He walked lightly. He spoke softly.
I told him that I had always wanted to go to Damascus, his home. That I admired the Syrian light fixtures, the intricate inlaid furniture. He listened. He was a good listener.
Later. The next day, or perhaps the day after that, he told me that his work was inspired by literature, by music, by nature. He listed the Persian poets on his fingers, one by one. He spoke of Sufism, of spirit, of what moved him. I listened. I wanted to listen more.