“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!”
He agreed with me: “Right! You never say something false. It has cost us a lot of effort and color. Just look this way!” He pointed down towards the floor, where half to entirely empty paint cans stood. All sorts of paint brushes lay scattered around, and it was impossible to count the number of clean-up rags and sponges. “We fetched these from the white-washer,” he continued. “Since the time was too short and I would not be able to finish the work alone, the cook had to help me. She just painted the land, which is easy. As for the rest, I had to do this by myself; she has no talent to do more.”
His father was extremely upset. With a great deal of effort, he suppressed his anger and asked: “Well then, who gave you permission to paint over these walls and the expensive inscriptions?” His son answered, ”Of course, it was you!”
“I—?” stammered the father. Thar replied: “Yes, you yourself. I asked you if I could paint two pictures in the garden house, and you gave me permission to do so.”