one has heard from him. Later on, no one could find out where he went. The events that followed even extended to our family's inheritance. He had the very same rights as I had. I became the sole heir; he was poor, poor as a beggar!"

I tried to soften the harshness by noting customary laws and governing families' rights. He pointed this out to me: "You are a Christian and therefore think differently when you try to make me feel better. For a full year, I felt no sense of unfairness about what we had committed against him. After all, possessions and religion are different matters, right? As a believer, am I permitted to change the order of things whenever my wealth changes to poverty? No! Even for such a little thing as wanting to become a Christian and not remain a Muslim, one can be pushed out of the family's circle of inheritance. However, this last thought did not come from me; rather, it came from my wife. In her heart, there lived a love and a kind-heartedness which were not present in me. Her graciousness began a difficult and heavy labor in me-but she succeeded. My hardness became softer, always more tender; and when the mother of my son passed away, she died as the victor. I promised her that I would search for my brother and share with him everything that I own. She thanked me, blessed me-then closed her eyes and departed.

He covered his face with his hands and became silent for a while as he tried to master his emotions; then, he continued: "In vain, I searched and searched. My brother had simply disappeared. Constantly, I thought about him and even more about my wife, whose death had taken even more away from me. Effendi, you probably know this already. This question came to me: 'What if my brother had already died, and he and my wife had found each other on the other side of this life, where they now talked and looked below?' I brooded over such thoughts. I awoke with these ideas, and I fell asleep with them."

"On the 15th day of the month of Adar, I dreamed that I was on my knees, praying in the mosque. Opened before me was the First Kiblah of the Holy Koran. My brother appeared to me and led me forth, wanting to help me realize what he wanted to say to me: 'I'm dead, but I live. You have not pardoned me, but I've forgiven you. I'll send you my forgiveness. She approaches from the East. Daily, keep a look-out for her and restore again what you have perpetrated against me!' His words resounded. Then, he disappeared. The Koran closed itself, and I awoke from the dream. This vision appeared to be so clear and so true to me, that I left my store for the entire day in order to ponder its meaning. Almost daily ever since, I am driven to come here as I look towards the East to see whether the dream is being fulfilled."

"Regularly, I sojourn for a short time in Bethany where I visit the grave of Lazarus. Why? I don't know. For me, it's as if this is the only place where I shall somehow meet with the messenger of my brother. Effendi, what do you say about this dream?" "Listen to what you yourself are saying about your brother. Truly, your own feelings can lead you better than any separate perspective that I could give you." "So, do you think that I should continue to take my daily walks to this place?" I replied: "Through someone or in some way, will they forbid you to visit this site?" He answered, "No." So I assured him, "Well then, there's no real reason for you to stop."

Relieved, Mustafa confided in me: "I thank you. At first, it was hard for me to tell you and your wife about these matters. Now that I've told you, I feel that my heart has grown much lighter. So, come! Twilight is coming, and we must go-otherwise, the darkness will overtake us on our way back.

He stood up, and we followed his example. He was right; the evening sank lower, so we hurried towards home. Along the way, he told us how he had taken care of some business for us. In Hebron, he had located an expensive, Arabian Pasha-saddle which was for sale. He would send a messenger to pick it up, then show the saddle to me. Just then, I remembered: "Oh yes, I personally must go towards Hebron. I want to show my wife the Grave of Abraham, Abraham's Well, and the famous Oak of Mamre, where the three angels appeared to the Patriarch."

He happily called out: "So, if you'll permit me, I'll accompany you. Since I have many important and pressing things to do there, it would be best if we could travel tomorrow." I agreed: "Yes, we can do that. Any time that suits you is OK for us." He seemed pleased: "Really? Then tomorrow is OK? And may I bring along my son Thar? It will be a real treat for him to accompany you and me, riding in a beautiful carriage to see an unknown part of the world. In that direction, he's never traveled farther than Bethlehem." We were happy to oblige: "If it's OK with you, we have no objection to Thar coming with us."

"Good. So it's decided that we'll make the trip; I'll make the arrangements for a carriage. Since you're now on your way to my home, please stay awhile longer at my house. I want you to see the joy which your invitation will bring to my boy." Before we reached our destination, it became completely dark. Mustafa Bustani knocked on the inner gate's locked door.

Shuffling foot steps drew near; the African cook opened the door for us. She had an oriental wind-lantern in her hand. By its light, we saw that her entire body had been wrapped in a white sheet, which now was so full of blue, green, red, and yellow smudges, that we hardly recognized its original surface.

When the master of the house saw her, he cried out: "Maschallah! Look at you!" As she proudly answered, a most satisfied grin almost doubled in size as it spread across her face: "This is art!" Bewildered, Mustafa pressed further: "Art? How so?" Maschallah replied: "We are painting the Red Sea. We began right after lunch, and we're still not quite finished."

"You-you're painting too?" he asked. Certain, yet not exactly cheerful misgivings began to cross his mind. In a tone that seemed to have greater and greater self-satisfaction, she declared: "Yes, I. The 'Favored One' is painting only the water, the air, and the sun; I, however, paint the land green. Thar is not yet finished." Mustafa quizzed further: "The green land? Well then, what does he paint on? Hopefully, only on paper." Maschallah surprised him: "Upon paper? Oh no. That would be much too small. We're painting on the wall."

"Upon the wall? Where then?" She answered: "In the garden house." Mustafa cried out: "Allah, Allah! On the wall in the garden house? That is outrageous! What will I see there? I must go there immediately." He hurried away from the gate where he had been standing all this time. At this moment, the cook saw my wife and me. Her face lit up like a search light when she recognized me.

"Effendi!" she called out. "Already here today! The 'Chosen One' said that you were coming tomorrow. Hurry and follow me. The 'Favored One' said that you may see it, but his father is still forbidden to view it. We must quickly send him away. He may not come in!" She jogged along with her lantern as we followed more slowly. It was not far-hardly twenty paces. The main residence lay in the middle of the garden, and the garden house stood along the outer wall. Mustafa Bustani had not yet caught up with us. He would not have been able to restrain himself from entering into the room wherein we now set foot and saw "the art." I remembered its former decor. I had often been inside of this little house. Its construction was square, with the doorway facing the garden. Without windows to offer a view to the outside world, the other three sides were painted ivory-yellow-white and decorated with gold-lettered maxims regarding cures. Due to its seclusion, cleanliness, aesthetic stillness, and modesty, this garden house had always impressed me as soothing. Not so on this night.

Suddenly, the door was jerked wide open. In front of it stood Mustafa Bustani. He had not yet entered, because his son resisted his doing so. From the ceiling hung a light fixture whose lamp burned with a bright flame. In the center of the room, we saw the artist. Before noon, his form and his shirt had been in two colors-now they appeared to be immersed in four: namely in sky-blue, poisonous green, sparkling yellow, and in scorching red. Such intensive, screaming- colors are upsetting to one who is highly sensitive about art. Amid all of this, it is no wonder the boy was not in a good mood. As we came still closer to the garden house, we heard Thar's angry voice as he shouted to his father: "No! You promised me!" Mustafa Bustani answered: "But as you see, Effendi is here." "Where?" As the father pulled me to his side and showed me to his son, I announced myself: "Here." Thar wondered aloud: "Today already? You were supposed to come tomorrow. Nevertheless, it's good that you're here now. It's true that I have not yet finished, for you see that the sharks are still missing; but in due time, I'll put them in-this will go very quickly. Both of you, please step in and-" His father interrupted: "And I too?"

"I wish to be kind and also allow you to enter, because both of the chief guests are present. I'm doing this only because you are occasionally lenient with me." Mustafa agreed: "Unfortunately so! Allah knows that I am." So not exactly in a mood of harmony and not quite used to this feeling, we got ready to enjoy the work of art. I have to note the plain truth about these circumstances-neither before nor afterwards did my eyes grasp the painting's depth of understanding and the height of its elaboration. Its impact made us feel that we were standing in front of such an enormous, astonishing, unparalleled achievement. The absolute least I can do is to give a brief sketch of the situation. Like a painting by Rafael Santi or a masterpiece by Rembrandt van Rijn, it's absolutely impossible to describe fully.

According to oriental custom, the garden house entrance was only open by way of the garden and thereby closed to the outside world. When we stepped through the open door, there were three walls that closed off the room-to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. As mentioned earlier, the walls were once painted ivory-yellow with gold-lettered claims concerning advice on healthy living. Now, these no longer existed. The middle wall was masculine-blood-red, or perhaps more of a scorching reddish hue. Both of the side walls were painted in a shade of ultimate-manly, juicy green color. Above these hues of red and green, everything was painted blue. High above on the ceiling, where the light fixture cord was attached, there sat a large yellow spot. At first, the blotch was probably round, but this form no longer held its shape as it ran together with the blue. On the right-hand wall, in the middle of the green, there stood a white house; it had two doors, a window, and three chimneys. In the middle of the green left-hand wall, a black house stood; it had three doors, no windows at all, and two chimneys. To the left of the mid-field of vision, where the red butted together with the green, one focused below on a black human heel that stretched upwards to half of the leg's calf. Midway and at the bottom portion of the right-hand wall, where the green jostled against the red, our eyes saw a white human instep that was connected to half of a shin bone, which appeared to extend out of the red. Thar had already announced that sharks were supposed to be added. Even if he put forth all of his effort on the three walls, I found only a narrow place where a shark would feel at home.

With a kind of superior look, his eyes glided over us: "All of you simply stand and marvel! Don't you know what it means? Effendi, do you know what it is?" Since he so directly referred to me, it was best for me to blur my judgment of the painting's merit. I was very diplomatic, mentioning nothing objectionable as to what the picture was supposed to be. In any case, I wanted to keep the artist's high esteem. For this reason, I simply answered in general terms, yet with a practicable enthusiasm for this artwork: "It is the pure Blue- green-red-yellow Wonder!"