The Blood of Flowers (6 page)

"Looking at me with eyes that seemed to understand my poverty and my ambition, the Shah said, 'Every day, kings offer me gifts of gold, but not one compares with the sacrifice you have just made.' It was my great fortune that he had just started the royal rug workshop in Isfahan to make the finest rugs for his palaces and to sell to rich men. He liked my carpet enough to invite me to join the workshop for a year's trial. My mother almost beat me when she heard I had given away the carpet. When I told her how my fortunes had changed, she praised the Shah's name."

"That is a story beyond stories!" said my mother.

"There was a long road yet ahead," said Gostaham. "When I started at the royal rug workshop, I was the lowliest of the low. I was lucky because all of us were paid an annual salary, and even though mine was the smallest, it was enough for me to live on and send money to my family. Conditions were much better at the Shah's workshop than in Shiraz. We worked from dawn until midday, but then we were at liberty to work for ourselves. In the afternoons, I freely learned from the masters with the approval of the Shah."

"So you have come to know him?" I asked with wonder, for the Shah was second only to God.

"Just as his humble servant," said Gostaham. "He takes great interest in carpets and knows how to knot them himself. From time to time he stops by the workshop, which is, after all, adjacent to his palace, to see how the carpets are progressing, and sometimes we exchange a few words. But to return to my story, one of his chief colorists took an interest in me and trained me to master the way hues are combined in a carpet. That has been my job for nearly twenty years, and after my dear mentor went to meet God, I became one of the assistant masters for color."

"They are second only to the master," said Gordiyeh proudly. "And perhaps he will one day become master of the whole workshop."

"There is no certainty in that," Gostaham said. "I have a strong competitor in Afsheen, the assistant master designer, and I believe the Shah is more impressed by designers than colorists. Still, I wouldn't change anything about the course of my life. Because it was that very colorist--the one who made me his apprentice--who taught me everything I know, and who also gave me his daughter as his wife." And here he smiled at Gordiyeh with so much affection and desire that it reminded me of the way my father used to look at my mother. My mother noticed, too, and for a moment her eyes filled.

"What kind of rugs do you make in the royal workshop?" I asked quickly, hoping Gostaham would stop smiling at his wife.

"The finest carpets in the land," he said. "Carpets that require an army of specialists. Carpets that the Shah keeps rolled up and stored in dark rooms so they will never be ruined by light. Carpets ordered by foreign kings with their coat of arms depicted in silver-wrapped thread. Carpets that will be treasured long after we're all dust."

"May God rain His blessings on Shah Abbas!" exclaimed Gor-diyeh.

"If not for him, I would still be a knotter in Shiraz," agreed Gostaham. "He is responsible not only for the rise in my own fortunes, but for exalting the craft of rug making above others."

It was getting late. My mother and I said good night and went to sleep in our little room. As I pulled the blankets around me, I thought about how for some families, good fortune rains down with no end. Perhaps now that we were in Isfahan with a fortunate family, our luck would finally change, despite what the comet had foretold.

THE NEXT DAY, Gordiyeh sent a messenger to Naheed's mother to tell her that I was her daughter's age and was visiting from the south. Her mother sent back an invitation for us to visit them that afternoon. When Gordiyeh told me it was time to go, I smoothed my hair behind my scarf and announced that I was ready.

"You can't leave the house like that!" she said, sounding exasperated.

I looked down at my clothes. I had dressed in my long-sleeved robe, a long tunic, and loose trousers, all black because I was still in mourning. I patted the hair at my temples, pushing back the locks that had strayed out of my scarf. My clothing had always been thought modest enough for my village.

"Why not?"

"It's different in the city," she replied. "Women from good families keep fully covered!"

I was speechless. Gordiyeh took my hand and led me into her quarters. She opened a trunk stuffed with cloth and rummaged through it until she found what she needed. Pulling me in front of her ample body, she removed my scarf and smoothed my hair on both sides of my head. It was unruly, I could tell. Then she wrapped a lightweight white cloth around my head and fastened it under my chin.

"There!" she said. "Now you'll look like Naheed and other girls when you're at home or visiting."

She held up a metal mirror so I could see. The cloth shielded my hair and neck, but I didn't like how exposed and fleshy my face looked. The days in the desert sun had made my face darker, especially against the whiteness of the scarf.

I looked away from the mirror, thanking her and turning to go.

"Wait, wait!" protested Gordiyeh. "Let me finish."

She shook out a hood and placed it expertly over the top of my head. Even though the hood was white, it was dark and airless inside.

"I can't see!" I complained.

Gordiyeh adjusted the hood so that a portion of lace covered my eyes. The world was visible again, but only as if looking through a net.

"That's your picheh," said Gordiyeh. "You should wear it when you're outside." It was hard to breathe, but once again I thanked her, relieved that we were done.

"Oh, but you are a funny little one!" said Gordiyeh. "Small, quick as a hare, and just as nervous. What's your hurry? Wait while I find you everything you need!"

She moved slowly, sorting through the cloths until she found a large white length of fabric. She draped it over my head and showed me how to hold it closed by clutching the fabric in my fist right under my chin.

"Now you look as you should, all snug inside your chador," she said.

I led the way out of her room, feeling as if I were carrying around a nomad's tent. Although I could see well enough if I looked straight out through the lace, I had no side vision. I was not used to holding a chador around me except at the mosque, and I tripped on it until I learned to position it above my ankles.

As I walked unsteadily down the hallway, Gordiyeh said, "For now, everyone will be able to tell that you are not from the city. But very soon, you will learn how to move as quietly and gently as a shadow."

When we returned to the birooni, Gostaham congratulated me on my new attire, and even my mother said she wouldn't recognize me in a crowd. Gordiyeh and I walked together to Naheed's house, which was a few minutes away through the Four Gardens district. It was a refreshing walk, for Shah Abbas had built a grand avenue through the district, lined by gardens and narrow canals of water. The road was wide enough for twenty people to stroll side by side, and it was filled with plane trees, whose hand-shaped leaves would form a shady green canopy in spring and summer. The road led to the Eternal River and the Thirty-three Arches Bridge, and had a view of the Zagros Mountains, whose jagged tips were covered with snow. The homes we passed had gardens as large as parks and seemed like palaces compared with the tiny, clustered dwellings in my village.

Hidden by my picheh I felt free to stare at those around me, since no one could see where I was looking. An old man who was missing part of his leg begged for alms under the cedar tree near Gostaham's house. A girl dallied aimlessly, her eyes darting around as if she were seeking something too embarrassing to name. On my left, the turquoise dome of the Friday mosque hovered over the city like a blessing, seemingly lighter than air.

Shortly after Thirty-three Arches Bridge came into view, we turned down a wide street toward Naheed's house. As soon as we stepped inside the door, we removed our chadors and pichehs and gave them to a servant. I felt lighter after relinquishing them.

Naheed reminded me of the princesses in the tales my mother liked to tell. She wore a long robe of lavender silk with an orange undergarment that peeked out at the neck, the sleeves, and the ankles. She was tall and thin, like a cypress tree, and her clothing swayed loosely when she moved. She had green eyes--the gift of her Russian mother, Ludmila--and her long hair, partially covered by an embroidered white head cloth, was wavy. Two loose tresses lay on her bosom. In back, her hair was in wefts that reached almost to her knees. The wefts were held by orange silk ties. I wanted to talk to her, but both of us had to sit quietly while our elders exchanged greetings. Naheed's mother noticed our eagerness and said to her, "Go ahead, joonam--soul of mine--and show your new friend your work."

"I'll be glad to," said Naheed. As she led me into her small, pretty workroom, whose carpet was made in soothing shades of gray and blue, she whispered, "At last we can talk without the old folks!" Her irreverence delighted me.

Naheed opened a trunk full of paper with black marks on it and pulled out a sheet to show me. I stared at it for a moment before I realized what she could do.

"God be praised!" I said. "You can write!" Not only was she beautiful, but a scholar, too. Almost no one in my village could read or write; I had never even met a girl who knew how to use a pen.

"Do you want me to show you how I do it?"

"Yes!"

Naheed dipped a reed pen into a vessel of black ink and brushed off the excess. Taking a fresh piece of paper, she wrote a word in large letters with the ease of long practice.

"There!" she said, showing me the page. "Do you know what that says?"

I clicked my tongue against my teeth.

"It's my name," said Naheed.

I stared at the graceful letters, which had a delicate dot on top and a dash below. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone's name recorded in ink.

"Take it--it's for you," she said.

I pressed the paper to my chest, not realizing it would leave a wet mark on my mourning clothes. "How did you learn?"

"My father taught me. He gives me a lesson every day." She smiled at the mention of him, and I could see that she was very close to her Baba. I felt a pang in my heart and I looked away.

"What's the matter?" Naheed asked. I told her why we had come to Isfahan from so far away.

"I'm sorry your luck has been so dark," she said. "But now that you're here, I'm sure things will change for you."

"God willing."

"You must miss your friends back home," she said, searching my face.

"Just Goli," I replied. "We have been friends since we were small. I would do anything at all for her!"

Naheed had a question in her eyes. "If Goli told you a secret, would you keep it quiet?" she asked.

"To the grave," I replied.

Naheed looked satisfied, as if an important concern about my loyalty had been addressed.

"I hope we can be good friends," she said.

I smiled, surprised by her swift offer of friendship. "Me, too," I replied. "Can I see more of your writing?"

"Of course," she said. "Here--take the pen yourself."

Naheed showed me how to make a few basic letters. I was clumsy and spilled pools of ink on the paper, but she told me everybody did that at first. After I had practiced for a while, Naheed stoppered the vessel of ink and put it away. "Enough writing!" she said imperiously. "Let's talk about other things."

She smiled so invitingly, I guessed what she wanted to talk about. "Tell me: Are you engaged?"

"No," I said sadly. "My parents were going to find a husband for me, but then my Baba--"

I couldn't finish the thought. "How about you?" I asked.

"Not yet," said Naheed, "but I plan to be soon."

"Who is the man your parents have chosen?"

Naheed's smile was victorious. "I've found someone myself."

"How can you do that?" I asked, astonished.

"I don't want some old goat that my parents know, not when I've already seen the most handsome man in Isfahan."

"And where did you find him?" I asked.

"Promise you won't tell?"

"I promise."

"You must swear that you will never breathe a word, or I'll put a curse on you."

"I swear by the Holy Qur'an," I said, frightened by the idea of a curse. I didn't need any more bad luck.

Naheed sighed with pleasure. "He's one of the best riders in the polo games at the Image of the World. You should see him on a horse!" She arose and imitated him taming a bucking stallion, which made me laugh.

"But Naheed," I said with concern, "what if your mother finds out?"

Naheed sat down again, slightly breathless. "She must never find out," she said, "for she would refuse a man of my own choice."

"Then how will you ensnare him?"

"I'll have to be very clever," she said. "But I'm not worried. I always find ways to make my parents do what I want. And most of the time, they think it's their own idea."

"May Ali, prince among men, fulfill all your hopes!" I replied, surprised by her boldness.

Few girls were as confident about their future as Naheed. I admired her for her certainty, just as I was dazzled by her smooth white skin, her green eyes, her lavender silk tunic, and her skill with the pen. I couldn't understand why she wanted to be my friend, as I was just a poor village girl and she was a learned child of the city, but it seemed that Naheed was one of those girls who could make or break rules as she liked.