“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.”