The Blood of Flowers (19 page)

I thought about Fereydoon's eyes. They were a warm brown color, and they had been so close to mine that I had seen the pupils contracting in response to the light of the oil lamps.

"He is as handsome as Yusuf," I said, "the pearl of his age."

"And his lips!" she said, as if she hadn't heard me. "They are so thick and red." She blushed, her creamy cheeks going pink all at once. "I wonder what it must be like to kiss him!"

I could have told her what a kiss was like. When Fereydoon first put his tongue in my mouth, it seemed as fat as a worm, and he had pushed it between my lips and crushed my nose against his without giving me room to breathe. But I liked the way his tongue felt when it darted in and out of my mouth. Naheed, I believed, was imagining a kiss that would stop chastely at the lips.

"I think of nothing but being wrapped in his embrace, feeling his chest against mine and the muscles in his arms."

How could she know of the strangely pleasant roughness of a man's wiry chest against her breasts, as I did? But the other things we had done had been less pleasing: the strange hot pressure when I opened my legs, the sharp pain, and his exploding wetness later. I grew uncomfortable thinking about it.

"You're blushing," said Naheed. "Do these things embarrass you?"

"Perhaps," I said, willing myself to bring my mind back to her concerns. If Fereydoon and I had been as deeply in love as Iskandar and Naheed, would I have conquered my shyness and enjoyed my night with him more?

"I have only you to thank, dear friend, for my happiness," Naheed continued. "This never would have happened if you hadn't agreed to come with me to polo."

"It is nothing!"

"My heart is yearning to hear from him again," continued Naheed. "I need to hear more words of love to know if his feelings match mine."

I longed to tell Naheed about my sigheh, but Gordiyeh and Gostaham's demand for silence made me fear that my new situation would diminish me in her esteem. Even if I had been able to confide in her, I wouldn't be able to describe Fereydoon with the joy with which she discussed Iskandar. My marriage had been one of necessity; hers would be one of choice.

"You aren't listening to me," said Naheed with a frown. "What is it? You look sad today."

I had been trying to keep my feelings out of our conversation, but it was impossible.

"I just wish . . . that I was married to someone I loved!" I said abruptly, but it was more than that. Why couldn't I have a fairy face, with creamy white skin? Why couldn't my father be alive, to rain his blessings upon me? And why couldn't I be with a man who wanted me so much that he would marry me forever?

"It will happen for you, too," said Naheed. "When you discover love, you will see that it is the most exalted feeling of the heart."

She threw her arms around me before we parted, unable to contain her emotions. I wondered if she was right. Naheed seemed to be swept away by the force of her own desires. Was that love? I didn't know, but I was happy to see her blooming like a rose garden, even though my own heart felt hollow.

FEREYDOON CLAIMED ME by night, but by day I still belonged to Gostaham. Shortly after my first night with Fereydoon, he summoned me to his workroom. Now that I knew the ways of men, I felt shy around him, but he treated me just the same, as an apprentice with a job to complete.

My mother and I had already repaid Gordiyeh for the wool I had squandered using part of the sigheh money; the rest of the silver paid off the debts we had incurred in our village. After I promised to take Gostaham's advice in choosing colors, he agreed to purchase the wool for another rug. I swore by the Holy Qur'an that I would not remove the rug from the loom until it was completed.

Gostaham had drawn a new design in black ink and offered to tutor me as to how he chose his colors. I tried to keep my attention on our work rather than on my night with Fereydoon as he spread out the design in his workroom. It portrayed a vase surrounded by a garden of large fanciful blooms.

"Shah Abbas favors this design so much, it has been named after him," Gostaham said with a chuckle. "The design is not particularly complicated, which means that the colors become most important of all."

The vase had a narrow mouth and a body curved as generously as a woman's. Was my own made as fine? I blushed to think of myself naked before Fereydoon, and of how generously he had praised my breasts and hips.

Gostaham pulled out his tray of powdered pigments from a niche in the wall behind him. "Now watch carefully," he said.

At the very center of the vase was a rosette. Dipping his brush in water, he colored the rosette black with a cream center. The poppy holding the rosette became a bright orange, which he made float in a creamy sea of milk. The blossom enclosing the poppy became black, and the sides of the vase surrounding it, magenta.

"Tell me the colors you see, in order."

I started at the vase. "Cream, black, orange; cream, black, magenta," I said, becoming excited as I spoke. "It's a pattern!"

"Correct," said Gostaham.

The three large blossoms surrounding the vase contained succulent interior worlds of flowers, leaves, and arabesques. The first he colored mostly orange, punctuated with green; the second was mostly green with touches of black, orange, and pink like spots on a butterfly's wings. It was no surprise that the third blossom was largely pink.

"Watch the colors again," he said.

The third blossom began as a tiny pink flower with a cream center surrounded by black petals, which exploded into a mature magenta rose in a black sea punctuated by tiny orange flowers. It was like seeing a flower blossom through all the phases of its life. It reminded me of how Fereydoon's middle had seemed to unfold, stand tall, burst forth, and come peacefully to rest.

"You didn't answer my question," said Gostaham.

I hadn't even heard his request for me to name the colors. "Cream, pink, black; magenta, orange, black," I said, with more excitement than before. There was the pattern again, but in a different arrangement.

"Good. Now look at all the blossoms as a group. Since I'm using the same colors repeatedly, why is it that the eye does not grow bored?"

The answer was plain. "Although the blossoms are related, like members of a family, each is an unparalleled treasure."

"Just so."

Gostaham sketched ropes of smaller flowers around each of the large blossoms, encircling them loosely but affectionately, in much the same way that Fereydoon had first held me around the waist. From Gostaham's pen emerged the wild red tulip, with its black center, purple-black violets, red-brick pomegranate flowers, black narcissus, and pink roses.

"Now I have a test for you," Gostaham said. On another piece of paper, he sketched a blossom from the side and colored it with a green-and-black center and blue leaves. "Where shall I put this in the design?" he asked, handing me the paper.

I held the new drawing against the design, but it seemed to quarrel with the magenta and orange. Finally I said, "I can't find a place for it."

Gostaham smiled. "That's right," he said. "The colors don't fit, even though they are beautiful on their own."

"Unity and integrity," I murmured, remembering his last lesson.

"Praise God!" said Gostaham, his face lit by one of his rare smiles. "Now copy this design and its colors until you understand it with your own eyes and fingertips. Then, and only then, will I give you permission to begin knotting."

I did as I was told. After Gostaham gave his approval, we went to the bazaar together and looked for shades that matched the ones he had selected. Had we been working on a carpet for the royal rug workshop, he would have had those shades dyed to his specifications. Still, Isfahan's wool sellers were so well stocked that we were able to find hues close to the ones he recommended. I was jubilant, for now I could knot a carpet that would make both of us proud.

A FEW DAYS LATER, Fereydoon summoned me again. After receiving a letter from him in the morning, Gostaham found me in the courtyard working on the new carpet and told me, "You'll be wanted tonight." It took me a moment to understand what he meant, and then I colored with embarrassment at the thought that he and everyone else in the household knew what I'd be doing that evening. But after Gostaham left me to myself, I felt happy that Fereydoon wanted to see me, for I did not feel certain of how well I had performed as a wife.

When I finished my knotting for the day, I covered myself in my wraps and walked to the small, elegant home where I had given my virginity to Fereydoon. On the way, I thought about how affectionately my mother and Gordiyeh had prepared me for him, and how my bathing and dressing had taken all day. This time, and from then on, I was to be prepared by the women of Fereydoon's household. I worried about how it would feel to be handled by women I didn't know, women who served him instead of me.

When I arrived, Hayedeh greeted me and led me into the small hammam in Fereydoon's house. She had a firm, no-nonsense manner, as if she had done this many times before. The hammam was in a pretty white room with a marble floor and two deep marble tubs. I began to disrobe, as I did when I visited Homa's hammam, until I noticed that Hayedeh and her fat assistant, Aziz, were looking at me with something akin to scorn.

"I can do it myself," I said, thinking to save them effort.

Hayedeh would hear nothing of it. "We would be in great trouble if you were found to have bathed without our help," she said, making a noise that sounded like a snort.

Chastened, I allowed the women to finish disrobing me. They removed my clothes gently and folded them with care, although they were just the simple cotton garments I wore at home. When I was naked, they guided me into the hottest tub, as if I couldn't get there on my own. Because I had cared for myself in many ways since I was small, it felt peculiar to be treated like a vessel made of glass.

While I was resting in the water and letting the heat seep into my skin, Aziz offered me cool water and fragrant cucumber. As it was still Ramazan, I told her I would wait until after I heard the cannon. I wanted to get out of the hot water after only a few minutes, but they insisted I stay until my body felt limp. When my skin was soft all over, they helped me out of the tub, scrubbed me with soapy cloths, and examined my legs, underarms, and eyebrows for stray hairs. After making sure I would not offend Fereydoon with any forests of growth, Hayedeh washed the hair on my head and anointed it with a sweet-smelling oil made of cloves. Aziz massaged my shoulders and neck with her large, fat hands, and I pretended to fall asleep. If these servants knew any gossip about Fereydoon, I was sure they wouldn't be able to resist talking about him.

I have always known how to feign sleep, as that was the only way I could eavesdrop on my parents at night. My leg gave a sharp spasm and my mouth fell open. When a trickle of drool spilled down my cheek, I knew I would have convinced even those closest to me that I was as good as dead.

"What else is there to do?" asked Aziz in a whisper.

"Just dress her."

"Pity to cover her up," replied the heavy one with a sigh. "Look at her!"

Look at what? I wondered. I couldn't see where their eyes were looking, and I began to feel heat rising on my cheeks and chest.

"It's as if he can see right through their clothes," replied Hayedeh. "He'd never have been able to tell just by looking at her face."

"Yet she's so dark: almost the color of cinnamon."

"True," replied Hayedeh, "but look at what she hides beneath those old clothes!"

The heavy one laughed. "I was like that once, I'm sure!"

"No doubt you were, but have you ever seen such tiny hands and feet, as delicate as a child's?"

Aziz sighed. "Then again, her fingertips are as rough as a goat's horn," she said. "I'm sure he doesn't like that."

"It's not her fingertips he's going to mount," replied Hayedeh, and the two women cackled together as if it were the funniest joke they had ever heard.

"Yes," said the heavy one wistfully, "summer figs don't get as ripe."

"And summer roses fade within a week. Wait till she gets pregnant; then the curves of her body will burst and sag."

"You mean if she gets pregnant," said Aziz, and the two women laughed again, even harder this time. "After all, she only has three months."

"The day is waning; we'd better wake her up," said Hayedeh, and she began massaging one of my feet. I started and stretched as if I were just emerging out of a fast sleep. Despite all their ministrations, I ached as if I had been poked in the liver. How long would Fereydoon continue to want someone that even two old servants had found ways to pity?

"Look: She's cold!" said Aziz to Hayedeh. She seemed to have forgotten that I was awake and could hear what she was saying.

The attendants sat me on a wooden stool and began dressing me in clothing that a woman can wear only for her husband. They guided my legs into sheer trousers and my arms into a silk undergarment that tied only once at the neck. Over those I donned a pale pink sheath and a turquoise robe, which fell open to reveal my sheer tunic and the place where breast joined breast. On my hair, I wore a delicate wisp of white silk, more for adornment than for modesty, and a string of pearls across my forehead. The silks swished softly against my body as the women led me into the small chamber, the same one where I had met Fereydoon the first time. They lit braziers of frankincense, which I stood over to perfume my clothes and skin. They also brought in flasks of red wine and milk in vessels made of porcelain. I slipped off my shoes and placed them side by side on one of the tiles that adorned the floor. The strong, smoky incense seemed to catch in my throat. I hoped my mother was right, and that things would be different this time.