“That a little one might live?”
“Even so, Khalil—that a child might have life.”
Khayyat smiled. “The quest is ended,” he said. “It is well that Salim is dead.”
It is well? The people marvelled that Khalil Khayyat should have spoken these cruel words. It is well? And Khalil Khayyat had said so?
“That Salim should die in the cold water?” Nageeb Fiani protested.
“That Salim should die—the death that he did. It is well.”
The word was soon to be spoken; out of the mind and heart of Khalil Khayyat, the poet, great wisdom would appear. There was a crowding at the door: the people pressed closer that no shade of meaning might be lost; the dark faces turned yet more eager; the silence deepened, until the muffled rattle of trucks, lumbering through the snowy night, and the roar of the Elevated train were plain to be heard. What would the poet say? What word of eternal truth would he speak?
“It is well?” Nageeb Fiani whispered.
“It is well.”
The time was not yet come. The people still crowded, still shuffled—still breathed. The poet waited, having the patience of poets.