Remnants of Sunset...

The rain fell violently, striking the window pane without mercy or pity...

He turned his head to where she sat and cried:

“Tell me, for God's sake, what did the doctor say?”

She closed her hand over his and said with a mighty calm:

“Why do you insist on knowing? Don't you trust us?”

“I am afraid, and a frightened man trusts no one. Tell me. I want the truth...”

“He said that if the danger grows worse, he will be forced to cut it off”...

“No, no... he is mad... he is mad...”

She bowed her head and he turned his face away, and the rain went on striking the glass with violence and cruelty...

“I will not let him cut it off — no, by my God, I will not let him”...

She wept, hiding her face in her hands — bitter, frightening tears...

He left her to weep, not sensing that she was weeping, and began striking the edge of the bed with his left hand, raging, feverish...

“Why do you torment yourself so? It may be that the danger will not grow worse”...

He looked at her slowly, as though seeing her for the first time — a weeping woman whose eyes carried the tenderness of the earth and the blue of the sky...

“I am a terrified coward. Forget my terror and do not weep... perhaps the pain will ease, as you say”...

She smiled, and he tried to smile and could not...

The rain slackened a moment, then returned to its cruelty, and the darkness of dusk embraced the blackness of night...

“Hayat, sleep. I have worn you out today with my shouting”...

She passed her hand over his forehead, then laid her head upon his chest and said:

“You have not worn me out. It is you who are spent. The pain has worn you out...”

He kissed her hair and closed his eyes...

The rain stopped, making a cold stillness broken by the moans of an angry, open-winged wind...

“Hayat”...

“Yes, my darling, I am here, listening”...

“They used to call me a simpleton, a freak — all of them: my father, my mother, my brothers... taking no account of the trembling of my heart... I was afraid to sit with them and talk with them... afraid of their jokes and their conversation and their love for one another. Do my words disturb you?”

“Not at all. I have often wished you would talk to me like this”...

“I loved my mother very much. Her face was the first beautiful thing my hand ever drew. I hid the drawing in my breast and showed it to her one evening, on a night like this one, wet and black... She looked at it a long while, then turned her face away and did not look at me... She was weeping in silence. I went mad with pain and took her face between my hands, crying out without knowing what I did: 'Why do you not look at my face and say, “God bless you, my son,” as you say to my brothers when they come to you with their coins? I love you as they love you — no, more! Why do you not look at this hand of mine that draws, as you look at their hands that work and write? This hand will bring you coins one day — gold, even! So I implore you by God, mother, not to shake your head in pain every time I show you a drawing...' Then my father sprang up threatening, so I let my hand fall and drew away, crawling to my corner; and he followed me and sat down beside me, looking at me, bewildered, anguished...

“'Forgive me, father, I will not shout like that again.' He put his arm around my shoulder, saying: 'We love you as we love your brothers, but you do not try to win our approval as they do... You do not study, and you do not try to learn as they do... They help me when they find the time, while you sit apart with a wandering gaze, drawing absurdities like these, unaware of our existence...

“'Why are you like this, my son — so different from your brothers?'

“I did not answer him, and I waited until he despaired of my answer and left me. Then I stole away to my bed in the other room, listening for the fall of my mother's footsteps coming to talk to me — and she did not come... So I said: she is weeping her disappointment in me, the sluggish dullard, the youngest of her children and the most trying of them all... Do I trouble you with this bitter talk of mine?”

“No, not at all! You do not trouble me, and you never have... I love you more than any human being in this existence... Do you want me to turn on the light for you?”

“No, I want to talk slowly like this, in the dark”...

“Talk — talk to me; I am all heart and eyes and ears”...

The wind and the silence of the night pricked up their ears.

“The days swept us along with them, and I remained as I was — indeed I grew more skillful at drawing and fonder of it, while they grew more despairing at the failure of my life, more hopeless...

“I would bend over my pictures for long hours alone, wresting from the weariness of my soul flashes of hope and snatches of optimism,

gathering them up and weaving dreams from their fabric... Yes, a maker of dreams I was... making great dreams that nothing could fulfill but God's help and the mercy of the days... How happy my life was, Hayat, and how wretched... How happy in my dreams and how wretched in their cruelty... My mother once took me by surprise, asking:

“'Is this what you will do to earn your bread?'

“I said, looking at my brush: 'Yes, I have chosen drawing as my trade... It will feed me bread at any rate. I don't care about eating meat'...

“She cried: 'You are spiteful and resentful, and you do not care about us'...

“'Mother, for God's sake, do not say that — you are hurting me'...

“She shook her head, then let it fall upon my shoulder, her eyes closed... I threw down my brush and put my arms around her and said in a whisper:

“'I love you, mother, and I love my father and my brothers, and God is witness to what I say.'

“She cried, her eyes filling with tears: 'God keep you, my son, and bless you'...

“I cried: 'Mother, say, “God bless your brush”'...

“And she cried: 'God bless your brush'...”

“Hayat. You are crying! Why?”

“Your mother — I wish I had seen her, if only once”...

“The picture of her face was the first canvas of mine ever exhibited... the first rung of the ladder, the first step on the road... People looked at it a long while, and some wept with feeling... 'A Mother's Face' I called it... A rich man who loves to buy beauty bought it, and I carried the price to her — carried it running, and laid it at her feet; and she did not look at it, but looked at my face, smiling, laughing... I cried:

“'Look what they have written about me here'... And she did not look at the newspapers but at my face, smiling, laughing... And I cried: 'Would my father have smiled like you, if he had stayed alive with us?'

“And she nodded, then smiled and laughed...

“Poor mother — and poor me! 'A Mother's Farewell' I called the last canvas I made of her; I painted her asleep, cold, with my brothers and their wives around her, their heads bowed... I put the price of the canvas away in my strongbox and cursed life”...

“Do not strain yourself so. Try to give yourself up to sleep”...

“No — I have no right to curse life after it has taken and given... it took me and gave me you.... I am spiteful and resentful, as she once said...

“Do you remember the day I stood behind you, contemplating your hair, while you contemplated a canvas of mine? You turned your face and saw me and said:

“'He is a great artist! His canvases make one weep.'

“'Yes — he paints with his tears'...

“Then your beautiful blue eyes turned, and you said:

“'You are he?'

“A matchless hour it was — was it not, Hayat, my life? In it each of us found the other... an exceeding kindness from life, and a great atonement...”

“I beg you, my darling, try to sleep”...

“I cannot... I am afraid... afraid he will cut it off... I shall not be able to paint you if he cuts it off; my eyes will turn to stone and my heart will freeze, and you will freeze within it”...

“I will pray — I will pray until dawn, and God hears and answers”...

“Come close to me, then, and pray. Let me hear you praying”...

*

Remnants of sunset gathered in that hospital room...

Remnants of sunset gathered in his heart until it filled with sunset...

He strained his hearing and fixed his eyes on the door, waiting...

She closed the door behind her and came near the bed...

“I did not let him bring you the good news. I wanted to bring it myself”...

“It will not be cut off?!”

“It will not be cut off”...

“Bring your forehead close so I may kiss it, and tell me — why do you love me?”

“Because you are a great artist!”

“Who paints with his tears?”

“No — with your hand, moved by the beats of your great heart”...