pressure of a stronger mind, but by pity, to seek that part of himself that had
been a god.
When he opened them again the window was still banging against the wall.
Outside, clouds pulsed with a hundred shades of gray-always gray! Gods, he was
so tired of this colorless world! Lalo looked down, and saw that the chalk
pressed between his hand and Gyskouras’s plump fingers had left a smear of
yellow on the slate. For a moment he stared at it, then he reached for an orange
chalk and put it into Arton’s slimmer hand.
“Here,” he whispered, “draw me a line beside the other-yes, just so….” One by
one he gave colors to the children and guided their awkward hands. Yellow,
orange, red and purple, blue and turquoise and green-the chalk glowed against
the dark stone. And when all the colors had been used, Lalo got to his feet,
holding the slate carefully.
“Now, let’s make something pretty-I can’t do it alone. You both come here with
me …” Lalo held out his hand and drew first Arton, then Gyskouras, from his
mother’s arms. “Come to the window, don’t be afraid …”
Lalo was dimly aware that the room had gone very still behind him, but all his
attention was on the two children beside him and the storm outside. They reached
the window; Lalo knelt, his greying ginger head touching the dark child’s head
and the fair.
“Now blow,” he said softly. “Blow on the picture and we’ll make the nasty clouds
all go away.”
He felt the children’s milky breath warm on his fingers. He bowed his head and
expelled his own pent breath outward, saw chalk dust haze the damp air. His eyes