He didn’t speak softly, so the boy heard every word. As a result of this, Thar came out of his corner and said to me: “Effendi, you need to hear the whole story; my father is not fully informing you. Namely, it’s this way: my Father says that I was ‘most favored’ by my Mother. In every way, she wanted to take care of me. She knew that I had talent, so she was confident that one day I would become a great artist. On the other hand, here is what Mother always said: ‘I’m Father’s favorite. In all things, he looks after me. Still, he has the talents of valiant heroes, and he shall become a great man.’ When I attend school and listen to my teacher, he constantly says that I’m the ‘chosen one’ of my Father, of My mother, and of all my relatives; they follow everything I do. According to my teacher, I don’t have the slightest amount of talent ever to become a great man—my prospects are surely limited to that of working in commerce, playing chess, and hatching hoaxes. So now you know, Effendi.”
He said this so seriously. Truly, this was an earnest matter. Not only that, it was infinitely important. His father had no idea about the depth of meaning which lay in this child’s honest words. However, my wife perceived the truth in what he said, because she looked at me and knowingly nodded.
In the meantime, the boy had changed his external appearance—not only in the way of colors, but even in relation to their arrangement. That which earlier had been green, now was blue, and what was once blue became green. The right leg, the left arm, and both cheeks were now green. His left leg, right arm, upper lip, and twisted-moustache were blue. Seeing this, I asked myself: “What’s next?”
He answered promptly: “I’m Judas Maccabees, and I have a vendetta against the Syrians. I’ll let that go for the time being, because I’ve heard what my Father said about me. I’ve told you what he thinks about me, how my Mother once thought of me, and the teacher’s assessment of me. Now, I would also like to know your point of view, Effendi. First of all, please tell me your opinion about all this. Who’s right? Father, Mother, or the teacher?”
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.