Exiles in America(109)

stirred the air without finding an answer.

Zack noticed a stack of library books in the corner, fat art books on artists

he knew and liked: Hockney, Degas, Bacon, Balthus. He resisted the impulse

to open a volume just to give his eye something solid to look at.

Abbas was circling the room, keeping his distance from his paintings. He

approached Zack. Zack pointed at the books.

“I see you’re not completely indifferent to the human figure.”

“What?” Abbas looked. “No. But the figure was only a phase I was doing

to get where I was going. Now I am done with the body.”

Daniel stood close enough to hear. He turned to Zack with raised eye-

brows and a snarky, what-did-I-tell-you smirk.

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

Abbas joined his brother and wife, who stood in front of a large green

painting tilted against the back wall.

“Abbas, I do not know,” began Elena. “These are heavy. Maybe too

heavy?” It was hard to guess if she meant the adjective in its old, slangy sense

or something else.

Hassan, however, was intrigued by the paintings. “I love the colors,” he

said. “So rich. And the bits of Arabic are suggestive.” He aimed a finger at his

brother and smiled. “It is the Koran, yes?”

Abbas shrugged. “I began with Farsi, but Arabic is better. The samples of

calligraphy from the Koran are quite beautiful.”

So the squiggles weren’t sperm but the word of God?

Elena looked alarmed, Hassan delighted.

“The new work is about color,” Abbas insisted. “But I needed something

for the colors to hang on.” His voice took on the self-conscious drone of most

artists describing their art, an anxious mumble that Zack knew primarily from

Daniel’s comic parody of it. “I tried numbers, but numbers are too solid. Ara-

bic is softer, more various. And the bits of Koran offer a second layer of ref-

erence. The passages I quote can also be used as titles.” He pointed at the

green painting. “This one, for example, is called ‘In the name of God, the

compassionate, the merciful.’ ”

Hassan began to smile. “And it is green,” he said. “The favorite color of

Mohammed.”

Abbas frowned. “That was an accident.”

“There are no accidents in God’s universe,” Hassan teased. “What is this

one called?” He pointed at the pale orange rectangle on the floor.

“ ‘Surrender to God and you will be safe.’ ”

“And that one?”

Dark blue with waxy white lettering.

“ ‘Shall we believe as imbeciles believe?’ ”

The grin faded a little, but did not disappear. “I see. Your titles are also

jests. I have no problem with that. Because a jest is serious, too.” Hassan read-

justed his smile, renewed it. “You think you are a great rebel, a liberated ni-

hilist. But you are working out your feelings for God. Which includes a great

love of Him.”

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

2 5 1

Abbas stood up straighter. “Not at all. I am only working out problems in

shape and color. I don’t care about God.”

“You say that, and maybe you think it. But you don’t really feel it. Not in

your heart of hearts. Otherwise, it would not express itself so clearly in your

paintings. And I would not find them so beautiful.”

Abbas kept his defiant posture, yet the look in his eyes seemed to change,

softening then rehardening. He felt flattered by his brother, and he didn’t

want to be flattered.

Elena stood off to the side, watching her husband defend himself. Zack

expected her to jump into the argument. But she noticed something new in

the painting that leaned against the wall.

“Is that a hand?” She pointed at a red mark on the bright green canvas. “A

child’s hand?” She leaned in closer. “Is that Mina? No, it’s Osh!” She glared

at her husband. “You put his hand in your painting!”

Abbas looked confused. “So?”

“He isn’t dead!”

He stared at her in disbelief.

“It looks like blood!” she cried. “You make it look like somebody killed

him.” She barked at him in Russian, or maybe it was Farsi with a Russian accent.

Zack had never seen Elena so furious. He’d seen her angry with her hus-

band, but that had been about pride and self. This was more raw and out of

control, this was about her children.

“She does not like you quoting the Koran,” said Hassan.

“Bullshit!” She switched back to English. “Who cares about your Koran!

He can quote the Koran or the man in the moon, I don’t care. So long as he