The Blood of Flowers

by Anita Amirrezvani

  “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.�
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  “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.

  ON THE NEXT DAY, Friday, my mother and I arose before the sun and went to the kitchen, looking for breakfast. A pretty maid named Shamsi gave us hot bread and my first vessel of coffee. The rich taste of it brought tears of pleasure to my eyes. No wonder everyone talked about the wonder of the bean! If tea enlivened the appetite, coffee was rich enough to quench it. It was sweet, but I stirred in another spoonful of sugar when no one was looking. I began chattering with my mother about nothing in particular. Her cheeks were flushed, and I noticed that she, too, was chirping like a bird.

  While we were eating, Gordiyeh stopped by and told us that her daughters would be visiting with their children, as they did on every holy day, and that everyone would be needed to help make the festive midday meal. It would be a large task, as the household was even grander than it looked at first. There were six servants: Cook; Ali-Asghar, who was responsible for men’s jobs like slaughtering animals; two maids, Shamsi and Zohreh, who scrubbed, polished, and cleaned; a boy named Samad whose only job was to make and serve coffee and tea; and an errand boy, Taghee. All these people would have to be fed, plus my mother and I, Gordiyeh and Gostaham, their daughters and their children, and anyone else who happened to visit.

  Ali-Asghar, a small, wiry man with hands as big as his head, had already killed a lamb in the courtyard that morning and suspended it to let the blood flow out of its body. While we peeled eggplant with sharp knives, he stripped off its skin and chopped the body into parts. Cook, a thin woman who never stopped moving, threw the meat into a cauldron over a hot fire, adding salt and onions. My mother and I cut the eggplant into pieces and salted them to make the sour black juice erupt.

  Gordiyeh appeared from time to time to check on the preparations. Looking at the eggplant, which had only just begun to sweat, she told my mother, “More salt!”

  I could feel words behind my mother’s lips, but she didn’t speak them. She sprinkled more salt and then paused.

  “More!” Gordiyeh said.

  This time, my mother poured until the eggplant was nearly buried and Gordiyeh told her to stop.

  After the sourness had drained out, we rinsed the chopped eggplant in cool water, and my mother fried it in a pot bubbling with hot oil. When each piece was cooked, I patted it with a cloth to remove the grease, and put it aside. The eggplant would be laid on top of the lamb just before serving to allow it to marry the meat juices.

  Since the meal was still hours away, Gordiyeh told us to make a large vessel of vegetable torshi, a spicy relish that added flavor to rice. Cook’s recipe called for eggplant, carrots, celery, turnips, parsley, mint, and garlic by the basketload, all of which we had to wash, peel, and chop. Then Cook measured out the vinegar she had made and mixed everything together. By the time we had finished, my hands were tired and raw.

  Gordiyeh’s daughters, Mehrbanoo and Jahanara, arrived and dropped in to the kitchen to see what we were cooking. Mehrbanoo, the eldest at twenty-two, had two daughters, who were dressed and groomed like little dolls, in yellow and orange tunics with gold earrings and gold bracelets. Jahanara was a year younger and had one son, Mohammad, a three-year-old child who seemed small for his age and who had a runny nose. Both of the women lived with their husbands’ families but came to visit their parents at least once a week. I was introduced to them as their father’s half brother’s daughter—“a distant relative,” Gordiyeh said.

  “How many of those do we have?” Mehrbanoo asked her mother, with a big laugh that revealed several rotten teeth. “Hundreds?”

  “Too many to count,” said Gordiyeh.

  I was taken aback by this airy dismissal. As if in explanation, Gordiyeh said to my mother, “Our family is so large that my girls can’t keep up.”

  Shamsi entered the kitchen just then and said to Gordiyeh, “Your revered husband has arrived.”

  “Come, girls, your father is always hungry after Friday prayers,” Gordiyeh said, ushering them out of the room.

  The whole kitchen began to bustle. “Hurry!” Cook hissed, handing me a few cotton spreads. “Lay these over the carpets in the Great Room. Don’t delay!”

  I followed Gordiyeh and her daughters, who had arranged themselves on the cushions and were chatting without paying me the least attention. I was eager to sit and eat with them, but Cook called me back to the kitchen and handed me a tray of hot bread and a dish of goat cheese and mint; she followed with the plate of honor, heaped with eggplant and herbs, while Zohreh tottered under the weight of the rice. My mother emerged with a large vessel containing a cool drink she had made of rose water and mint.

  Back in the kitchen, Cook said, “We may as well begin the washing,” although we hadn’t eaten yet. She handed me a rag and a greasy pot encrusted with eggplant. I stared at them, wondering when we’d be called in to dine. My mother pushed a
strand of hair back into her scarf and began cleaning the rice pot. Surely we’d be asked to join the family soon! I tried to catch my mother’s eye, but her head was bowed over her task and she didn’t seem to be expecting anything.

  After we had completed most of the cleanup, Cook sent me back to the Great Room with a vessel of hot water so the family could wash their hands. Everyone had finished eating and was reclining comfortably against the cushions, their bellies large with food. My stomach growled, but no one seemed to notice. Zohreh and Shamsi collected the platters, and then Cook divided the remaining food among the six members of the household staff and the two of us. Ali-Asghar, Taghee, and Samad ate together outside in the courtyard, while we women ate in the kitchen.

  Although the meal had been served, Cook couldn’t seem to quit her labors. She’d take a bite, then rise to clean a serving spoon or return a stopper to a vessel. The flavors in her food achieved an exceptional marriage, but her nervousness dulled the pleasure of it. The moment we finished, Cook told each one of us what to do to finish the cleanup. When the kitchen was spotless again, she dismissed us for our afternoon rest.

  I threw myself onto my bedroll, my limbs aching. Our room was so small that my mother and I were nose to nose and foot to foot.

  “I have nothing left,” I said, with a large yawn.

  “Me, neither,” my mother replied. “Did you like the food, light of my eyes?”

  “It was fit for a shah,” I said, adding quickly, “but not as good as yours.”

  “It was better,” she replied. “Who’d have thought they would eat meat every week! A person could live on the rice alone.”

  “God be praised,” I replied. “Hasn’t it been a year since we’ve eaten lamb?”

  “At least.”

  It had felt good to eat as much as I wanted for two days in a row.

  “Bibi,” I said, “what about the eggplant? It was too salty!”

  “I doubt that Gordiyeh has had to cook in many years,” my mother replied.

  “Why didn’t you tell her it was too much?”