The Blood of Flowers

by Anita Amirrezvani

  “My boys will eat well today because of you,” Malekeh said.

  I took the carpet to Gostaham and asked him to tell me what he thought of my work. We unrolled it in his workroom so that he could look it over from end to end, and he praised it briefly before pointing out its flaws.

  “Some things are hard to see until a carpet is done,” he told me. “A brighter red would have made the feathers look even lighter. Next time, I would also suggest smaller borders, for the same reason.”

  He talked me through every color, every pattern, and every choice I had made. Although disappointed by his criticism, I knew he was right. He was truly a master, and I was humbled by all he understood about the craft.

  “You mustn’t be dismayed,” he said. “What I have told you is for your rug maker’s ears alone. A buyer will never even notice what I’ve talked about, for his eyes will be enchanted by the rug’s beauty, and he’ll understand that it is one of the splendors of its age. Do not sell it cheaply, for now you must begin to understand your own worth.”

  I thanked him for molding my clay into a finer form.

  “If you hadn’t already had the clay for me to work with,” he said with a smile, “it couldn’t have been done.”

  That was high praise indeed from a master like Gostaham, and it filled me with joy. Then he offered to help show and sell the carpet, but I wanted to do it on my own. When I told him so, his face took on a baffled look.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  I was very sure. That was the best way to convince my mother I could make good money from my craft.

  Gostaham continued to look perplexed that I wanted to proceed without his help, but he gave me his blessing and told me to get the highest price I could.

  MY HAPPINESS over the rug dispelled quickly, for the mood in the household was becoming more and more dark. Several of Naheed’s parents’ friends wrote letters to Gostaham canceling their carpet commissions, giving excuses that we all knew were false. With the disappearance of these projects, Gostaham and Gordiyeh began to feel afraid. They still had their income from the royal rug workshop and owned their fine home, so they would never starve, but now they worried about losing their luxuries and their status. Suddenly there was bickering in the house. Gordiyeh hounded Gostaham to get more commissions, and he complained that all their misfortunes wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been so greedy. When he reached for her, she pulled away, and her screams of joy no longer filled the house. Even the servants looked morose. I heard Shamsi singing softly as she wrung out the laundry, “Ey, wind, blow the bad luck out; Ey, rain, pour the good luck in.”

  One afternoon after the midday meal, Gostaham and Gordiyeh summoned my mother and me to the Great Room. We entered and paid our respects to them, but their responses were curt. The very air seemed sour as we removed our shoes and assumed our places on cushions.

  Gostaham began speaking, as he usually did before Gordiyeh took over. “Yesterday I sent a servant to Fereydoon’s residence,” Gostaham said. “He was never admitted to see him.”

  “How impolite,” replied my mother.

  “It’s not just impolite,” said Gordiyeh. “It’s unprecedented.” She turned to me. “We wondered if you and Fereydoon might have had a dispute. Even a little thing that might have made him angry.” She smiled at me encouragingly.

  “He seemed very well pleased with me the last time I saw him,” I replied. “Was this matter about me?”

  “We still haven’t been paid for the dangling gems carpet,” said Gostaham. “It seems as if Fereydoon doesn’t wish to part with his money.”

  “Perhaps he was occupied with business matters,” said my mother.

  “I doubt it,” said Gostaham. “More likely, he is angry.”

  “Might Naheed’s parents have shown him their displeasure?” I asked, trying to put the blame where it belonged.

  “They’d never do that,” said Gostaham. “He’s a grown man who can marry as he likes. That’s the law.”

  “What happened the last time you saw him?” asked Gordiyeh, looking hungry for information.

  “The only new thing I can think of,” I said, inventing a memory, “is that he told me I delighted him more than any other woman.”

  “Imagine that!” said Gordiyeh, as if such a prospect had never occurred to her.

  “And that he was eager to see me again,” I added.

  “That’s good,” said Gordiyeh, sounding as if she didn’t believe me. “What about Naheed—could she have poisoned her husband’s ear against us?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “She no longer invites me to visit.”

  Gordiyeh turned to her husband. “The best we can hope for now is that Fereydoon renews the sigheh. Remind me: When does the contract end?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said.

  “Do you think he will renew it?”

  “I don’t have any doubt about it this time,” I said, feeling his letter pressed against my hip.

  “That’s a relief,” replied Gostaham, stretching out his legs. “If Fereydoon is allied with our family, I’m sure he’ll pay for the rug.”

  Gordiyeh brightened. “We’ll all be happier when we have his letter of renewal in hand, won’t we?”

  “All except for me.” I said this in a louder voice than I had intended.

  Gordiyeh drew back into her cushion. “What could you possibly mean?”

  “I intend to refuse him.”

  “That’s not possible!” Gordiyeh turned to my mother almost pleadingly. “It doesn’t matter what your daughter says in this room,” she said. “I know fate has surprised her lately. Perhaps she needs time to listen to your words of wisdom.”

  My mother’s back remained unbowed. “It is entirely my daughter’s decision,” she said. “She is a married woman and old enough now to know what is right and what is wrong.”

  She didn’t betray the slightest sign of weakness, which would have given Gordiyeh room to persuade her.

  “You do wrong,” Gordiyeh said to me.

  I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. “Not I!” I replied in a voice that sounded loud to me. “Gostaham says I have skills enough to join the royal workshop, if only I had been a boy. But rather than let me ply my craft and find a virtuous marriage, you sold me for next to nothing.”

  My mother pressed the edge of her sleeve to her face. “By Ali, she is right,” she said. “I accepted the offer because I thought it was the only way to keep us safe from want.”

  It was the first time I had ever seen Gostaham looking sheepish. He avoided my eye, yet he would do nothing to quiet his wife. As a carpet maker, he was a master, but as a husband, he was as weak as a newborn lamb. Now that I was no longer a virgin, I understood how things worked between him and his wife. Despite her faults, he loved her, and there was no happier day for him than when he brought home a new commission. She would fill the house with her husky laugh and invite him to her bed. For that, Gostaham would do whatever was necessary to keep peace in the household.

  “We all hoped for more for you,” Gordiyeh said. “Your luck may improve if you try again.”

  “It’s too late,” I said.

  Gordiyeh’s voice became icy. “May your tongue be stung by bees,” she said. “If you receive a renewal offer, you will say yes. Do you understand?”

  I jumped to my feet, angrier than I had ever been in my life. Although I am not tall, Gordiyeh, Gostaham, and my mother all looked small to me.

  “I will not,” I said, planting my feet.

  “You ungrateful child!” Gordiyeh yelled so loudly that the whole house could hear. “Don’t forget we have lost money because of you!”

  “And I have lost my virginity because of you!” I yelled back.

  Gordiyeh was seething with rage. “You viper! After all we’ve done to help you!”

  “You can always make another carpet,” I said coldly. “My virginity is something I can never restore.”

  I didn’t regret the time I had spen
t in Fereydoon’s arms; after all, I had become a true woman there. But my value had diminished since I had lost my virginity, and with no dowry to offer, no man had any reason to take me as a permanent wife.

  “You traded me for the hope of future gains,” I said, my voice rising again. “You owe me something for that.”

  “We owe you nothing,” Gordiyeh shouted back. “We can dismiss you tomorrow, and no one would think we had done wrong.”

  Gostaham looked as if he wished he could be anywhere but in that room, yet he didn’t utter a word.

  I glared at Gordiyeh without speaking. Finally, the silence was too much for Gostaham to bear.

  “Azizam, we can’t afford to incur Fereydoon’s wrath,” he said gently.

  I gazed down at him for a moment, my heart full of gratitude for all he had taught me. “Revered amoo,” I said, calling him “uncle” out of affection and respect, “you are my teacher, the brightest star of my eyes. Would you have me continue to hurt others for the sake of money?”

  Gostaham looked pleadingly at his wife. “These are women’s matters, really,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, they are,” said Gordiyeh, wresting the conversation away from him. “We will watch for a letter from Fereydoon, and then we will renew. There is no more to be said. And now, you may return to your work.”

  She pressed her hands against her temples, as she always did when she felt the threat of a headache. As we left, she said to Gostaham, “What do you expect of someone who would rip a rug off the loom?”

  On our way to the kitchen, I muttered the worst insult I knew. “Her father is frying in hell,” I said.

  We began helping Cook slice vegetables, but after a few moments, my mother said she felt ill. “Go and lie down,” I replied. “I will do the rest.” I chopped the celery with so much force that the pieces jumped and scattered on the floor, and Cook scolded me for wasting food.

  BY THE END of the afternoon, I had made a bold plan. I gave a coin to Taghee, whispering that I needed him to find out when the Dutchman liked to have his hair barbered or where he bathed (however infrequently), so that I would know where to find him.

  “He goes to the bazaar every Wednesday afternoon to look at carpets,” said the errand boy, slipping my coin into his sleeve with a saucy look.

  “Wait!” I said, trying to get it back, but Taghee slipped away into the birooni. He was a sly one, indeed.

  Since it was Wednesday, I went to the bazaar, pretending I had an errand, and walked from stall to stall, feigning interest in carpets for the better part of the afternoon. While admiring a Qashqa’i carpet in indigo, I spotted the Dutchman across the alley conversing with a young merchant with a close-cropped beard. I watched until he took his leave and then darted from one alley to the next until I had reached the top of the road he was walking down, and could meet him as if by accident.

  I lifted my picheh so that my face was visible and strolled down the alley. The Dutchman was looking at carpets hanging from a shop’s alcove when he saw me.

  “Salaam aleikum,” I said, boldly saluting him. “Are you shopping for carpets today?”

  “Indeed I am,” said the Dutchman, surprised at being addressed. I reminded him of my family and of the wool carpet I had made.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Never have I found another carpet as fine as yours, which I admire above all others.”

  I smiled; his facility with polite speech was unusual in a farangi, but I enjoyed it all the same. He was peculiar to look at up close. His blue eyes were as translucent as a cat’s, and his movements just as unpredictable.

  “I’m always looking for fine pieces to sell in Holland,” he said.

  “Then perhaps you’d like to have a look at a carpet that I’ve just finished?”

  “Certainly, that would be a pleasure.”

  “May I invite you to come and see it?”

  “I would be most grateful if you would have it sent to me,” he replied. “My wife is due to arrive soon, and I’d like to show it to her, too.”

  “I would be honored,” I said.

  “With your permission, I will send a boy to your home and he can bring the carpet to where I live.”

  “Please have your boy ask for me, and for no one else,” I said.

  The Dutchman considered me for a moment. “Wouldn’t your family be able to help him?”

  I hesitated. “I want to surprise my family,” I replied.

  An eager look came into his eyes. “What a good idea,” he said. “May I send the boy today?”

  I was surprised by his haste, but I thought it best to proceed. “I am at your service.”

  The Dutchman bowed and took his leave. He paid the highest prices I had ever heard of. If he desired my carpet, I would earn well for it.

  When I arrived home, the Dutchman’s boy was already waiting for me. Hoping for a quick sale, I relinquished the carpet to him, giving him a good tip to make sure he would help me if I needed him.

  CONFIDENT THAT I would soon have a purseful of money from the Dutchman, I continued with my plan. Covering myself so that nothing at all of my face was visible, I went to the Image of the World in search of a scribe. I found one near the Friday mosque, and I instructed him to write a letter addressed to Fereydoon on his best paper and in his most careful handwriting. He was to explain that he was writing on behalf of Gostaham, for whom he worked, and to say in the finest language he knew that the family thanked Fereydoon graciously for the offer of the sigheh, but that I had refused it of my own will, and that it was not the family’s decision but mine alone.

  “Where is your family today?” asked the scribe, who had a scraggly beard and a wart near his nose.

  “At home.”

  “How strange that they sent you out all alone,” he said, “especially on a mission of the heart.”

  “They’re not well today.”

  “All of them?”

  When I did not reply, he beckoned me toward him and said in a whisper, “I’ll do it, but it will cost you three times the normal rate.”

  What could I do? He made a good living by determining how desperate his clients were.

  “I will pay,” I said.

  “And if you ever reveal me as your scribe, I will swear by the Holy Qur’an that it was someone else.”

  The scribe wrote the letter and read it in a whisper so that only I could hear. It didn’t sound as smooth as the letters that Fereydoon and Gostaham wrote, although it was full of flowery, flattering language. I puzzled over it, for I could not tell what was different about it. But I was in a hurry, and I thought it would do.

  I took the letter home and waited until Gostaham was out of the house, and then I went into his workroom and removed his seal from its hiding place. I knew he was often careless about locking it up, never dreaming that anyone in the house would dare to impersonate him. I melted some red wax on the back of the letter and quickly pressed the seal into it. Now there could be no doubt it came from Gostaham’s household.

  When I was finished, I felt clean inside for the first time in months. No matter how severe the penalty, I could no longer endure the sigheh. I knew that Gordiyeh and Gostaham would be very angry and that I would be punished, but I thought they would forgive me as they had before.

  I saved the hardest thing I had to do for the afternoon. Sitting alone in our little room, I crafted a letter to Naheed. My handwriting was as ungraceful as a child’s, but I wanted her to get a letter from my own hands, telling her exactly what was in my heart. She had taught me to write, and I wanted her to see how much I had learned from her and how I valued her instruction, knowledge, and friendship. I knew Naheed would understand the honesty of the feelings behind the clumsily written words.

  Naheed-joon, my dearest friend,

  I am writing to beg your forgiveness. I have loved you better than any other friend, and I have hurt you. At first, before I knew of your engagement, the sigheh hurt only me, but when it was renewed and I did nothing to stop it, I broke faith
with you. I wish I had made the right decision by telling you about it before your marriage. I hope you will pardon me for my error in judgment. I will always love you; but I see that you can no longer love me. And so I have decided to give you and Fereydoon your peace. I have refused his second renewal and therefore our sigheh is over. I wish you a joyous life, and hope you will one day remember me with all the love I feel for you.

  Then I ripped the twist of rainbow-colored threads off my neck and untied the seven knots one by one, murmuring a blessing with each release. Once the threads were smooth, I enclosed them in the letter. Naheed wouldn’t know exactly what the twist had meant, but she would understand that I had renounced a charm and done everything I could to unknot her love.

  THE NEXT DAY, my mother and I were pitting dates when we heard Gostaham shouting in the birooni. As the sound grew louder, I caught the words “carpet” and “sigheh.” I wiped my hands and tried to prepare myself.

  “Bibi-joon, my sigheh is over,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

  “May God protect us!” my mother replied. She continued digging seeds out of the sticky fruit, and I noticed that her hands were shaking.

  Gostaham charged into the courtyard with a letter in his hand, with Gordiyeh at his heels pleading to know what was wrong. His turban was askew, and his purple tunic was soaked with sweat. Remembering the time the two of them had yelled at me for removing the rug, I began flushing and sweating, although I knew I had done the right thing this time. I stood up to face them.

  Gostaham threw the letter at my feet. “Where did this come from?”

  I pretended not to know what it was. “I can’t read or write,” I said.

  Gostaham’s face was red with rage. “I went to Fereydoon’s residence today to plead for the money he owes us,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “What a surprise to be told I had written him a letter rejecting the sigheh!”

  “What?” Gordiyeh asked, bewildered.

  “When I saw my own seal on the letter, it was useless to deny it. I told Fereydoon I had hired a new scribe who would be thrown out of my employ. I begged his forgiveness for the letter’s gracelessness, and praised his generosity and his name.”