the Garden.’ ” He pointed at the red. “And this one is Farsi. It has a portion
of ‘Margbar Omrika.’ ”
“Which means?”
Abbas smiled. “Death to America.”
It was ironic, of course. All three were ironic, only where did the jokes
land? Daniel couldn’t guess. “Will Arabic or Farsi speakers recognize the
quotes despite what’s missing?”
“Not unless I tell them.”
“Will you?”
“I do not know yet.”
It was a gimmick, a postmodern art trick: You find your meaning and then
hide it—painting over it or putting it in a foreign language. You know it’s
there and it influences you while you work, but mostly it just makes you feel
you’re actually saying something. Daniel had used this schtick himself. Today
it only annoyed him. The new paintings annoyed him. They were beautiful,
yet cold and austere, with or without their text.
“So what do you think?” said Abbas.
“They’re beautiful.”
Abbas heard the other thoughts under the words. “But?”
But Daniel wasn’t the most objective judge here, was he? He was jealous
of the paintings. Abbas believed in them, giving his work more attention,
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
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emotion, and time than he gave anything else in his life, including his children.
Daniel was jealous of Mina and Osh, too, but he also identified with them.
Daniel decided to come out with it. “They’re a little too cold for my taste.
Cold and impersonal.”
Abbas considered this. “Maybe that is just me. Maybe you find me cold
and impersonal?”
It was as if Abbas were reading his mind. “It’s possible.”
“But what is bad in people might be good in art,” said Abbas. “A little
coldness is often better than sloppy warmth.”
“You find me sloppy?”
Abbas pursed his lips together, a kind of shrug of the mouth. “I wasn’t
talking about you. Only me.” Were they even talking about the same thing?
Daniel stole a look at the kids, wondering what they made of this ex-
change. “I prefer your warm side. Which sometimes comes out with your
family.” But never with Daniel.
Abbas followed Daniel’s eyes to his children. He looked back down at the
green painting, the merciful God painting. He set his chin in his hand and
thought a moment. “Osh, darling? Could you come here? I need your help.”
The boy jumped off the sofa and happily bounced over.
“You are right,” Abbas told Daniel. “They are too cold. They need a
human mark or touch or something. Do you love me, Osh?”
The boy giggled. “Oui, Papa.”
“And I love you.” He knelt on one knee beside his son. “Hold out your
hand. Give me your arm.” He pushed back the boy’s sleeve. “You must keep
very still.” He reached down and picked up a stubby tube of paint. He
squeezed it into Osh’s palm: a fat jewel of carmine red. “We will clean it off
later, but first we will have fun.” Cupping Osh’s little hand in the saucer of his
paw, Abbas used his thumb to smooth the cold, oily redness over the palm
and tiny digits.
The boy stared in amazement as his hand turned the color of horror-movie
gore. He began to laugh as if being tickled.
Abbas laughed, too. “No, no,” he said and hugged him. “Keep your hand
open. Don’t get it on your clothes. Your mother will be furious.” He wiped his
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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m
own thumb with a rag. “You are my brush,” he whispered and gripped the
boy’s wrist. “You are my crayon. Hold your fingers so.” He demonstrated
with his free hand. “I am going to put you in my painting.”
Mina had come over and crouched down in her pink leotard, looking fret-
ful, as if watching two boys do something nasty.
Osh held his mouth wide open as his father took his hand and pressed it
on the wet canvas. Then he peeled it off, as delicately as a stencil, leaving a
small red handprint on the feathery swirls of apple green paint.
“There!” Abbas promptly took the rag and began to clean off the boy’s
hand. “That is you. You are in my art. You are immortal. What do you think?”
he asked Daniel.
Daniel was confused seeing Abbas use his son so cheerfully, so callously.
Yet the handprint was effective, even beautiful. “It works,” he said. “It
changes things. It makes it look like a cave painting.”
“Hmm. I like that.” Abbas laughed. “You hear that, Osh? You are a cave-
man. You are the first human. You are Adam.” He hugged his son again.