THE MONTH THAT I spent fulfilling my punishment seemed as vast as the desert. I began my day by collecting and emptying the pots full of night soil, which made me green with nausea. Then, after Gordiyeh consulted with Cook and Ali-Asghar about the tasks at hand, she assigned me the ones no one else wanted to do. I washed the greasy kitchen floor, chopped slimy kidneys, stomped filthy laundry in a basin and wrung it until my arms ached. Even in the afternoons, when everyone was sleeping, Gordiyeh loaded me with tasks. My hands became as rough as goats’ horns, and I fell on my bed every evening weak with exhaustion. I bitterly regretted what I had done, but I also felt that my punishment was more severe than I deserved, and that Gordiyeh was enjoying her power over me.
One morning, when my month of labor was nearly finished, a servant summoned me and my mother into the birooni at Gostaham’s command. My legs were trembling as we walked through the courtyard, for I was certain they were going to tell us that we were no longer welcome in their home. In the Great Room, I was surprised to find Gostaham seated in the place of honor, near the top of the carpet, with Gordiyeh on his right. He beckoned to my mother to join him on a cushion at his left. I sat alone facing them on the other side of the carpet.
“How are you, Khanoom?” Gordiyeh asked my mother, using the polite term for married women. “Is your health good?” Her sudden courtesy was unexpected.
“Why, yes,” said my mother, mimicking the same tone of politeness. “I am very well, thank you.”
“And you, my little one,” continued Gordiyeh. “How are you?”
My skin prickled with surprise at the endearment, and I answered that I was in good health. I looked at Gostaham to try to understand the meaning of the meeting. Though normally able to sit cross-legged for hours without moving, his back straight as a loom, now he kept shifting his weight and rearranging his legs.
When the coffee arrived, Gordiyeh made a great show of passing it to us and offering us dates to accompany it. An awkward silence fell over the room as we sipped our coffee.
“Khanoom,” Gostaham finally said, addressing my mother, “it is my duty to tell you about a letter I received this morning from Fereydoon, the horse merchant who commissioned a carpet from us some months ago.”
My mother looked surprised, for she had only heard the name once before, when I told her about my contributions to the dangling gems design. What had I done wrong now? I wondered. Was there something in my design that had upset him?
“It is obvious that Fereydoon is pleased with the carpet, judging by what he said after seeing it on the loom,” said Gostaham. “But the letter he wrote made very little mention of it, in fact, almost none at all.”
My hand shook so much that I had to put down my cup for fear of spilling coffee on the silk rug, leaving behind a large brown stain that could never be removed.
“There is really only one other thing a wealthy man like that might desire,” continued Gostaham, “and that is your daughter.” He was speaking in a straightforward, businesslike tone similar to the one he used to negotiate the price of a rug.
My mother pressed her palms to her cheeks. “There is no God but God,” she said, as she always did when she was surprised.
Gostaham put both hands on his turban and readjusted it as if he could no longer bear its weight. I knew him well enough to be able to read the fidgety marks of his distress. But why? What could be more flattering than the offer of a wealthy man?
Gordiyeh jumped in, unable to hide her excitement. “He wishes to make your daughter his wife,” she said breathlessly.
Gostaham gave Gordiyeh a warning look, which my mother didn’t see. She leapt to her feet, her coffee cup teetering and almost spilling. “At last!” she cried, opening her arms to the sky. “A match sent from the heavens for my only child! After all that we have endured, our fickle fortunes have finally changed! Praise be to Mohammad! Praise be to Ali!”
Gordiyeh looked amused by her outburst, but her reply was kind. “My mother’s heart knows how yours must feel,” she said. “Few are the women blessed with such good fortune, as welcome as rain.”
“Daughter of mine, spring of my heart,” cried my mother, opening her arms toward me. “Since the moment of your birth, you have brought wonders to our humble family. You’re the light of my eyes.”
My heart began to swell with hope. As the wife of a rich man, I would become one of those fat, pampered ladies the women of my village had teased me about. In the year of the comet, could such good fortune be possible?
Once my mother had calmed herself, she had questions. “How does Fereydoon know he desires my daughter?” she said. “Outside the house, she’s always covered from head to toe!”
I kept my silence; the last thing I wanted the family to know was that I had uncovered myself in the presence of a stranger.
“I understand that Homa was singing your praises at the hammam,” Gordiyeh said to me. “One of Fereydoon’s woman servants happened to be there, and she told him of your charms.”
I breathed with relief. He had waited to make the offer until he had found a proper excuse. Then I blushed, wondering whether the woman servant had described how I looked without my clothes.
My mother must have assumed that my silence grew out of modesty. “When shall we hold the ceremony?” she asked Gordiyeh. “As soon as we can, I think.”
“I agree,” said Gordiyeh, “although I don’t believe he will require a grand wedding. Your daughter and Fereydoon would only need to meet with a mullah to make everything legal.”
I had no experience of wealthy weddings, but in my village, weddings were celebrated for three days, if not more. What Gordiyeh described sounded more like signing a contract.
“I don’t understand,” said my mother, looking puzzled.
“The proposal I have here,” said Gostaham, showing us the elegantly written letter, “is not for a lifetime marriage contract. It’s for a sigheh of three months.”
I had heard the word sigheh but didn’t know all that it meant, except that it was short.
“A sigheh?” said my mother, looking puzzled. “I know that pilgrims to Qom may contract a sigheh for an hour or a night— but these are arrangements for pleasure. You want my daughter to marry for that?”
Gordiyeh must have read the dismay on our faces. “It’s true that it won’t last forever,” she said, “but nothing on this earth is permanent by God’s own design. The important point is that it will bring you financial benefits you could never claim elsewhere.”
My mother’s instincts as a tradeswoman had stayed sharp. She straightened her back, and a fierce expression entered her eyes. She looked just like she had on the day she squeezed high prices out of the harem women.
“How much?” she asked, a steely tone in her voice.
Gostaham unfolded the letter and read out the sum. It was the same amount Fereydoon had offered to pay for the carpet he had commissioned from Gostaham. It would be a tidy sum of money for us but insufficient to buy our independence.
My mother clicked her tongue against her teeth. “It’s not enough. Once my daughter’s virginity is gone, who will want her then? It’s far better for her to marry a man for life.”
Gostaham looked as if he were about to agree, but Gordiyeh cut him short. “You mean you’d rather give her to a baker’s son with hairy, flour-coated arms than to a man of wealth?” she asked. “Don’t forget that the sigheh is renewable. If your daughter pleases Fereydoon, he may wish to keep her indefinitely. Each time he renews, he will pay the agreed-upon sum. He may also grace her with gifts of jewelry or even a house. If she is lucky and clever, the alliance could make your fortune.”
Gostaham shifted again on his pillow, looking much less optimistic. “Let’s not forget it could also end quickly,” he said. “The only guarantee is three months. Beyond that, it’s entirely his decision.”
Gordiyeh spoke to my mother in a sugar-coated tone that made her husband’s words seem slight. “Why wouldn’t a fine girl like your
daughter please Fereydoon? Such a moon would shine on him all night, every night!”
“Yes, she would,” said my mother. “But if he likes her so much, why doesn’t he make us a proper offer?”
“He can’t,” said Gordiyeh. “His first wife is dead, carried off by the cholera that wasted his daughter. As the son of a wealthy man, he is bound to marry a highborn woman who can bear his heirs.”
I knew that a village girl like myself would not do.
“Homa is already looking for a suitable young woman,” said Gordiyeh. “But I imagine that Fereydoon is craving companionship, now that he has mourned his first wife. He could have anyone in the land for the purpose—and yet your daughter is his choice.”
I felt a surge of excitement. He had taken notice and made me an offer—me, a village girl whose fingertips bore calluses from carpet making and cleaning!
“Your dangling gems carpet must have made him take a fancy to you,” Gordiyeh said to me as if she could hear my thoughts. “Above all other women, he has fixed his attention on you. That must be more than you had ever hoped for—to catch the eye of such a wealthy man!”
“True,” I said, blushing.
“Really, there is no way you can err,” said Gordiyeh. “Any children you conceive will be legitimate offspring, and will be supported. No man in his position would let the mother of his children go hungry. And just imagine what might happen if you keep him happy and satisfied!”
Gostaham held up his hands as if stopping the flow of Gordiyeh’s words. “Remember, Khanoom,” he said to my mother, “although any children would be legitimate, they’ll never have the same status as the offspring of his permanent wives.”
Gordiyeh made a chopping movement with her hand as if to push his words away. “Only God knows what will happen,” she said. “It’s not for us to decide.”
Gostaham looked at my mother. “It behooves you to think very carefully about this offer, Khanoom. You can’t predict whether he will leave or stay. You don’t know if you and your daughter will live in luxury or be reduced to begging. And even if your daughter has children, she will have no inheritance rights—none.”
Gordiyeh sighed in exasperation. “Many odd twists of fate could also occur if she marries a baker,” she said. “From one day to the next, he could fall sick and die. The Shah could accuse him of cheating on the weight of bread and cook him in his own oven. He could be thrown off a mule and crack his head.”
“No doubt,” replied Gostaham. “But then she would have a legitimate family to rely on—her husband’s parents, brothers, and cousins. She would be less likely to be alone and sorry after only three months.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Well, really, there is nothing to worry about,” said Gordiyeh. “A sigheh is a legal union.”
“Legal, yes, but some people consider it beneath them,” rejoined Gostaham. My face burned for a moment, although I didn’t know exactly what he meant.
Gostaham turned to my mother. “If he were offering a regular marriage, I wouldn’t hesitate to urge you to accept,” he said.
“Still,” said Gordiyeh quickly, “there’s much cause for celebrating. It would be best if you accepted the offer and used it as another source of income, especially since our finances here at home are so unstable.”
“Unstable?” said my mother, looking around at the well-kept room. Following her gaze, I observed thick bouquets of red and yellow roses, mounds of honeyed sweets, platters heavy with sweet melons and cucumbers, and bowls full of roasted pistachios. “You’re worried about money?” she asked.
“My husband’s salary from the royal rug workshop is hardly enough to meet our expenses,” Gordiyeh said. “The Shah permits him to perform extra commissions in his own time, which are what keep us comfortable, but they come and go with the wind. A new silk carpet is the first thing a financially troubled family can do without.”
She turned to Gostaham. “And isn’t it true that even the royal family can’t be trusted as patrons? I remember the stories about how the late Shah Tahmasp fired hundreds of miniature painters, gilders, calligraphers, and bookbinders after he became pious. Such a calamity could happen again.”
Gostaham looked disgusted for a moment. “Shah Abbas is nothing like his grandfather. He has no reason to stop supporting the royal rug workshop, which is very profitable.”
“Still,” said Gordiyeh impatiently, “who can predict what will happen? Of course, a mother and daughter on their own should always be cautious about their financial future.”
My mother rocked back at those words as if battered by a fierce desert wind. Nothing could have terrified her more than the thought that we might have to struggle on our own again, as we had in the months after my father’s death.
“Fereydoon and his relatives have dozens of houses in Isfahan and throughout the country,” Gordiyeh continued. “Every house they buy and every tent they pitch in the desert needs carpets—good carpets. Such a family orders silk, not wool.”
She turned to me. “Think how such an alliance would benefit our family!”
It was the first time I had heard her say “our family” in a way that included my mother and me. Although the sigheh money would be ours to keep, I began to understand that Gordiyeh had her own reasons for promoting the union.
“I would do anything to aid our family,” I replied.
“And I, too,” added my mother. “What does he say about providing a house for my daughter?”
“He hasn’t offered one,” said Gordiyeh. “But if your daughter is pleasing and obedient, that may come.”
My mother sighed. “It’s certainly not the offer I thought it was at first.”
“I understand,” said Gordiyeh in a soothing tone. “Of course you want the best for your daughter. But what better offer could a young woman with no dowry expect?”
My mother’s brow furrowed, and I saw a look of helplessness in her eyes. “I’ll have an answer for you in a few days,” she finally said.
“Just don’t keep him waiting too long,” replied Gordiyeh.
“And do not say a word about the offer to anyone,” added Gostaham. “We’ll want to keep quiet about it even if your daughter does marry Fereydoon.”
“Why?” I asked.
Gordiyeh looked away. “It’s perfectly legal,” she repeated, and then there was a long, uncomfortable silence during which Gostaham cleared his throat. My mother looked at him, waiting for an answer.
“It’s not the type of thing a family like ours would advertise,” he finally said.
I had another concern that felt like salt under my skin. “What about my schooling?” I asked. “Gostaham is still teaching me about carpets.”
For the first time that morning, Gostaham looked pleased, as if I were truly the child of his heart.
“No matter what your mother decides about the marriage, I will continue to instruct you for as long as you want to learn,” he said.
It was as though a light had passed from his heart to mine. “I want to keep learning,” I said. “What if I have to live far away?”
“Since Fereydoon hasn’t offered a house, you will remain here,” said Gordiyeh.
“Won’t he insist on shutting her away from the eyes of strangers?” my mother asked.
“He’s rich, but he’s not from a high-class Isfahani family,” Gordiyeh said. “The only women he’s likely to sequester are his permanent wives.”
She turned to me. “Don’t worry—I’m sure it won’t matter to him what you do during the day.”
AFTER THE MEETING, I went to the chamber where my mother and I slept and looked around without seeing anything, then climbed the stairs to the roof as if to check on laundry, although there was none, then visited Cook to see if she needed help. I chopped onions for a few minutes until I spilled a bowl of cleaned fenugreek onto the floor, after which I was thrown out of the kitchen and told not to return.
It was not that I objected to Fereydoon’s person, for even tho
ugh he was not as handsome as Iskandar, he was erect, well muscled, and gave off the appealing smell of horses. But his proposal was not the respectful offer I had hoped to receive from a suitor. If Fereydoon wanted me, why didn’t he offer to marry me forever? And if he required a highborn woman to bear his heirs, why not marry her first and then offer to make me his second wife?
I fretted at my chores, knowing that my fortunes might change in a single day. If I married, I would give up my virginity, once and always; and I might bear children. I would be forever changed. I imagined the days of leisure and nights of love, the bowls of honey and dates, the growing rolls of flesh on my belly. But what if I was no longer married after only three months? I would hardly have time to grow fat.
I wished I could go to Naheed’s and ask her and her mother what they thought. But Gostaham had instructed us to remain silent about the offer. If the sigheh ended after three months without a pregnancy, so much the better for my later prospects if no one knew. That seemed odd to me, since every marriage I had ever heard about was announced and celebrated with great joy. Why was there a veil of secrecy over this one?
“Daughter of my heart,” said my mother when we met in our room that evening, “what have you been thinking?” There were dark circles under her eyes, and her feet were red again. The work in the kitchen had been very hard that day.
I took a cushion and put it under her feet as she stretched out on her bedroll. “You and my Baba always told me you would marry me to a good man,” I said. “How can Fereydoon be that man, if he only wants me for a few months?”
My mother sighed. “From everything we’ve heard, his reputation is upstanding,” she said. “There’s no reason to believe otherwise.”
“I feel as if he wants to buy me cheaply,” I replied. “You and my Baba raised me to expect better.”
My mother took my hands in hers. “We cannot have the same hopes we once had,” she said. “This offer surpasses what I thought possible.”
The Blood of Flowers Page 12
