“Somehow, was I supposed to understand that you would paint them on the walls instead of on paper? Son, we’ll talk further about this!” As if he had a stick in his hand, he gestured and added: “By the way, I see only one picture—not two.” The boy spoke up: “I’ve changed my mind; there will be more than two. Here is the first. Still others will follow. Effendi wants to see what I can do, so I must show him as much as possible.”
“Still more pictures? Like these? Are you crazy? Well then, which ones?” Thar answered: “Tomorrow, we are painting in the harem—the trumpets of Jericho and how the city’s walls collapsed.” Mustafa sighed: “Allah have pity on us. And the day after tomorrow?” The boy didn’t hesitate: “The day after tomorrow, we are painting the bedrooms.”
In disbelief, Mustafa asked: “But what?” Thar was quick to answer: “The downfall of Sodom and Gomorrah, complete with smoke and fire, lightening and thunder. I’ve already ordered the colors.” Mustafa was dumbfounded: “Already ordered? This too? Lightening and thunder, smoke and fire in the bedroom? As for your art, it seems that nothing is impossible. I realize that I must set limits. What then is portrayed here? There is no train of thought in that!”
With his use of the word “limits,” the father had again set something in motion—just like this morning when he wanted to take Thar across his knee. In spite of this threat, the boy had to laugh as he answered: “No thoughts? In there, we find all of the People of Israel, King Pharaoh, and all of his Egyptian soldiers!” Incredulous, the father inquired further: “How so? On the contrary, I see nothing of them!”
“That’s because they’re in the water! This picture shows the Children of Israel’s passage through the Red Sea. Don’t you see the Red Sea that is right in front of you? And over there is the blue air; directly above your head is the yellow sun, because the time of day is exactly noon. Here to the left, the green land, that is Egypt; and the house, that is the Palace of the Pharaoh. And here to the right, this green land is Palestine; the King of the Jebusites lives in the house that stands there. In between there lies the Red Sea. The Children of Israel were slaves in Egypt. Moses helped them break away. He fled with them into the Red Sea. Even now, all of them are stuck in there. With all of his armies, Pharaoh hurried after them. Look here! The last one of them has just now disappeared. You can still see his heel which is still above the water. On the other side over there, the Children of Israel are just now coming out of the water again. Already you can see the first one’s toes which are half-way out of the water. As soon as all of them are high and dry, I’ll paint in my sharks; then you’ll see that Pharaoh and all of his soldiers will be devoured—not a single one of them will remain. More or less, aren’t those the approximate ideas?”
He stretched himself out in front of his father and watched his dad’s face as he thought about these explanations. Behind us rang out the reproachful voice of their African cook. She was standing next to the door with her wind-lantern. She had heard everything: “It was my hand that produced the entire green land of Egypt and all of Palestine’s greenery. Tomorrow, I’m painting Jericho!” At that moment, the good Mustafa Bustani could no longer control himself. All of his temper burst forth. His voice thundered at them: “Tomorrow, you will learn what you can paint. March! Come away with me into the house!”
His angry voice shocked the African cook. She let loose of the lantern which shattered and extinguished—running away as fast as her feet would carry her. Realizing the impact of his wrath, the merchant immediately tried to take back its harsh impact. He addressed us in an apologetic tone: “Forgive me. Such anger is never the right thing. Please allow me to accompany you.”
We understood and gladly embraced him. He led us towards the gate through which we had come. It still stood open. There, he said this to us: “We’ll keep our plans to travel early tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at seven, European time. I don’t yet know whether I’ll bring my son along.”
My wife then asked about his son whom she had grown so fond of: “Will you punish him very severely?” Mustafa answered with an unusually solemn tone: “In this situation, I’ll have to think about who deserves the punishment here. With both of you here, it’s as if a light has come to me. Since this morning, it seems as if I now have entirely new eyes and ears. How did it happen that you, without any kind of perceptible reason, came along the same path leading to the heights of the Mount of Olives—the one which I daily climb—precisely at the same time?” I gently tossed out this word: “Coincidence!”
“You say that without personally believing it. I know all too well that you consider the word “coincidence” to be an embarrassing fabrication. However, for now that’s unimportant. Above all else this evening, I have to think about my son. I would like to be alone this evening. And without feeling ashamed, I can say to both of you that I must pray. This thought has come to me: I have placed the soul of my child upon the wrong path. Allah alone knows the hidden depths of our hearts. He wants to show me what is correct and what is false. Please, do not concern yourselves about the boy. He won’t receive punishment which he doesn’t deserve. Good night.” Extending our hands to him, we also said “Good night.” We were eager to see how tomorrow’s affairs would develop.