The Blood of Flowers

  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.

  I didn’t have to wait very long, for Fereydoon arrived just after dusk. He entered the room, removed his shoes, and sat heavily on a cushion near me. The dagger at his waist glittered in the light of the oil lamps, which I wished had been less bright.

  “How is your health?” he asked in an abrupt tone.

  My skin prickled at his sharpness, but I answered as calmly as I could, “I am well, thanks be to God.” When I asked in turn how he was, he merely grunted in reply. I thought we would have food and drink first, for neither of us had consumed anything all day, but Fereydoon led me into the bedchamber and briskly pushed the turquoise robe off my shoulders. Off it came faster than a rose petal falls to the ground, followed by my pink tunic. Fereydoon pulled off my sheer trousers and cast them aside. I remained in my thin silk shift, which tied at the neck but opened to reveal all else. “I think I’ll have you just like this,” he said.

  Fereydoon shrugged off his clothes and doffed his turban, sending it spinning across the room like a skipping ball. Without bothering to remove my hair covering, he parted my shift and crawled on top of me on the bedroll. Unlike our first time together, he thrust into me without delay. I winced, but he was not looking at me, and so, remembering what I ought to do, I began mo
ving my hips in the way I had learned the last time, although I ached. It was only moments before Fereydoon shuddered and collapsed on my chest. I lay there beneath him, disappointed again, listening as the sound of his breathing quieted to normal. Was this the way it was to be with us? I felt a strong desire to caress his thick, wavy hair, which he revealed to my eyes only. But he was already nearly asleep, and I didn’t dare rouse him. I lay there sleepless, my eyes wide open. This was nothing like what I had expected of marriage. It didn’t remind me at all of how my father had adored my mother, or how Gostaham treated Gordiyeh.

  After a while, the cannon boomed and Fereydoon stirred, stretched, put on his clothing, and told me to do the same. He clapped for the servants, who returned hastily with food and with the impertinent musician I remembered from our first evening. We ate another sumptuous meal of roasted meats, saffron rice, and fresh greens while the musician entertained us. I thought he was the prettiest young man I had ever seen. He had large almond-shaped eyes, thick brown curls, and the coquetry of a dancing girl. He couldn’t have been much younger than I was, but the skin on his beardless face was smoother than mine. Fereydoon looked transported by his playing. When he reached high notes that shivered with beauty, Fereydoon nearly seemed to swoon. I thought I caught the musician sneering at the sight of Fereydoon’s pleasure, but when Fereydoon opened his eyes, the young man’s face was carefully neutral.

  When Fereydoon had had enough of the musician, he sent him away along with the servants. Pouring milk into a large vessel of wine, he bade me drink it. I had never had any wine, as many of the women of my village refused to drink it for religious reasons (although I know some of them tasted it privately). The beverage had the aroma of a ripe grape and the comforting froth of fresh milk. I drank it very quickly and lay back on the bedroll, stretching out my arms and letting my legs part in a way that was starting to seem natural. I felt as relaxed and limp as I had in the bath. I imagined that Fereydoon might hold me in his arms and kiss my face, and that, after joining our bodies, he would listen as I told him stories about my life at home. But Fereydoon’s eyes began to glitter, and without a word, he tore off all my garments again, this time with violence—I was alarmed to witness the fate of such costly clothes—and lifted me in his arms. He had me against the inlaid wooden doors that led to the room, which banged loudly with his every thrust. I cringed as I imagined what the servants must be thinking of the banging, as rhythmic as a drum, for they were right outside the door, listening for Fereydoon’s quietest handclap. But that was not all. Fereydoon dragged me away from the doors and threw some cushions on the floor so that he could have me kneeling in the way that dogs rut, and finally, as the sky lightened, he took me standing up and supported in his arms, with my legs wrapped around his back. That night, I had no reason to worry about whether Fereydoon wanted me—whether my skin was too dark or whether I delighted him as a wife.

  Diligent though I was in his arms, my body didn’t soar with pleasure. Where were the raptures everyone had promised? I was even more disappointed than I had been after our first meeting, for nothing had changed. But I did whatever Fereydoon told me to do, mindful that he could say good-bye to me after a few months, and leave my mother and me dependent on the kindness of Gordiyeh and Gostaham. I could not imagine enduring ever again the winter of deprivation we had suffered in my village. Here in Isfahan, we were warm, comfortable, and well fed. So if Fereydoon told me to leave my clothes on or take them off, to go here or there, or to bend over like a dog, I felt I must obey.

  Fereydoon seemed well pleased by our evening together. He reached for me again in the morning, groaning quickly, and then hummed to himself as he wrapped his body in a robe before his bath. I put on my cotton clothes to wear home. The servants appeared with coffee and bread, averting their eyes from me. I thought I caught Hayedeh smirking as she collected the cushions Fereydoon had arranged on the floor, for she could tell exactly what we had done and in which corner of the room.

  DURING THE FIRST few weeks of my sigheh, I worked hard on the carpet. As it grew on my loom, I became more and more happy with it. The colors were felicitous; Gostaham had seen to that. There was no doubt that the rug outshone the last one. Even Gordiyeh couldn’t deny it. Having endured her fury, I rejoiced about that.

  One afternoon, I was in the courtyard knotting the rug when a servant came by to tell me that Gostaham had returned home with a Dutchman. That was my signal to go upstairs to the secret nook and peek through the white carvings. Gostaham and the Dutchman were sitting on cushions in a semicircle with the accountant Parveez, who was present to write down any agreement the two might achieve. Although I had seen foreigners before, I had never seen one from the Christian lands to the west. All I knew was that the farangis believed in worshipping idols, and that their women thought nothing of displaying their hair and their bosoms in public.

  The Dutchman had hair like straw and blue eyes like a dog’s. Rather than wearing a long, cool tunic, he was attired in a tight blue velvet jacket and short blue pants that formed pouches near the tops of his thighs, as if he had buttocks both front and back. His legs were covered with white stockings, which must have been hot. When he raised his arm, I saw that sweat had bitten white rings into his coat.

  “It is a great honor to have you as a guest in my home,” Gostaham was saying to him.

  “The honor is very much mine,” replied the Dutchman in fluent Farsi. Like children, he had trouble making kh and gh sounds, but otherwise he was very easy to understand.

  “We don’t see foreigners like yourself very often,” Gostaham continued.

  “It’s because the journey is long and arduous,” replied the Dutchman. “Many of my colleagues have died in their pursuit of business here. But we are grateful that your esteemed Shah Abbas has opened your country so warmly to trade. Your silk is far cheaper than China’s, and just as good.”

  Gostaham smiled. “It’s our biggest export. Every family who can afford it has a shed for silkworms.”

  Gostaham had one of his own near his house. I loved to go inside the cool, dark shed and stroke the soft white fibers that grew a little rounder every day.

  “The silk certainly makes some of the finest rugs I have ever seen,” said the Dutchman, who seemed eager to steer the conversation to business.

  “Indeed,” said Gostaham, but he was not ready for that discussion. He changed the subject to a friendlier topic. “I imagine that if you have been traveling for more than a year, you must miss your family,” he said.

  “Very much,” said the Dutchman, sighing heavily.

  I was eager to hear something of his wife, but he didn’t elaborate. “It’s kind of you to ask about my family,” he said, “but what I wanted to talk about today was carpets, and the possibility of commissioning one from a great master like yourself.”

  I stiffened in my nook. Didn’t the Dutchman have any manners? It was rude to begin discussing business so quickly. I could tell Gostaham was offended from the way he looked away without speaking. Parveez stiffened; he was embarrassed for the man.

  The Dutchman’s forehead creased with heavy folds, as if he realized he had made a mistake. Fortunately, the awkward moment was interrupted by Taghee, who entered the room bearing vessels of sour cherry sharbat. It was stuffy in the nook, and I craved a taste of the tart drink.

  “Please tell us about your country,” said Gostaham, demon-strating his unerring hospitality. “We have heard so much about its beauties.”

  The Dutchman took a deep drink of his sharbat and leaned back into the cushions. “Ah,” he said, smiling. “My land is a land of rivers. You needn’t carry water when you travel, as you do here.”

  Parveez spoke for the first time. “Your land must be very green, like an emerald,” he said. He was an accountant in training who liked to imagine himself as a poet.

  “Green everywhere,” replied the merchant. “When spring comes, the green is so piercing it hurts to look at it, and it rains almost every day.”
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  Parveez sighed again, no doubt at the thought of so much water, and his long eyelashes fluttered like a woman’s. I don’t think the Dutchman noticed.

  “We have cows that get fat from the rich green grass, and dairies that make the creamiest cheese. We grow yellow and red tulips, which require much water to thrive. Because we are a nation of water, we are also sailors. We have a saying: ‘You must never turn your back on the sea.’ We are always finding ways to tame her.”

  “You have blue eyes,” said Parveez, “like the water.”

  I giggled quietly. I suspected that Parveez was thinking of attaching himself to this fellow, perhaps as a traveling companion whose poetry would be inspired by the sight of foreign lands.

  The Dutchman smiled. “Even our houses sit on the sea. My own is built on one of the canals that run through the city. Because of the damp, my people like to warm their floors with your rugs. On top of them they put many items made of wood—things to sit on, things to eat on, things to lie on at night. We don’t like to be near the floor, where it is moist and chilly.”

  “We have no need for that here,” Gostaham said. “The ground is dry and comfortable.”

  “Where do you find so much wood?” Parveez asked the merchant with astonishment. “Your country sounds like a paradise.”

  “Our forests grow thick all over the country. A man can walk in with an ax and cut more wood than a horse can carry.”

  “Does it look like the countryside around the Caspian Sea, which is the greenest in all of Iran?” asked Parveez.

  The Dutchman laughed. “What you call green, we call brown,” he replied. “We have one hundred trees for every one of yours, even in the most luxuriant part of your land.”

  I thought back to the single cypress in my village. People who lived in a land as fertile as the Dutchman’s must never have to experience the pain of a hungry belly.

  The Dutchman wiped away the sweat on his forehead and drank the last of his sharbat. Gostaham and Parveez were drinking hot tea, which of course would cool them down more quickly, but the Dutchman didn’t seem to know that.