“With so much water, you must have hammams beyond our understanding,” Parveez said. “I can imagine huge pools of water, hot and cold, with fountains and cascades streaming from on high. You must be the cleanest people in all the world.”
The farangi paused. “Well, no. We have no hammams.”
Parveez looked surprised. “How do you keep clean?”
“Our women heat up a basin of water over the fire at home for special occasions, but we never bathe in the winter when it is cold.”
Parveez’s face twisted in disbelief, and I myself felt a disgust almost as deep as when I had had to empty the pans of night soil. “All winter—without a bath?”
“And all fall, and all spring, too. Usually, we bathe at the beginning of summer,” said the merchant nonchalantly.
I thought of the rings under his arms. Without a bath, he would sweat over and over into his clothes until they smelled as rank as fields covered with dung. I was glad I wasn’t sitting near him. The room fell quiet for a moment. The Dutchman scratched his head, and flakes of dandruff drifted onto his shoulders.
“I will miss your baths when I return home,” he conceded. “The land of Iran is the paragon of pure, the baths are the promised land of purging, and the rose water is the perfume of paradise!” His expressions in Farsi were flawless and I could see that Gostaham and Parveez were delighted by his poetic words of praise.
A servant brought in trays of food and laid them in front of the guest. “Really, there is no need to go to so much trouble,” said the Dutchman. “I simply wanted to inquire if we might do business together.”
Gostaham twitched as he tried to contain his anger at this display of rudeness. He looked down at the carpet as he said, “Please, my friend, eat. We won’t allow you to leave with an empty belly.”
The Dutchman ate a few morsels grudgingly, with an unconcealed air of obligation. I was astonished by his barbarous manners. He seemed like an animal, incapable of normal human pleasantries.
It was very hot in the nook, but Gostaham probably wanted me to wait and hear what the Dutchman desired. When he had finished eating, he invited the Dutchman to explain why he was honoring us with his visit.
“I need to commission two matching rugs for an owner of the Dutch East India Company,” he replied. “They are to be made with his family’s coat of arms, and prepared with the finest of silk and the tightest of knots.”
Gostaham quizzed him about the size, the colors, and the knots, and proposed a price so high it made me gasp. The Dutchman looked pained. The two began negotiating, but when neither would budge, Gostaham asked Samad to bring in coffee and sweetmeats, and broached another topic.
“It seems that the Dutch East India Company is making forays into every corner of the globe these days,” Gostaham said. “What is the latest from the New World?”
“A fledgling concern has been established called the Dutch West India Company,” replied the Dutchman, “which is developing a lucrative trade in furs. The firm is also trying to buy a vast island from the savages to make it easier to do business.”
“Indeed!” Gostaham said, with a brief, shrewd smile. I knew that he would not be offering a bargain price to the Dutchman now that he had learned how well his patron’s business was doing.
I went back to my loom. Before long, Samad appeared and told me to cover myself quickly, and I retrieved my chador from my room, wrapped it around myself, and returned to my knotting. After a few moments, Gostaham led the Dutchman into the courtyard. I spied Gordiyeh in the kitchen, where she could listen without being seen.
“This girl is a part of my family,” Gostaham said to the Dutchman, “and she is a fine knotter and designer. What you see on the loom is all her own.”
That wasn’t true, of course.
“What I can see is that talent runs in the family,” replied the Dutchman graciously. “Will the carpet be for sale?”
“Yes, as soon as it is done,” Gostaham said.
“It is very beautiful,” said the Dutchman. “Your fingers are so fast, I can hardly follow them.”
That pleased me. I had become faster in the last few months because Gostaham had shown me how to save time with each knot.
“Husband,” called Gordiyeh from the kitchen, where she remained hidden from view, “why don’t you include her carpet as a special gift for our esteemed Dutchman? Then perhaps he will pay us the price you asked for the other two.”
I froze.
“Now you’re sweetening things!” said the Dutchman immediately, no doubt realizing he could charge his patron for two silk carpets while rolling up a free one for himself. “Let’s sign an agreement!”
I hoped Gostaham would object, but he said nothing. The men returned to the Great Room so Parveez could commit the agreement to paper.
I sat at my loom, too dazed by disbelief to continue my work. After the Dutchman left, I thought I heard Gostaham and Gordiyeh arguing at the entrance of the house. Gordiyeh was saying something about how the Dutchman would be paying twice the Iranian price for the commissioned carpet, anyway. Gostaham’s voice was too low for me to hear. If he thought his wife had erred, he didn’t say anything to me. But how could he? He loved her too much to cross her.
Gordiyeh came into the courtyard and said, “I’m sorry I had to do that, but I was sure the Dutchman would not be able to resist such an offer. And you know how much we need the money.”
It never looked to me like the family needed money, at least not the way my mother and I did. But beyond that, there was the matter of fairness.
“Gostaham promised that we could sell the carpet, and that the money would be ours after we paid him for the wool,” I said.
Gordiyeh shrugged. “You can always make another carpet,” she said lightly, as if my work didn’t matter.
That was all I could bear. I went to our little room and stayed there for the rest of the day. When my mother learned what had happened, she uttered a string of curses on Gordiyeh’s head that I thought would strike her down that minute. But she held back from saying anything to her, fearful of her sharp tongue and of how she might exact revenge.
I suspected our black luck was due to the comet. Everyone was talking about its malevolence and how it caused chaos such as earthquakes and lapses in behavior. Ali-Asghar had told us about a royal groom who invited a fellow groomsman to share the bread and salt of his table, only to be stabbed out of envy over his higher rank. Although I didn’t dare say so, I wondered if Gordiyeh’s actions could be ascribed to the same disruptive source.
I WAS SO ANGRY that night, I couldn’t sleep, and the next day’s work was more taxing than usual. I washed the laundry with the servants, drawing water from the well and beating the clothing with the strength of my whole body, wringing it out with my hands, and hanging it in the sun to dry. Then I had to peel and slice a hill of potatoes for Cook and pick all the stems out of the dried barberries she planned to use in a stew. Gordiyeh told me I needed to work faster, for she was expecting a houseful of guests that day. I had never felt more like a servant.
When the kitchen work was done, I knotted the carpet until my neck was sore and my legs were cramped beneath me, for now I wanted nothing more than to finish it so I could finally begin one of my own. I had no chance to rest, and before my afternoon chores were finished, I received an unexpected summons from Fereydoon. Normally, he sent a note in the morning or the day before, allowing me time to make myself ready. Fatigued beyond reason, I had to hurry to his house to be prepared for him, although it was the last thing I desired that day.
In the late afternoon, I rushed through the streets, which were deserted because it was so hot. A veil of dust seemed to hang in the air, and even the Friday mosque’s blue dome looked dulled by the heat. When I arrived at Fereydoon’s house, I was hot, thirsty, and tired, but the women gave me no respite. They pulled hair out of my eyebrows, which brought tears to my eyes, and removed it from my legs, which hurt even more. I fell asleep while I was in the
tub. By the time they had finished with me, I hardly cared that Fereydoon had arranged for me to have a new silk tunic as blue as the Eternal River, with a brilliant yellow sheath underneath, nor that they were binding the ends of my hair with matching yellow ties embroidered with golden birds. I didn’t even look at myself in the metal mirror. When the women led me into the room where I awaited Fereydoon, I tried to fight sleep, but my head was nearly on my chest when I heard him at the door.
Although I had been with Fereydoon more times than I could count, nothing had improved for me in our bedchamber. That filled me with regret, but at least I had stopped worrying about whether I was appealing to him. He seemed to take all his pleasures with great zest, whether food, wine, tobacco, or me.
Fereydoon burst in that evening as if he were bringing the wind with him, so quick were his movements. With twice his usual vigor, he pulled me into his arms and said, “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, so I summoned you on short notice. I had a long sleep this afternoon, just so I could be awake with you until day chases away night.”
I tried to smile. I wanted nothing more than to rest, yet now I must be lively until dawn. When the evening meal arrived, he passed me tender pieces of lamb and chicken. I ate little so as not to be heavy with sleep. When he offered me wine mixed with milk, I refused it for the same reason. He looked disappointed as he poured it for himself.
After the servants cleared away the plates and departed, Fereydoon asked me to show him my new clothes. I stood and twirled, so that my wefts flew wide and I could see their yellow tails brightening the air and wrapping around my face and body.
“Sweet child of the south!” said Fereydoon, rising to join me and placing his hands on my waist. “You curve just like the moon.”
He raised his hands to my face and smoothed my eyebrows with his fingertips, making me glad the women had shaped them, and said, “Crescent moons.” Then, sweeping his hands over my breasts, he smiled and said, “Half-moons.” And finally, grabbing my buttocks in his two hands, “Full moon.”
I laughed at being so admired, which was a welcome change from the rest of my daily life. Fereydoon was teaching me that although my skin was not fair, I had curves beneath my clothes that could stir a man, even one as privileged and experienced as he was. I also felt something different in his manner, something softer than before. I didn’t believe it had anything to do with me. Perhaps he had made a fine deal on an Arabian mare and wanted to celebrate with me in his bed.
Fereydoon cupped his hand on my belly and slid it lower, holding it there. “But this is what I like to see most of all—this plump mound rising from your body and swelling over your belly like the moon over the earth.”
Fereydoon removed all my clothing and his and for a few moments he continued running his hands over the moons of my body. I loved it when he played with me this way and made my skin warm beneath his touch. I became heated and eager, craving more. But all too soon, he slid his thighs between mine, nudged my legs open, and began the work of sowing his seeds. I closed my eyes and panted a little because I knew that excited him, and I moved my hips in time to his. Maybe we would finish quickly tonight, I thought, imagining how delicious it would feel to close my eyes and sleep. My limbs felt as leaden as the heavy weights that athletes lift in the Houses of Strength. Perhaps I even fell asleep for a moment, because I believe I stopped moving. Rousing myself with a start, I quickly began thrusting my hips again to meet Fereydoon’s while peeking at his face. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be concentrating on something. There was a trickle of sweat at his temples. I shut my eyes and kept at my work. After what seemed like a long time, he stopped moving and sprawled on top of me as if he were exhausted. I didn’t move, hoping that we were done.
“Lift your arms,” he instructed.
Dutifully I put my arms overhead. He bit my breasts and began moving his hips again, and I made sure to concentrate on the task before me. We continued that way for a while, but Fereydoon was failing to meet his moment of bliss. He sighed—a short, frustrated exhalation—and paused again.
“Grab my back with your arms—grab me!” he said with longing in his voice. I put my arms around his back lightly as he thrust with what seemed like desperation. I began to feel dry and sore between my legs and wished that he would hurry. This act had never taken so long before. I glanced at Fereydoon’s face again and was alarmed to see a look that reminded me of a man and his donkey I had seen earlier that day at a mill. Around and around they walked, pushing the heavy stone that crushes the grain, man and beast stupefied by the repetition of the task.
Was Fereydoon tired of me so soon? I lay rigidly in his arms, not knowing what to do. When nothing seemed to be happening, Fereydoon pulled his body away from mine and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Out of the corner of my eye, I was surprised to see the stiffness between his thighs, like a pole holding up a tent, just like on the first night we had shared together. But in his eyes was a look of dullness that seemed as endless as the sky. Minute after minute passed, so many that I became aware of the sound of people walking by the house in the dark.
“Roll onto your side,” Fereydoon said finally, sounding annoyed. I obediently turned so that my back was facing his body and remained there with my legs closed, wondering what would happen next. He sighed again before lifting my right leg with his arm and bending my knee so my leg slid over his right hip. By then I was as dry as the desert sands, and when he tried to put himself inside me, he could no longer slide in. Sleep began creeping up on me again, with its soft, insistent pull.
Fereydoon pulled away from my body and lay on his back. He grabbed my hand and put it between his legs, showing me how to move it up and down.
“Faster,” he said at first. Then: “Not so hard.” And later: “Up near the top.” And finally: “Never mind!”
Fereydoon turned away, and I heard the sound of skin slapping against skin, a noise that became louder and louder as the speed of his hand increased. Before long, he began to pant with pleasure and within just a few minutes he groaned and shed tears into his own palm. I had never known him to handle himself this way before. Why hadn’t he found his pleasure with me? I thought I had done everything he had instructed me to do.
Without Fereydoon’s body close to mine, I began shivering, but he didn’t move. I rolled myself in the bed covers, feeling alone. We spoke together for a few moments, but our conversation left me even more confused. Before long, I heard Fereydoon snoring softly like a child. Though I was fatigued, sleep would not come to relieve me. I lay awake for a long time, trying to understand why I had failed. I knew I should have behaved as though I were delighted by Fereydoon’s presence. But I had been tired beyond thought, and pleasing him felt like just one more task I had to do for someone else. I was weary, weary and worn. The last thing I heard before I finally fell asleep was the sound of donkeys braying as their masters led them to market. It seemed like the saddest sound I had ever heard.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, Fereydoon was gone. It was the first time he had left me without saying good-bye. The room seemed empty and lusterless without him. After donning my clothes, I rushed out the door and hurried home.
THAT AFTERNOON, after I finished my chores, I left Gostaham’s house for Naheed’s. Now, more than ever, I needed a friend. I longed to unburden my heart and hear her advice, but I knew I could not reveal myself to her. All she would have to do was tell Homa too much one afternoon at the hammam, and the town would know my story before nightfall. If Fereydoon wasn’t going to renew my contract—and now I had reason to believe he was dissatisfied—it would be better to let the sigheh die quickly.
All the way through Four Gardens, the sun beat on my head and the ground seemed to burn through my thin shoes. The light was so bright it hurt my eyes through my picheh. Even the river glinted sharply in the heat. Someone was grilling liver kebab, and the dirty smell of it seemed to catch inside my picheh. The thought of eating in this heat nauseated me. My bel
ly churned. I stopped and bent over, longing to vomit, but nothing would come out.
When I arrived at Naheed’s, she ushered me into her rooms and asked the servants to bring in lemon sharbat right away. “You look hot,” she told me.
After I had refreshed myself and the servants were out of earshot, Naheed removed the latest letter from its hiding place in the sash around her waist. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “Just listen to what he writes.”
Light of my heart, in recent months, I have come to know you better than any woman except those in my own family. God gave us the blessings of the word and the pen, but never did I expect that a woman could wield both with such beauty. Your alefs are like a cypress tree, straight and tall; your behs, with their sweet dot beneath, are like the beauty mark on a lover’s cheek. They have taken me captive; with every letter you write, my heart is more and more deeply ensnared. So completely have your words imprisoned me that I have begun seeing them in your face—glimpsed only once, alas, but enough beauty seen in that moment to last a lifetime. The locks around your face are like the letter jim, curling without regard to the way they hook a lover’s heart. Your rosebud mouth, which is piercingly red, is tiny and precious like the letter mim. But most of all, when I dream of you I imagine your emerald eyes, as pretty and elegant as the letter saad. I am in a state of longing for your every word. Leave me in this state of distress no more! Consent to be my wife, to share every moment of your days and nights next to me, and I will promise to cherish you until the last letter of our lives is written.
When Naheed finished reading, her eyes overflowed with tears and she sat still without wiping them. I had never seen a woman fall in love before, and I envied the purity of her feelings.
“Voy, voy!” I said. “What a gem, what a prince among men.” But even as I said that, my heart was shedding the tears that Naheed was able to shed openly with her eyes. No one loved me the way Iskandar loved Naheed. I had not learned how to make Fereydoon’s heart soar with love and longing, but, despite my grief, I must remain silent. I could not share my sorrows and dip into the sympathy and comfort I knew Naheed would have showered on me. That was the worst of all.
The Blood of Flowers Page 16
