Chicago. Farouk Abdel Wahab
such a person is civilized and does not think that killing is a religious duty.”
Hence the admission of Nagi Abd al-Samad was a personal defeat for Dr. Thabit. In a short while, however, he decided to forget the whole matter. He lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and pushed the button of the CD player to listen to the songs of Lionel Richie, whom he adored. He thought of spending a quiet evening with his wife, Michelle, and his daughter, Sarah. He remembered the special bottle of Royal Salute scotch that he had bought a few days earlier and decided to open it tonight because he needed a good drink. After a while he arrived at his house, a handsome white two-story building with a beautiful garden and a backyard. He was met by his German shepherd, Metz, who barked loudly for a long time. He went around the house as usual to reach the garage. To his surprise he saw the lights on in the dining room, which meant they had company. He was annoyed, since Michelle had not told him that she was expecting anyone for dinner. He pressed the remote and the car locked automatically, then he closed the garage door and pulled the bolt to make sure it was securely locked. He walked slowly toward the house, trying to guess who the guest might be. He hurriedly patted Metz and got away from him, then entered through the side door and crossed the corridor carefully. Michelle heard his footsteps on the wooden floor and hurried toward him and planted a kiss on his check, saying merrily, “Come quickly. We have a wonderful surprise.”
When he went into the dining room Jeff, Sarah's boyfriend, was standing next to her. Jeff is about twenty-five, thin with a pale face. He has beautiful blue eyes, delicate pursed lips, and smooth chestnut-colored hair arranged in a long braid down his back. He had on a white T-shirt, blue jeans stained with colors in many places, and old sandals from which his dirty toes were visible. Jeff came forward to greet Ra'fat as Michelle's voice announced in the background, “Jeff has finished his painting this evening and decided that we'd be the first to see it. Isn't that wonderful?”
“Great. Welcome, Jeff,” said Ra'fat, having noticed after a side glance that his wife had had her hair done, preened, and put on her new corduroy pants. Jeff came forward to shake hands with him, laughing as he said, “Let me be frank with you, Ra'fat. Your opinion matters to me, of course, but when I finished my new painting I thought only of one thing: that Sarah be the first to see it.”
“Thank you,” whispered Sarah as she pressed his hand and looked at his handsome face in admiration. Michelle then asked, as though she were interviewing him on television, “Tell me, Jeff, what does an artist feel when he finishes a new work?”
Jeff raised his head slowly, looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and was silent for a moment, then extended his arms in front of him as if embracing the world and said in a dreamy voice, “I don't know how to describe that. The most beautiful moment in my life is when I put the finishing touches on a painting.”
His words touched the two women very much and they kept eyeing him fondly and in admiration. Then Michelle said, “Now, what do you think, Ra'fat? Should we have dinner first or see the painting?”
Ra'fat was very hungry, so he said calmly, “Just as you wish.”
But Sarah clapped and exclaimed merrily, “I can't wait one more moment to see the painting!”
“Me neither,” said Michelle as she led Ra'fat by the hand to a corner of the room. Jeff had placed the painting on an easel and covered it with a shiny white fabric. They all stood in front of it for a moment, then Jeff stepped forward, reached out with his hand, and pulled the edge of the fabric in a quick theatrical flourish. The painting was unveiled and Michelle and Sarah exclaimed at the same time, “Wow! Splendid! Splendid!”
Sarah turned around and stood on tiptoes and kissed Jeff on the cheeks. Ra'fat meanwhile kept looking at the painting, nodding slowly, as if trying to understand it more profoundly. The whole canvas was painted dark blue, in the middle of which were three yellow blotches, and on the top left was one red line almost invisible against the dark background. Sarah and her mother competed in heaping praise on Jeff while Ra'fat remained silent. Michelle asked him softly, but with a touch of rebuke, “Don't you like this magnificent painting?”
“I am trying to understand it. My taste is on the conventional side.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jeff, his face clouding over suddenly.
Ra'fat answered apologetically, “Actually, Jeff, I prefer the old way of drawing because I understand it better; the artist, for instance, drawing a portrait or a landscape. As for drawing in the modern art style, I frankly don't understand it.”
“I'm sorry that your understanding of art is so archaic. I thought your American education would have taught you more about art. Art is not to be understood by the mind, but appreciated by the feelings. And by the way, Ra'fat, please don't use the word drawing in front of me because it upsets me. Drawing is something we learn in grade school. Art is much greater than that.”
Jeff was very upset but he breathed deeply and turned his face away disapprovingly, then began looking at the two women, forcing a smile to appear, as an artist who had been harshly insulted but who decided to forget the insult because he was magnanimous by nature. Michelle was moved so she raised her voice, chastising her husband, “If you don't understand art, Ra'fat, it's best you don't talk about it!”
Ra'fat smiled and didn't answer. After a short while the four of them sat down to have dinner: Jeff next to Sarah and Ra'fat next to Michelle, who opened for the dear guest a bottle of good Bolognese wine.
The two lovers engaged in an intimate whispering conversation as Michelle looked on, visibly pleased.
“Michelle, are the problems over in the hospice?” asked Ra'fat loudly.
“Yes,” Michelle responded tersely, obviously preferring not to talk about that subject. But Ra'fat went on, addressing the lovers to distract them from loving. “Listen to this interesting story. You know that Michelle works in a hospice in Chicago that helps patients with incurable diseases who are waiting to die.”
“Helps them how?” Jeff asked, feigning interest.
Ra'fat replied enthusiastically, “The goal of the hospice is to make the idea of death acceptable and painless for dying patients: they bring clergy and psychologists to talk to them so they'll lose their fear in facing death. Naturally many of the hospice patients are rich. Last week something interesting happened to a wealthy patient whose name is …”
“Childs, Stuart Childs,” muttered Michelle as she chewed her food.
Ra'fat went on. “He was on the point of dying and the hospice administration sent for his children and they came by plane from California to be at his deathbed and take care of the burial, and so on. As soon as they arrived at the hospice, however, the father's health improved suddenly and he got over the crisis. This happened twice; do you know what his children did? They got a court injunction against the hospice in which it was stated that the hospice prognostication system was woefully deficient, because every time they had to get away from their jobs and businesses and bear the brunt and expenses of travel to attend their father's death, they were surprised to see him alive. They warned the hospice that if it were to happen again, they would demand considerable damages to compensate them for wasting their time and money. What do you think of that?”
“Very uplifting, Ra'fat,” Jeff said sarcastically, then yawned audibly, and Sarah burst out laughing.
Ra'fat ignored the sarcasm and added, “The Eastern mentality would interpret this behavior as ingratitude on the part of the children, but I view it as proof of respect for time in American society.”
No one commented on what Ra'fat said; the two lovers got busy whispering anew and Jeff said a few words in Sarah's ear and she smiled and blushed. Michelle was busy cutting her meat. Ra'fat got up, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin, saying with a lukewarm smile on his face: “Forgive me, Jeff. I have to go upstairs to my office. I have some work to do. See you this weekend to continue our discussion about art.”
Ra'fat waved and climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. As soon as he closed the door of his office he went directly to the cabinet near the window