Land of the Plane Tree Leaf by Amir Hosein Bakhshian, Translated by Farshad Torkashvand. Chapter 3: The Land of Maple Leaf

 

 

 Chapter 3: The Land of the Maple Leaf



I glance at Behzad's Omega pocket watch, connected to my pocket by a chain, set to Toronto time—with every tick and tock, I feel like I'm hearing the "tom-tom" of Behzad's heartbeat. This watch was very, very precious to Behzad, even more valuable than the Greenwich London watch, which seemed to be the origin of his existence—and this origin divided the world for him with an imaginary line like an apple into two equal halves: himself on one side and Rozita on the other, because he had it as a keepsake from his beloved, from his mirror—Rozita. Occasionally he would enter an ecstatic state and hum this poem: "I died / I came alive / I wept / I became laughter / The fortune of love came and I became the enduring fortune." After all these years, if I see her, can I remember her face—I barely recognized her voice. What do I even remember of her, unless I consult my photo archive—which I doubt has any remaining photos—or rely on my long-term memory.

When I search the darkroom of my mind, gradually I remember her with an orange light that is coming to life... She has been and still is the best and most fascinating subject of my photography, but I didn't know this subject was Behzad's Platonic love. Perhaps it was God's work that I was involuntarily present at that specific place during the "golden hour" of photography to reveal a secret that had been troubling Behzad's mind for a long time. It was almost on such a day, in such autumn weather with wind blowing, that the photos—through the language of images—expressed a bitter and perhaps sweet truth. Always out of nostalgia, I used my own Kodak analog camera, but that day, by chance, I had Behzad's digital Leica camera in my hand! In fact, I was looking around from his camera's lens angle, and to this day, I still have Behzad's camera with me.

It was autumn, but the weather was a bit cold and leaning toward winter, and patches of dark clouds occasionally blocked the orange sunlight, forcing me to take out another lens from my backpack that would be compatible with the environment—a lens that would also provide a wider field of view. The same lens Behzad called "the fisheye lens," whose function and workings he had shown me. He said: "When I first saw the transparent body of that white swan—or rather, the Queen of Waters—in the depths of Lake Keo, suddenly my eyes, like my camera's lens, miraculously became like the eyes of aquatic creatures." Before that incident, Behzad had never shown me a photo of Rozita, because he was used to keeping his personal matters hidden from us. But I had heard a lot about her—descriptions of that mole, those lines, those eyes and eyebrows... Because those two had been playmates before I was even born, and apart from one photo taken together at the kindergarten of the Chenar Oil Company township, I had never seen an image of her. Later, because of the transfer of Rozita's father, distance grew between them, until after years they accidentally saw each other at the Bisheh train station, fell in love, and became attached to one another.

That night when I came home, I was editing and reviewing photos when suddenly a spark went off in my mind, and I remembered that I had previously seen Rozita's photo as a "missing person" on city bulletin boards. I realized she was the same person Behzad was interested in—and in that moment, my head spun and cold sweat formed on my forehead. But I quickly thought to relieve Behzad of his worry and clear his mind of confusion, and I bluntly told him that his white swan had gone ice-skating all the way to Canada with the prince of her fairy tales.

I remember very well the first time I clearly and distinctly saw her at the "Canadian Immigration Office" in the green zone of Khorramabad—on Marefat Street, overlooking Lake Keo. I don't know why, but it seemed that this immigration office was destined to be the meeting place for me and Rozita, Behzad's Platonic love. Exactly at the last stop of the Oil Company—Lake Keo—we got off the bus! A station located opposite the lake and overlooking Saki Mayor's Square. The bronze winged lions roaring are its symbol and emblem. Special blue buses for the workers, employees, and families of the Chenar Oil Company, with a distinctive appearance different from other urban transport buses, bearing a logo in the shape of a horse-headed pumice stone, loading and unloading passengers at specific times. In fact, along the route, we were like a mobile aquarium that the city's residents stared at, and she was the only golden fish in this aquarium.

She was seated at the front of the bus in the women's section, with her colored eyes and ash-blonde hair, and I was standing at the back of the bus in the men's section, holding onto a pole so I wouldn't fall on anyone! Layers of workers, foremen, employees, and officers of the Oil Company—as if the feeling of being alive had left them—or rather, layers of mannequins and tired, lifeless mouths in the eerie atmosphere of the bus with its frosted windows. My eyes kept returning to her, with her specific style and discipline—from the way she dressed to the accessories she used! She wore a red raspberry-colored hat on her head, with part of her highlighted hair falling from beneath it. Her knitted orange scarf was tied in a bow. The dark blue velvet coat and gloves she wore, along with her undercoat—which was a shade lighter—whether intentionally or not, were coordinated, and her flower brooch, earrings, necklace, watch strap, bag, shoes, and rainbow-colored umbrella all had an artistic harmony together. Her face, with colored eyes that had a dazed and veiled quality, was pleasing to me! A noble and authentic Iranian, and a free, liberated bird who, as fate would have it, had become my fellow traveler and co-storyteller—although I knew this journey was for a short time, it was worth it.

This route has always been fascinating and scenic to me because when you leave the Chenar Oil Company township, you enter a forest road full of orderly, interconnected, sky-high plane trees that seem to have their heads together, forming a delightful corridor—a safe and comfortable canopy for every creature and bird in the summer noon.

Continuing along the way, first the Lorestan Industrial Town comes into view, which seems like a ghost town with its shut-down factories like Parsilon, Niru Pars Machinery, Leather and Hide, Agriculture and Industry, and Bozhan Refrigeration, covered in dust. Further along, the lights of the airport control tower and the takeoff of airplanes bring hope and the thrill of flight to one's heart. Then Dezh-e Shapourkhavast shines like a jewel, and the rest of the city's ancient monuments—such as the Shapouri Bridge, the brick minaret, the inscription stone, and the stone whirlpool—appear before my eyes like negatives until reaching Lake Keo. I was both saddened by the shut-down factories and mesmerized by the city's ancient monuments when the bus stopped at the last stop, and she got off ahead of everyone else and walked quickly toward the immigration office. I too, reluctantly, got off quietly and slowly behind her.

I thought to myself that she surely had administrative business regarding residency, but it was unbelievable and surprising that she could be an employee there. It was a mystery how she could have gotten on the bus from the Chenar Oil Company township, which has nothing but golden boxwood hedges and plane trees as its barrier and enclosure, without anyone noticing her presence—not even Behzad, who was searching for her desperately and knew her better than anyone. Perhaps her comings and goings were so discreet that no one even heard her footsteps. I myself must have been in a dreamlike state, not having seen this flower among the thorns during her presence—maybe because my head was buried in books, notebooks, and homework, or I was busy with refrigeration work, and occasionally when I looked around, it was through my camera lens. It was surprising to me why this playful rabbit had never been caught by my camera's lens before—instead, it was Behzad who had fallen into the trap of this fleeing deer.

Behzad used to say: "Water is in the jug and we wander thirsty / Our beloved is in the house and we wander the world."

And then the tables turned, and the force of circumstance made it so that in seeking his beloved, he would wander the world and enter into storms and crises to quench his thirst.

The queue was relatively long, and many applicants were seeking immigration for work and study, but she seemed to have priority and, as if she were the best, entered the immigration office from a separate line with greetings and blessings. The building was grand, in the architectural style of Frank Lloyd Wright, with a Roman-arched entrance covered in creeping roses and jasmine, and its battlements occupied by wallcrawlers and rock doves. And I, as if a moving corpse, stood at the end of the queue waiting for my turn. Not to mention, the way she walked, swaying and strutting, bumped into me with her body to push me out of her way—for a few moments I felt she was a playful rabbit and I was a fresh, crisp carrot in a meadow that she wanted to gobble up whole. She walked like a ballerina, as if she had been performing the role of the white swan for years, charming her hunter with coquetry and grace. The sparkle of her shimmering earrings, which sometimes made her face moonlit and sometimes sunlit, captivated everyone, and the gleam of her colored—and of course oriental—eyes from behind her cat-eye glasses, which protected against the faded autumn sun's rays, took on different shapes and colors every moment, deeply affecting me. I felt as if I had known her for a thousand years—perhaps I had never even heard of her because she was once from the Chenar Oil Company township and I hadn't had the fortune of knowing her. Instead, it was Behzad who had fallen into her trap and snare! I couldn't blame him for being so distraught and restless in her absence. She looked at me—or rather, at everyone and everything around—with coquetry and grace, and I watched her with amazement and from the depths of my being.

I think there was a Halloween celebration or All Saints' Day event at the immigration office because everywhere was shrouded in darkness, lit only by the light of candles in carved pumpkins shaped like the faces of ghosts and specters, placed in front of the landscaped lawn and in the courtyard of the immigration office. I say this because on my way to the immigration office and its vicinity, I was several times frightened by teenage boys and girls—apparently children of the immigration office employees who lived in the staff quarters nearby—dressed as ghosts, specters, scarecrows, and witches, hiding behind cypress and pine trees. In response, I just laughed and said: "Where is the Land of the Maple Leaf?"

As it happened, the electricity in that area had gone out, and I fumbled through the alleys and backstreets that led to Lake Keo. The orange and persimmon trees with their lush green leaves arranged in a particular order, and their orange fruits that seemed like rubies and diamonds, somehow illuminated the path. Moreover, she was several steps ahead of me, as if carrying a blazing torch, and I managed to reach that place. Nothing had happened yet, step by step, and on the other hand, the cold and frost had filled my entire body, and I was shivering and nearly wet myself—perhaps because before leaving home, I had drunk the leftover and curdled morning milk from my mother and my father's strong bitter coffees that he had forced me to drink.

I felt like I was suffering from jet lag and flight fatigue, as if the rotation of my head and neck had changed to 360 degrees and the world was spinning around me. I didn't know where I was putting my feet, and my bladder had shrunk—I felt I might wet myself at any moment and was looking for a place to relieve myself.

From a distance, orange halogen lights that kept flickering on and off were visible—originating from the immigration office itself, which seemed like a lighthouse. Sounds could be heard, like the song "Willst du" by Alex the wolf-throated, and music in the style of hard rock and heavy metal, though my attention was more drawn to the rustling of leaves and the chirping of sparrows. Inside the immigration office itself, it seemed a costume ball was underway, because all the employees wore masks of various shapes, trying to scare everyone. When my turn came, the gate opened. Fortunately, without being asked for a password, without wearing a mask on my face, without anyone asking for my passport or subjecting me to a body search or taking my camera, I entered the immigration office—and in that instant, I felt an electricity run through my entire being, making my hair stand on end. Suddenly, the lights came on and the music stopped, as if to say the game was over.

Inside the immigration office, a large crowd was milling about, and wave after wave surged toward me, tightening the circle of encirclement—but I couldn't see the person I needed to see. I looked around, and suddenly the silence of the immigration office was broken, and I heard my inner voice, but this time warmer and closer: "Home is where the heart is."

I turned around, and a respectable person offered me chocolate and said calmly with a gracious smile: "Well, submit your documents for residency!"

I replied: "I want to apply for a work visa, and I also have an invitation letter from an oil company."

He nodded in confirmation, as if to say you've come to the right place. After completing a series of administrative procedures—filling out forms, taking photos, signing, and fingerprinting—he guided me to a room where a white flag with a red maple leaf in its center hung above the door.

His room was full of symbols and insignia from the Land of the Maple Leaf country, pasted and hung on the walls! Stickers and labels in English and sometimes French, framed photos and paintings of Canadian landscapes and artists—such as surrealist painter Rob Gonzales, who takes one's breath away—in addition to a library full of books by authors like Lucy Maud Montgomery, Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood, and Brian Tracy, and an archive of Canadian films and series such as "Road to Avonlea," "The Farm," "Doctor of the Village," "Anne of Green Gables," "Emily of New Moon," and "Road to Orillia," which were truly memorable and evoked the past. Interestingly, on the window in his room, a photo of Niagara Falls could be seen, giving a special effect. The photo of Niagara Falls was so large and clear that you felt you were there—beside the Horseshoe Falls, Bridal Veil Falls, American Falls, Rainbow Bridge, pleasure boats with blue and red flags, Niagara Church, amusement parks, the giant Ferris wheel, fast food joints, and casinos—and you'd say to yourself, any moment now I'll jump from the top of Niagara Falls.

When he opened the window, the radiant orange light of the setting sun and its luminous chariots streamed into the room, and for a moment, Lake Keo became visible—with two swans in love swimming toward their wooden cabin. I don't know why he opened the window in that cold weather—it seemed like he was performing magic or changing the stage curtain.

While I was lost in thought, he said with a sneer: "Come, here is your own little Niagara Falls! You've abandoned the real thing and are chasing credit—why is the neighbor's chicken always a goose to you?!"

I replied: "Well, in a way you're right, but it's not a fair comparison, and if I weren't forced, I would never emigrate or have this desire to leave."

Then he said haughtily: "There, you are a stranger, and to prove yourself, you'll be forced to search for identity!"

I answered: "Yes, you're right—the sorrow of exile is hard, and there I am an immigrant. I know many people there have xenophobia and fear of foreigners, but I am a bronze horse that can roam the seven heavens, and I don't need to prove my identity to anyone—I'm just a guest among those people for a short while!"

He didn't say anything more and fell into thought, continuing the discussion in another direction: "Before you go, you must read the Canadian Citizenship Law book so that if you want to get permanent residency, you won't have any problems and will be familiar with their laws."

I nodded in confirmation and said: "Certainly, wherever I go, I appreciate the opportunities they provide—from democracy to modernization—but I will never forget my identity. As Sohrab Sepehri said, 'I am a Muslim, my qibla is a red rose!'" He smiled graciously and began reciting the rest of the poem...

"My prayer rug is the meadow, my altar is light, my prayer niche is the plain. I perform ablution with the pulse of windows."

While reciting the poem, he stood up and closed the window, and during this time, I also examined the arrangement of his desk and office setup! Above the console mirror in the room was a photo of him standing like a tall cypress in front of Niagara City Hall, with a background of colorful flower gardens and boxwood hedges, and an intimate framed photo of him with his family members—among whom was a radiant lady who seemed to be his mother, embracing him tightly. The faces of the people in the framed photo, especially his mother's photo, looked very, very familiar to me, but at that moment my mind couldn't place them. Later I realized it was because of their specific attire that my thoughts hadn't reached the right place. When I looked at his desk, I saw his framed degree from the University of Toronto, and next to his computer was a Hermes typewriter. His desk was full of various colorful inks and different kinds of fountain pens, and a glass and crystal pen holder filled with ballpoint pens and fountain pens. On one wall hung hockey sticks and golf clubs, and on the opposite wall was a photo of a horse of a particular breed and a goose in flight, along with a patchwork fabric in green, gold, red, and brown colors, with a sentence written in capital letters: "I have a Mother better than a green leaf," which sounded familiar to me. Indeed, it was the famous poem by Sohrab Sepehri that says: "I have a mother better than a tree's leaf..."

When he sat behind his desk, he seated me on a warm, comfortable chair and offered me warm milk with a spoonful of pure honey, and said in English: "Welcome to the land of the maple leaf!" In a friendly atmosphere—as if getting the visa were just an excuse—we began talking about ourselves, our interests, and living conditions in Canada. Without any introduction, he took an antique silver filigree pocket watch from his desk drawer, gift-wrapped, and after opening the box, with a mysterious and meaningful look, he set its hands and gave it to me, saying: "This is a gift from me to your brother, and I've set it to Toronto time."

Confused, I asked: "For my brother? On what occasion—do you know him?!"

He laughed and said: "This is called 'forced fortune.' This watch is a gift from one of my clients whose case I processed for Canadian residency. Why he bought me a men's pocket watch is a question..."

Then he laughed and said: "Perhaps because I have a masculine demeanor—and besides, your brother may also want to apply for a study visa in a few days. I hope both of you can get residency soon."

Things became suspicious to me, and it was as clear as day that he knew Behzad. Interestingly, not long after that incident, Behzad's application for a study visa was approved, but my application was rejected, and I was forced to stay here because of my parents.

I half-rose and took the watch from him in surprise, asking: "By the way, are you also a resident of Canada?"

He sneered and said: "If I say yes to my Canadian suitor, I'll get permanent residency immediately."

This remark made me swallow my saliva and freeze in my seat. After collecting myself, I lifted my head confidently and said with a half-sneer: "Now he's in Canada and you're in Iran—literally thousands of kilometers apart, with a time difference between you—you're living in two different worlds."

Then, gesturing toward the door, he said: "No, no, you're very wrong—because he's right now in the next room waiting for me, and you've probably seen him here, as he's one of the employees. The same one who has a fox tattoo on his forearm and a Persian poem calligraphed on his shirt—do you know that the most important trait of a fox is its problem-solving ability, and poetry is for delicacy of temperament and good memory."

I lowered my head and said nothing, just gritting my teeth in frustration. I wanted to say that our Behzad has been wanting to tattoo a lion on his back for a lifetime and calligraph the Qazvini story from Rumi's Masnavi on his room's curtain—but for now, he's a sleeping, silent lion who hasn't done calligraphy for a long time. A poem he would occasionally recite for us in a storytelling style, as if he were part of the performance:

*"Hear this tale from the eloquent one / About the way and custom of the Qazvinis / On body, hands, and shoulders without harm / They tattoo with needles / A Qazvini went to a cupper / 'Tattoo me sweetly,' he said / 'What design shall I make?' asked the hero / 'Make a fierce lion,' he said / 'My fortune is a lion, tattoo a lion's image / Make the blue tattoo dark,' he said / 'Where shall I tattoo it?' he asked / 'On my shoulder,' he said / When he pierced the needle in / The pain settled in his shoulder / The hero cried out, 'O Sunni / You've killed me, what are you doing?' / He said, 'You ordered a lion' / He said, 'Where did you start?' / He said, 'I started from the backside' / He said, 'Leave it, O my sight / From the backside and rear of the lion, it took my breath / His backside gripped my backside / Let it be a tailless lion, O lion-maker / My heart weakened from the wound's bite' / The man took another spot / Without mercy and compassion / He cried out, 'What part is this?' / He said, 'This is the ear, O good man' / He said, 'If it has no ear, O wise one / Leave the ear and shorten the work' / He started pricking another spot / Again the Qazvini cried out / 'What is this third part?' he said / 'This is the lion's belly, O dear,' he said / He said, 'If the lion has no belly / The pain increases, fewer wounds make' / The cupper stared and remained perplexed / Biting his finger in wonder / He threw down the needle in anger / 'Has anyone in the world had this happen?' / 'A lion without tail, head, and belly— / God Himself never created such a lion!'"*

I kept thinking, why did she set the watch to Toronto time—Behzad hadn't even mentioned leaving or getting residency yet; he'd just gotten his medical degree and was doing his internship at a health post near the railway and Bisheh Waterfall. Perhaps she knew and wanted to torment Behzad with this gesture. I was completely bewildered about what had passed between them. I had heard that there was something between Behzad and this woman, but I was unaware of the details and didn't know what fate awaited Behzad.

The Halloween celebration had somewhat disrupted the rules of the immigration office, and I—like Behzad—was fishing in troubled waters, but it seemed the net was torn and the fish was escaping.

Yes, it was her, without any doubt, despite my weak eyesight. She was the one whose every facial feature Behzad had described to me in detail. Later, when I learned she was Mr. Zarrin-Kafsh's daughter, I saw her photo in our family album next to Behzad—and I could still see traces of her childhood innocence in her face.

When my business was done, I spent a few minutes in the immigration office's courtyard, mesmerized by the maple and Douglas fir trees, and picking persimmons and golden berries from the garden. She left the immigration office ahead of me, and for a moment I saw her silhouette—it became a faint, fading image, as if she had entered the city of the forgotten.

As far as I remember, it had never snowed in our city in autumn—even a little—but that part of the city where the immigration office was located seemed to have become part of the Land of the Maple Leaf, and its coldness and Fahrenheit temperature had harmonized with that place. The cumulonimbus clouds were denser, and the sky was constantly carding clouds, and crystalline snowflakes began to scatter and take hold—the crystal snow grains were settling on the cypress and pine trees, their sparkle pleasing to the eye. The rustling of leaves and the crunch-crunch of pedestrians' footsteps conveyed a sense of loneliness more than ever. In contrast, the commotion and excitement of the golfers and the clip-clop of horses on the equestrian track brought back the thrill and vitality of life. A little further around the lake, several election campaigns were underway, with loudspeakers creating noise and commotion, and candidates promising entry into parliament—their most important promises being the revival of closed factories like Parsilon, Leather and Hide, Lorestan Agro-Industry, Lorestan Refrigeration, Lorestan Machinery, and the construction of a petrochemical plant. Most of their audience were the city's educated but unemployed youth, whose image seemed faint and strange to me. I only knew that the street was covered in campaign flyers of candidates posing in specific ways to win votes, with the background of their photos often being Lake Keo or Dezh-e Shapourkhavast. Fortunately, I didn't enter the crowd's commotion because finding her wouldn't have been easy. I followed her without delay, tiptoeing quietly and fearlessly—like a pigeon following grain, or a falcon hunting—as if I had a blood relationship with her, because seeing her made my blood boil, my heart race, and my affection drawn toward her, as if a magical force pulled me: "Blood calls to blood."

Perhaps it was because of the orange scarf she wore that my curiosity was aroused, and I followed her like a rude magpie chasing a perfect partridge.

First, she went to the airline office on the other side of Marefat Street, where the logos of airlines like Lufthansa, Alitalia, KLM, and Qantas on the security glass inspired the thrill of flight and interaction with flight attendants and pilots—and the philosophy of emigration came alive in one's heart. After a few minutes, she returned with a ticket bearing the logo of Air Canada. Seeing the ticket, I saw everything as finished for Behzad, and my legs went weak. But a glimmer of hope remained in my heart for two reasons: one, Behzad going to Canada, and the other, that perhaps she hadn't given a definitive answer to her Canadian suitor yet.

Then she left and went to one of the women's boutiques on that side—around Mother's Square—where a young artist and sculptor was using his artistic hands to extract a statue from a piece of stone, chiseling and carving on the lifeless body of a mother with hammer and chisel, rasp and drill, simultaneously bringing life to the child in the mother's loving embrace.

She ignored the young man's artistry and entered a boutique called "Ladies' First"—

A boutique with blue décor, and yellow, red, and orange neon signs flickering with the words "Autumn Sale!"

Seeing this term, I remembered my father, who jokingly said: "This is just a feminist slogan used by some men to deceive women. Whenever you see a man offering a woman priority and saying 'ladies first,' know that there's a pit of mud or a deep well in front of that woman, or a stone or flowerpot is about to fall from a window ledge on her head." My mother said meaningfully: "A woman can't hurt you except by ignoring you."

Inside the boutique, several mannequins were having their clothes and colors changed by female salesclerks! I was lost in watching all this beauty that emanated from her. I had no intention or purpose—just my photographer's curiosity and the search for truth brought me there. I wanted to go forward and at least ask her name, but I had been so mesmerized by watching her during our conversation that I forgot to ask. I felt a bit shy and decided to give up. The truth is, I was afraid to go further—afraid of disrespecting her, or if my guess was correct and she was Behzad's missing one, and Behzad found out, he might think badly of me. I wandered around that area and returned to the same spot.

I saw her! She was still in front of the same boutique—but neither buying nor browsing. In this commotion, the sound of a gunshot was heard. Crows flew cawing from the maple trees, and a mass of colorful leaves fell on the paved sidewalk, mingling with the snowflakes. But the water in this white swan's heart didn't stir—not at all. Only her posture changed slightly, and that slight change created turmoil in this photographer's heart. Defeated and helpless, in the "blue hour" of photography, I took a photo of her—a slightly tilted, three-quarter profile reminiscent of the character from the film "Fifty Shades Darker." Throughout those moments, I felt Behzad's presence beside me—his Leica camera was the main reason this feeling was instilled in me. Then the snowfall intensified and a blizzard broke out, with snow falling from sky to ground and ground to sky—as if a cotton-carder was tossing cotton. I had neither an umbrella nor a coat—unlike her, who as soon as a few crystal snowflakes fell on her scalp and hair, immediately buttoned her coat and opened her umbrella. I was humming this poem to myself: "What would happen at dusk if I satisfied my heart with seeing you / Out of my good fortune, someone would call your name in the alley."

Suddenly, a foreign-looking man with blue eyes, a horsetail hairstyle, and a square-shaped face in a car with a special license plate—apparently from the immigration office—called out with a particular accent: "Rozita!"

It was as if a meteorite had fallen from the sky as a snowball on my head. Suddenly, our Rozita and that man got into the car and slowly drove along the quiet lakeside street. I stood dumbfounded under the snowfall for a few minutes, staring blankly at the boutique mannequins. In fact, this man was the one who involuntarily destroyed our Behzad. It was strange to me why Rozita didn't take the Oil Company's special bus and went with this man instead. Surely this gentleman was her Canadian suitor. Lost in these thoughts—like a hundred geese turning into one—the young sculptor called me and said: "If it's no trouble, come quickly and let's pull a canvas cover over the head of the mother statue."