The Blood of Flowers

  “My dear shah,” replied she, “the sorrow I have felt in your absence is so great it could reduce a town to rubble. Loving you too much, I almost lost you forever.”

  The shah asked for Fitna’s hand in marriage. “You are truly a desirable trial!” he said teasingly, for “trial” was the meaning of her name.

  The next day, the two were married at a sumptuous wedding, and the kind officer was rewarded with a thousand pearls for the one he had sheltered. But that was only the beginning. Fitna, true to her name, continued to test the shah for the rest of his days.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As I walked home from Fereydoon’s the next morning, I felt a convulsion in my belly followed by a steady pain. Could I be pregnant? I held my chador with one hand while holding my belly with the other, as if to feel for a baby. That was the only thing that might tie me to Fereydoon forever. Why would he continue to want me otherwise, when he was soon to be bound to a green-eyed beauty?

  Wanting to get home quickly to check myself, I rushed through the old square near Fereydoon’s and into the bazaar connected to it like a long spine. I hurried past a cluster of gold shops with gleaming piles of bracelets on display and wealthy women crowded around them like hungry crows. I wasn’t even slowed by the meaty aroma of a breakfast soup made of lamb parts, although every vendor called out to me, swearing his “paws and brains” tasted the best.

  When I arrived home, breathless, I greeted my mother before rushing to the latrines. Shortly after I loosened my tunic and removed my trousers, I knew. Even though it was too dark to see, I could feel a trace of the slick blood, which would soon rush forth like a river. I placed a thick cloth between my legs and returned to the room I shared with my mother. Without a further word, I stretched out on a bedroll and closed my eyes.

  My mother took my hand in hers, saying, “Light of my eyes, what ails you?”

  I couldn’t bear to reveal what I had learned from Naheed, so I decided to tell her what I had discovered.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I said. “Even after all this time.”

  My mother began stroking my hand. “Azizam, it has been less than three cycles of the moon. You must be patient.”

  “Patient?” I said. “Goli got pregnant in the first month of her marriage. Why is it taking me so long?”

  My mother sighed. “It took a long time before God granted you to me,” she said.

  I was unconsoled. I hadn’t thought my mother’s problems with conceiving would become my own.

  “What if I’m barren?” I said. I could barely spit the words out of my mouth, so fearsome was the thought.

  “You are young, with plenty of years ahead of you,” said my mother. “If many more months go by without a child, I will make special charms to help you. May God grant that you conceive quickly!”

  I wondered if my mother understood how different it was for me than it had been for her and my father.

  “Bibi, I don’t have fifteen years to try, the way you did,” I replied.

  My mother averted her eyes as if she didn’t care to be reminded that my marriage could end at any moment. Then she patted my hand with resolution. “We will make a nazr together, and slaughter an animal for the poor once your wish is granted,” she replied.

  I turned my head away. My mother looked surprised that I didn’t feel a nazr would be enough.

  “Did something happen?” she asked. “Has he told you he no longer wants you?”

  “No,” I said, but my lips trembled so much that she knew there was more to say. I drew in a breath.

  “He is taking another,” I added. “A permanent wife.”

  “No wonder you are so distraught!” said my mother. “But perhaps that doesn’t mean anything, as far as your marriage is concerned.”

  “If I were to get pregnant, I would worry less.”

  “Yes, of course,” said my mother. “When did he tell you?”

  “Naheed told me.”

  “Naheed?” she asked, drawing back in surprise.

  Instead of answering her unspoken question, I lay silent. My throat closed and my face compressed until it felt as small as a polo ball.

  “Ay, Khoda!” my mother said when she understood. She looked at me, hoping for a denial, but there was nothing I could say.

  My mother began praying. “Lord of the Universe, remember us in your infinite mercy. Blessed Mohammad, listen to our prayers. Ali, prince among men, grant us your fortitude and strength.”

  “Bibi, I can’t bear it,” I said. “Now at least one of them is sure to hate me.”

  “Did you tell Naheed?” my mother asked, looking worried.

  “No.”

  “Thanks be to God,” she replied. “You are right—we must do something quickly. For now, you must quiet yourself. In the morning, we will have plenty to do and you will need to be fresh.”

  She layered the blankets over me and put a pillow under my head. Then she gathered my hair behind the pillow and began combing it very gently, while she told me about the adventures of a sly mouse and the large, dumb cat who wanted to eat it. Her soothing words, combined with the feeling of the comb massaging my scalp, quickly carried me away into a restful sleep.

  It was fortunate that the next day was Thursday, because we were at liberty in the afternoon. We waited in the courtyard until Shamsi crossed from the kitchen to the storerooms. My mother followed her, speaking honeyed words so that she would allow her to fill her pockets with walnuts in the shell and a handful of raisins. In exchange, she had to promise her a bottle of her best black medicine for raspy throats.

  “What a miserly household,” my mother grumbled.

  We put on our pichehs and chadors and walked arm in arm toward the Seyyed Ahmadioun district to visit the mosque with the famous brass minaret. Along the way, we passed a young mother shepherding her four children home. It looked as if she had borne them one right after the other, for they were close in age. I wondered if a fertile woman like her had ever had to go on an errand such as mine.

  Even from far away, we spotted the brass minaret blazing like a flame in the afternoon sun. This beacon guided us through unfamiliar districts until we arrived at the doorway of the mosque. In the women’s section, we prayed together, touching our heads to disks of clay. When I was done, my woes seemed lighter.

  The minaret was wrapped in gleaming sheets of brass inscribed with holy words. Inside, it was narrow, cool, and dark, and its stone steps were worn smooth from supplication. I stood on the bottom step while my mother handed me a small, flat board and a walnut.

  “Break it,” she said.

  I put the walnut on the step in front of me, placed the board on top of it, and sat on it with all my weight. The nut shattered with a satisfying crack, and I smiled at this first success. The crushed nut went into my pocket.

  “Praise be to God,” said my mother, handing me the next nut. I ascended and continued cracking, praying with each crack that my womb would split open to receive a seed and spit out a tender nut meat of its own.

  Higher and higher I rose in the tower, with my mother behind me cheering my progress. Other women began their ascent below us. About halfway to the top, I heard a woman sobbing. I clutched at my mother, and we listened until we understood. The woman’s nuts had been too hard to crack, a sign that she would be barren forever. I pitied her.

  We continued up the stairs. As I sat on the board and cracked another nut, I thought of Goli and wondered if she was pregnant again. I imagined bringing a child of my own to my village and showing it to her proudly. What would everyone think when they knew that in my child’s veins ran the blood of a wealthy man!

  My mother tugged at my chador. “Azizam, there are women behind us who are waiting to ascend. You should keep going.”

  I continued my ascent. All the nuts kept cracking as if they were waiting to split open at my touch. When I reached the top of the staircase, we turned and descended the way we had come, murmuring wishes of good fortune to the other women, especi
ally to the one whose red, swollen eyes told me her luck had been bitter. Outside, we cleaned the nut meats and my mother gave me a palmful of raisins to mix with them.

  “Now don’t be shy,” she said, as we began walking home.

  I took a deep breath and chose the first man because he looked as if he might be my father’s age, and had the same fine spider’s web of lines at the corners of his eyes.

  “Ey, graybeard!” I said, showing him the nuts and raisins. “May I offer you the fruit of my hands?”

  His eyes softened with tenderness, just as I hoped they would. He opened both of his hands, palms wide.

  “Blessings upon you, little mother-to-be!” he replied. “May you bear seven healthy sons, one every year!”

  I smiled and gave him a handful of the nuts, wishing him bountiful blessings in return. His kind words filled me with hope. Surely this was a sign of God’s grace and mercy, to have a man who reminded me of my father wish me seven sons!

  As we continued walking, it seemed as if every man we met had a kind word.

  “May you bloom like a summer rose!” said a young fellow mounted on a mule, stooping to accept my offering.

  “May you be as fruitful as a pomegranate!” said an old man with a hump, who looked as if he could use a good meal. I gave him an especially large handful.

  “May your belly swell to the size of my turban!” said a fellow whose head wrapping was so white and clean it must have just been laundered.

  Only one handful of nuts remained when I spotted a young man with a friendly face who was seated on his heels. His long arms and legs reminded me of Fereydoon’s. I stretched out my hand and begged him to partake of my last handful of nuts. He ignored me, scanning the street as if he were waiting for a friend. I tried again.

  “Please, kind sir, taste a morsel of my offering,” I said.

  This time he looked at me, his eyes hard. “I don’t want any,” he said. “Why don’t you eat them yourself?”

  I recoiled; it was an act of deliberate cruelty. My mother took my arm and led me away, saying “Shame! Shame!” The man didn’t care; he never looked in our direction again. As my mother pulled me away, the nuts fell out of my hand and scattered, and a couple of pigeons descended to claim them.

  My mother tried to make light of it by reminding me of our good fortune until that moment. “One bad man can’t confound the will of God,” she said, but I could not be consoled. As we walked home in the twilight, I thought of the woman with the swollen eyes whose labors had come to nothing, and how her piteous sobs had made the minaret a temple of sorrow.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, after serving Gordiyeh and Gostaham tea and sweets in the Great Room, my mother told them about Naheed’s engagement. Gostaham said, “Ey, Baba!” in surprise and asked us if we were sure it was the same Fereydoon. Then there was a long silence, broken only by Gordiyeh’s annoyed exclamation.

  “Why did he have to choose Naheed! What terrible luck!”

  Gostaham motioned to us to join them on the cushions. My mother and I sat side by side and watched them drink their tea. Gordiyeh did not call for refreshments for us.

  “Perhaps we should break the new contract, since it has barely begun,” my mother said.

  “I don’t know if we can,” said Gostaham. “It’s a legal agreement now that we have accepted the money.”

  “That doesn’t mean we couldn’t ask Fereydoon, as a man of honor, to release us,” said my mother.

  “Why would he? He made the renewal offer even though he knew he was getting engaged to Naheed,” said Gostaham.

  “But he didn’t know we were friends,” I protested.

  “You never told him?” asked my mother.

  “I mentioned that I had a friend, but I didn’t ever say her name. Now I wish I had.”

  “I’m not sure it would have mattered, anyway,” said Gostaham. “He can marry whomever he wants.”

  Gordiyeh sighed loudly. “What a shame he didn’t choose you,” she said. “But at least he renewed the sigheh. He must like you well enough.”

  I twitched with irritation. Like most women, Gordiyeh had married secure in the knowledge that she had gained a lifetime contract. How could she understand what it was like to have a marriage that expired after only three months?

  “Let’s look at the possibilities,” Gostaham said to my mother. “You can either accept the contract or beg for release. It would be better to go along with it, I think, especially now that your daughter is no longer a virgin. You might still have something to gain.”

  “Especially if there’s a child,” said Gordiyeh, and I thought of the young man with the hard, handsome face who had refused my final offering of nuts.

  “But everybody would have to know about it then,” said my mother.

  “That’s true,” replied Gordiyeh, “but the advantages to you would be so great that it wouldn’t matter.”

  “But what would Naheed and her parents think?” I asked. Gordiyeh looked away; Gostaham looked down, and a long silence followed that inflamed my greatest fears. If it had been some other family, nobody would have cared, since every family strives for its own advantages. But this situation was as sticky as naphtha.

  “You must think of yourself,” said Gordiyeh. “Naheed has everything in the world, and you have nothing.”

  I began seething like a pot of boiling water. Whose fault was it that we still had so little of our own? They had sold the most precious thing I had—my virginity—without reaping lifetime gains. My carpet had been given away with no profit to myself. Every day, my mother was afraid that we’d have to fend for ourselves again. Surely we deserved more than that!

  My mother turned to me. “What do you desire, daughter of mine? After all, Naheed is your closest friend.”

  Before I could say anything, Gordiyeh broke in. “Because of who Fereydoon is, I wouldn’t do anything without thinking about it carefully,” she said.

  I had the feeling that she was being very cautious with me, knowing how hasty I could be.

  “I’m not sure what to do,” I said honestly.

  “What’s your advice?” my mother asked Gordiyeh.

  “Since you already have a contract, fulfill its terms,” she said. “Then you can let it end without any risk of offense, or reconsider it if he renews again.”

  “But what if Naheed’s family learns the truth? Won’t they despise us?” I asked.

  “There’s no reason for them to ever know,” Gordiyeh said quickly. “No man would mention such an entanglement to his in-laws or to his virginal fiancée.”

  My mother turned to me. “Well?” she said.

  Without thinking, I had begun to stroke the rug under my fingertips. It was as velvety as the one I had removed from Fereydoon’s walls, and I was reminded of how my back had glided against it while Fereydoon’s body was on top of mine. My face began to flush. Now that my body had opened to Fereydoon’s pleasures, I wanted to return to those places of delight as often as I could. And though I loved Naheed, Gordiyeh’s words had been correct: She had everything, and I had nothing—except for a few months with Fereydoon.

  “I’ll do what you say,” I told Gordiyeh.

  She looked well satisfied, probably because there was still a chance that Fereydoon or his family would commission a carpet.

  “Your wisdom is large beyond your years,” she replied.

  My mother was pleased, too, knowing that we need not worry about our keep for at least another three months.

  THERE IS NOTHING sadder than a bride who is miserable on her wedding day. To see a girl who has been raised in one of the leading families of Isfahan, who has been treated as tenderly as a lily, and who is beautiful as well, to see that girl with red-rimmed eyes in her red-and-gold wedding dress, and to hear a sniffle that charitable guests assume results from a chill—that was too much to bear. I was grateful that I was not a member of Naheed’s family, for then I would have had to attend the ‘aqd—the wedding ceremony held just for relatives of the b
ride and groom, led by a mullah. That afternoon, he had asked her three times if she consented to marry Fereydoon, and she had remained silent until the third time, when she said yes. She and Fereydoon had signed the lifetime contract, after which the men and women separated to go to their respective parties.

  My mother and I and Gordiyeh had to go to the party for women in the evening, for there could be no excuse for missing it. It was held in the Great Room of Naheed’s home, which was illuminated by delicate green oil lamps and decorated with large bouquets of flowers. When we entered, servants offered cold fruit drinks, hot cups of tea, and trays of sweetmeats. Naheed sat by herself on a divan inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Guests streamed in, having removed their outdoor wraps, to greet her and display their finery. I wore the pretty purple robe Naheed had given me with the fur cuffs, and an orange tunic underneath.

  “How well that suits you!” she said after I kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Naheed-joon, you look more beautiful than you could ever know,” I said. For it was true. Her dark hair was decorated with pearls, and her eyes seemed even greener than usual because of her red silk dress, which was embroidered with gold-wrapped thread. She was so lovely I couldn’t bear to look at her for too long, so I looked away.

  “Don’t be so sad for me,” she whispered. “I can’t endure it.”

  “All this time, I have believed urgently in your happiness!” I replied. I meant with Iskandar, not Fereydoon.

  “You are the only true sweetness in my life,” Naheed said. “I shall always be grateful to you for nourishing my secret.” She turned her head aside to conceal from others the tear that was leaking onto her cheek.

  Guests were still arriving, and I had to make way for those who wanted to greet her. I rejoined my mother, who was on her own while Gordiyeh spoke to friends. Naheed’s mother, Ludmila, joined us for a moment.

  “Congratulations to you and your family,” said my mother. “May your daughter’s blessings be eternal.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Ludmila, her green eyes exactly like her daughter’s, except that they looked clearer and happier. “It’s just the match I’d hoped for. I’m relieved this day has finally come.”