The Blood of Flowers

  No one I trusted had told me so plainly that my reputation had been blackened. My expression must have shown my distress, for Homa took my face in her hands.

  “Azizam, you must never tell, but I did it once myself,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  “I fell in love with a boy when both of us were young, but our families married us to other people. After my husband died and my children were grown, my first love and I still wished to be united. Since he could barely feed his wife and eight children, we could not marry in the usual way.”

  “Did anyone know about it?”

  “No, we thought it wise to keep it silent.”

  “Did he give you money?”

  “Only if I needed it,” she replied.

  “How long did it last?”

  “For ten years, until the day he died,” she said. “I thank God for giving us the right to sigheh, for it was my only experience of love.”

  “Then why couldn’t you tell anyone?”

  “Many people from good families think it is indecent for women,” she said. “After all, wouldn’t you rather be a permanent wife and the queen of your household?”

  “Of course,” I said, “but I didn’t have that choice.”

  “Often, we must live with imperfection,” she said. “And when people worry about a stain on their floor, what do they do?”

  Despite how I felt, I had to laugh, for I knew what she meant. “They throw a carpet over it,” I replied.

  “From Shiraz to Tabriz, from Baghdad to Herat, that is what Iranians do,” she said.

  I was quiet for a moment, for that was at the heart of it. I looked up at Homa, who took my hand and warmed it between hers.

  “Homa, what shall I do?” I asked again. “What will happen to me?”

  “Azizam, it is too soon to say,” she replied. “For now, recognize that you have had bad luck, and that you have also made your mistakes, like Haroot and Maroot. Those two wanted something so badly that they succumbed to temptation and betrayed the Greatest Master of All. You wanted something, too, but have understood that it’s not always possible to obtain your desires. And now you long to make amends. Make them in whatever way you can, and be like the date that grows sweeter and sweeter, even though the soil that nourishes it is rocky and harsh.”

  Before anyone else came into the hammam, Homa washed me and massaged me like a mother, combed my hair, wrapped me in a towel, and fed me strong poppy seeds to make me drowsy. I stretched out on a bedroll in a cubicle and fell into a deep sleep. The old story of Haroot and Maroot came to me in my dreams, along with the determination to be nothing like them.

  First there wasn’t and then there was. Before God, no one was.

  Once there were two angels named Haroot and Maroot. One of their favorite pastimes, when their heavenly deeds were done, was to spy on humankind. Knowing that the earth was bountiful, they believed that living in accordance with God’s laws should have been as easy as pulling fish from the waters of the Gulf. Yet everywhere they looked, they saw humans stealing, lying, cheating, fornicating, and killing. Look here: see the man in Constantinople plotting to force his neighbor’s daughter into his foul embrace. Look there: see the woman in Baghdad concocting a poison to stir into her wealthy father’s stew. Haroot and Maroot watched such conflicts unfold over months and years. Every time a human being had a fall, they made a sound together like the tinkling of bells.

  One day God summoned Haroot and Maroot into His presence and announced that they were to be sent to earth on a special assignment. “You will assume the bodies of human beings,” He said, “and you will show all the angels in heaven, and all of humankind besides, how to live just and honorable lives.”

  Haroot and Maroot’s wing tips glowed with the honor. Within moments, they assumed human forms and materialized in the holy city of Mashhad, which was always full of pilgrims. Haroot had become a tall, handsome bearded fellow with empty pockets. Maroot was shorter and squatter, with a flat nose, but his purse jingled with gold abbasi coins.

  They found themselves in the courtyard of the most holy site in all of Iran, the shrine of Imam Reza, which glittered with small mirrors cut like jewels. Sensing their spiritual natures, pilgrims formed a circle around them and asked questions. Since they were angels well versed in God’s ways, their service came easily to them. Their thoughtful answers were like sweet rain from heaven, soothing and fruitful.

  Toward nightfall, Maroot began to feel a stabbing pain in his middle. Not knowing what it was, he marveled at the strangeness of the sensation. Had God sent him to earth on a mission like that of Jesus? Would he, too, have to die? The thought of experiencing more pain in his body made him shiver and clutch his abdomen.

  Noticing his distress, his friend Haroot stood up too quickly, saw black, and crashed to the earth. The devoted pilgrims lifted the two men and carried them into one of the mosque’s shady arcades. “All day those two forgot to eat and drink,” said one of the pilgrims. “It was as if they had already left their bodies behind and ascended into one of the spheres of heaven.”

  The sensible pilgrim had brought her own food. She scooped a morsel of roasted eggplant onto a triangle of bread and placed it gently in Maroot’s mouth. His eyes fluttered and he began nibbling on her fingers. He tugged the remaining bread and eggplant from her hands, eating with a piggish abandon that surprised and disgusted her. When the pilgrim gave water to Haroot, he consumed it all with loud slurping sounds and demanded more. “What are these men?” she wondered.

  At nightfall, most of the other pilgrims returned to their lodgings. As an act of charity, the woman determined to stay behind until the two men had regained their strength. Having eaten and drunk, Haroot and Maroot were feeling better. By the time the moon rose, they began to notice more about the woman who had ministered to them. Her face was white, and she had apples blooming on her cheeks. Her dark eyes were fringed with lashes as pretty as a doe’s. Haroot longed to lift the cloth that covered her hair. Maroot wondered about the mystery of her belly, no doubt round and soft like freshly baked bread.

  Seeing that the men had returned to health, the woman rose to return to her lodgings. “Wait, O merciful pilgrim,” said Haroot in a pleading voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “Please share your company with us for a few moments more. We need you.”

  They are like children, the woman thought, but she sat with them again, vowing to leave as soon as they regained their calm. Where could two such strange fellows have been raised? To make the time pass, she asked, “You are children of which town?”

  Haroot and Maroot burst into laughter they couldn’t control, gasping and snorting, she thought, like wild pigs. It was as if they had never laughed before. Maroot was on the ground with his face in the earth before his laughter finally subsided. He arose with his cheeks and nose streaked with dirt.

  “If we told you, you’d never believe us,” said Haroot, while Maroot gestured toward the heavens.

  Perhaps they are from a religious order where men become so deeply spiritual they forget their earthly roots, the woman thought, but there was doubt in her eyes. “Originally, when your mothers gave birth to you, where did you live?”

  Haroot and Maroot knew they were being treated with the patience shown to simpletons. A new sensation arose in each of them, as unfamiliar as all the others. Maroot’s cheeks burned, and Haroot’s back and jaw stiffened.

  “We’re from the greatest sphere,” said Haroot, gesturing upwards again.

  “And we can prove it,” Maroot added.

  The woman looked skeptical. “How can you prove it?”

  “Earlier in the day, you listened with great attention to every word we uttered,” said Haroot. “Didn’t we seem different than other men?”

  The woman reflected on how she had perceived them that morning. “Some hours ago, I might have believed you,” she admitted. “You hardly seemed to inhabit your bodies.”

  Haroot and Maroot watched her lips linger over th
e word “bodies.” Each was stricken with a desire to reach for her and stroke her warm belly and thighs. Perhaps, if they kept her near, she would be generous with them, the way pilgrims could sometimes be.

  “Our bodies were new to us,” confided Maroot.

  The woman waved her hand as if to dismiss him. Once again, she rose to go.

  “Wait!” said Maroot. “I have proof.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I can tell you something known by no other being on earth.”

  The woman waited quietly, looking unconvinced. Haroot put his hand to his heart, feeling regretful about what he knew they would do. To his surprise, he found a way to quash that feeling as quickly as it arose.

  “The price of what we know is a kiss,” said Maroot.

  Haroot became angry because he thought his friend was trying to exclude him. “One for each of us,” he said with a fiery glance.

  The woman shifted her weight from foot to foot. “What is it that you know?” she asked.

  “We know about God,” said Maroot.

  The woman had traveled many farsakhs on foot to reach Mashhad. Every day, she prayed five times and tried to open her heart to the divine. Could the message of the heavens be right in front of her, in the form of these two childlike men?

  “Is it a bargain?” prompted Haroot.

  “Perhaps,” she said with a small smile.

  Remorse had been growing again in Haroot’s breast, but a glimpse of her small white teeth between her red lips helped vanquish those feelings.

  “Sit beside us,” he said, patting a blue tile, “and we will tell you the thing that only we know.”

  She sat between Haroot and Maroot, who pressed close against each of her hips. Haroot felt an ecstatic surge in his loins. For a moment he imagined throwing Maroot in a well, just so he could be alone with the pilgrim.

  “Speak,” said the woman. “What can you teach me about God, the Compassionate, the Merciful?”

  “His ninety-nine names are already well known,” said Maroot. “The only man to know the hundredth name was the holy Prophet Mohammad—that is, until the two of us arrived on earth.”

  “You think you know the Great Name?” said the woman. “I don’t believe you.”

  “First, a kiss,” said Haroot and Maroot together.

  “Oh no,” said the woman. “I’ve heard promises like yours before. First, the name.”

  Haroot and Maroot leaned in close, putting their lips near each of her ears. After drawing in a breath, the two men whispered the Great Name. The woman’s mind filled with the majestic sound, which reverberated between her ears. Had she been able to think of Haroot and Maroot, she would no longer have doubted them. But all of her thoughts had become echoes of the sound, and her body began to feel as cool and as light as air. All her desires were fulfilled in a single instant, and she became a planet in the third sphere beyond earth, from which she now glows eternally as pure light.

  Haroot and Maroot were transported, too. They found themselves suspended by their ankles inside a deep well, their heads pointing toward the water. By day, the sun beat down, blistering their lips and burning the soles of their feet. Their throats dried and cracked as they stared into the cool water, which was just out of reach of their hands. By night, they shivered in the cold, their flesh puckering with goose bumps. If they spoke at all, it was to remember what it had been like to be angels and feel nothing.

  Sometimes, when the stars were positioned in the skies just so, they could see her. She beamed the light of her beautiful, compassionate eyes onto the earth, and they loved her and longed for her through their misery.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day, I was standing in the kitchen helping my mother clean herbs for her medicines when the knocker for men boomed twice. “Go see who it is,” Cook said, so I covered myself in my chador and picheh, opened the door, and saw one of Fereydoon’s menservants, who handed me a letter for Gostaham. Knowing that he couldn’t recognize me in my wraps, I concealed the letter and told Cook it had been a merchant selling mountain roots for stew, which I knew we didn’t need.

  I went to the room that my mother and I shared and looked at the seal: It was Fereydoon’s. My heart beat faster. I had shown Fereydoon my displeasure, and now perhaps he was writing to say he was done with me. I held the paper to an oil lamp in a vain effort to see the writing it concealed. I told myself to take the letter directly to Gostaham, but I couldn’t force my feet to move. Even if the letter was not mine, the news it contained certainly was. I hesitated, and then I broke the seal.

  It took me a long time to read the letter: My skills were still poor, and I couldn’t understand many of the words. But I found my name mentioned a few times, and I understood that Fereydoon was offering a sigheh for another three months, in consideration of the fact that he was pleased with me.

  Having committed an unforgivable deed by opening a letter addressed to Gostaham, I hid the letter in my sash. I needed to think about the offer this time without the advice of my family. Now that I was no longer a virgin, it was my turn to decide what I wanted. Homa had said that was my right.

  KATAYOON AND MALEKEH arrived a little later than usual that morning. Katayoon looked as fresh as ever, but Malekeh had deep circles under her eyes.

  “How is your husband?” I asked.

  “Still ailing,” she replied. “He was coughing all night.”

  “How about some coffee to lift your spirits?” I asked. She gratefully accepted the steaming vessel I put beside her.

  When we sat down to work, I called out the colors while considering Fereydoon’s offer. I felt my body saying yes to it. Not even one day had gone by and I was already craving Fereydoon’s arms, despite the way he had cuffed me; and I had already thought of a dozen new ways to please him and myself. I had become like the opium eaters who fret until they get their daily dose of the sticky black drug, after which they relax against their cushions, their knees parted, a look of bliss in their eyes.

  I told myself it was a fine idea to go on with things as they were. Now that Naheed knew everything, I didn’t need to keep the sigheh a secret anymore. She would hate me and hate my children, but I would have Fereydoon’s attention, and perhaps I could live a happy, separate life. Maybe I would conceive boys, and although I would have no rights of inheritance, they would take care of me in my old age.

  If I accepted Fereydoon’s offer, it would also be a sweet form of revenge. I would be like a thorn, reminding Naheed that Fereydoon had married her not for love, but for power. When her husband was absent at night, she would think about how much he was enjoying me, and suffer.

  Such were my thoughts until the midday meal, when Gordiyeh came to talk to me. She was smartly dressed in a new yellow robe and green tunic, with the emerald Gostaham had given her long ago shining like a small sea above her breasts.

  “I have just received an invitation to visit Naheed’s mother,” she said.

  “May your visit be charmed,” I replied, concealing a smile. Rather than tell her what had happened, I decided to leave that to Ludmila.

  “Would you like to accompany me?” Gordiyeh was pleased with me lately and was showing it with small favors. “We’ll probably discuss the carpet commission, which I know will interest you.”

  “You are kind to think of me,” I replied, “but I must attend to Katayoon and Malekeh, who need me here so that they can do their work.”

  “All right, then,” she said, smiling. I know she liked it when I stayed with my chores.

  I continued singing out the colors for my knotters until it was time to stop for a moment so that Malekeh and Katayoon could compress the knots with a wooden comb. Malekeh pressed down so hard on her side that the comb broke, and then she looked as if she, too, might snap. I could always see how she felt by looking at her eyes, which spoke far more than she did.

  “No matter,” I said, although I could ill afford the loss. “I’ll buy a new one.”

  Malekeh s
aid nothing, but I knew she was grateful that I did not make her pay for the comb.

  When she and Katayoon departed, I began knotting on my own. I wanted to be there when Gordiyeh returned so I could see her face. She came back an hour later looking white and scared, the kohl smudged around her eyes. She shook a letter in my face.

  “What do you know about this?” she asked, her voice like a shriek.

  “What is it?”

  “Kobra told me to wait outside, and then Ludmila handed me this letter and slammed the door in my face.”

  I feigned surprise. “Why would she do that?”

  Gordiyeh sat down beside me on a cushion. “They must have found out,” she said, tapping the letter against my shoulder. “This cancels the order for the rug. Do you know what that means to us?”

  Gostaham had spent a mountain of money on the design and on ordering a roomful of silk to be dyed to his specifications. The carpet would be impossible to sell elsewhere, for it was designed with motifs particular to Fereydoon and Naheed. I had not thought about its fate when Naheed and I were arguing.

  “What a calamity!” I said, and meant it. I knew everyone in the household would pay if Gordiyeh felt worried about money. We had only just started eating jam again.

  Gordiyeh poked me with her finger. “When was the last time you saw Naheed?”

  “Just a few days ago, but she didn’t mention anything about the carpet,” I said. That much was true.

  “Then how did her parents find out?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to look scared. “I wonder what Naheed will think . . . Will her parents tell her?”

  “Of course they will,” said Gordiyeh. Her voice became cajoling and almost gentle. “Surely you or your mother must have told someone.”

  “I have never opened a discussion about my marriage,” I said, keeping my voice even. Gordiyeh looked as if she didn’t believe me.

  “I’m frightened,” I added, hoping to engage her sympathy. “I hope Naheed doesn’t ask me to visit her.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that anymore.”