The Carpet Makers

by Andreas Eschbach

  Magnificently decorated and pulled by sixteen baraqs, the great cart, in which the trader and his family lived, came next. Every neck craned in the hope of catching a glimpse of Moarkan, but the merchant didn’t show himself. The windows were curtained, and only two gruff carters were sitting on the coach-box.

  Then finally, the hair-carpet wagon arrived. A murmur passed through the crowd at the roadside. There were no fewer than eighty-two buffalo pulling the steel colossus. The armored cart appeared to have no windows or openings, except for a single door to which the trader alone had a key. The eight broad wheels of the multiton monster dug into the road with loud crunching noises, and the driver had to constantly sting the backs of the buffalo with his whip to keep them moving ahead. The cart was accompanied by mounted soldiers, who scanned about suspiciously, as though they feared attack and plunder by superior forces at any moment. Everyone knew that the hair carpets the trader had already bought on his route were transported in this cart, along with the money—vast amounts of money—for the carpets he would still buy.

  Other carts followed: the wagons in which the more important of the trader’s servants lived, provision wagons for the soldiers, and wagons for the transport of tents and all sorts of equipment needed by such a mighty caravan. And behind the procession ran the children of the city, hollering, whistling, and shouting with enthusiasm for the exciting spectacle.

  The caravan rolled into the large market square to the sound of fanfare. Flags and standards fluttered on tall masts, and the city craftsmen were giving the final touches to the stands they had erected in one corner of the big market to display their wares in the hope of doing good business with the trader’s buyers. When the wagons of the caravan train came to a stop, the trader’s servants immediately began setting up their own stands and sales tents. The square echoed with a babble of voices, with shouts and laughter, and with the clatter of tools and poles. At the fringes of the square, the residents of Yahannochia pressed in timidly, because the merchant’s mounted soldiers were urging their proud steeds through the busy tumult, reaching threateningly for the whips at their belts whenever one of the city folk became too bold.

  The city elders appeared, clothed in their most magnificent robes, escorted by city soldiers. The people from the trader’s company made room for them and opened up a path through which they strode toward Moarkan’s cart. They waited there patiently, until one small window was opened from the inside and the merchant peered out. He exchanged a few words with the dignitaries and then signaled to one of his servants.

  This man, the trader’s crier, scurried as nimbly as a lizard up to the roof of the trader’s wagon, where he stood with his legs apart and his arms extended wide. He shouted, “Yahannochia! The market is open!”

  * * *

  “We’ve been hearing strange rumors here about the Emperor for some time,” one of the city elders said to Moarkan, while the tumult of the market’s opening swirled around them. “Do you know anything more?”

  Moarkan’s crafty little eyes narrowed. “What rumors do you mean, sir?”

  “The rumor is going around that the Emperor has abdicated.”

  “The Emperor? Is it possible for the Emperor to abdicate? Can the sun shine without him? Would the stars in the night sky not be extinguished without him?” The merchant shook his fat head. “And why do the Imperial Shipsmen buy the hair carpets from me just as they’ve always done for as long as anyone can remember? I’ve heard these rumors, too, but I know nothing about such things.”

  * * *

  In the meantime, on a large, decorated platform, the final preparations were being completed for the ritual, which was the real reason for the arrival of the trader: the presentation of the hair carpets.

  “Citizens of Yahannochia, come and behold!” the master of ceremonies called out; he was a white-bearded giant of a man, robed in brown, black, red, and gold, the colors of the Guild of the Hair-Carpet Makers. The people paused, looked toward the stage, and slowly approached.

  There were thirteen carpet makers who had finished their hair carpets this year and were now ready to present them to their sons. The carpets were attached to large frames and draped with gray cloth. Twelve of the carpet makers were present in person—old, bowed men who were able to stand only with difficulty and who glanced around with half-blind eyes. Only one of the carpet makers had already died and was represented by a younger member of the guild. On the other side of the platform stood thirteen young men, the sons of the old carpet makers.

  “Citizens of Yahannochia, cast your eyes on the carpets that will beautify the Palace of the Emperor!” As happened every year, a reverent whispering went through the crowd when the carpet makers then unveiled their hair carpets—their life’s work.

  But this year there was already a skeptical undertone in the harmony of appreciative voices. “What’s the meaning of the rumor that the Emperor has abdicated?” some voices asked.

  The photographer who traveled with the merchant’s train walked onto the platform and offered his services. As was the tradition, each hair carpet was photographed separately, and, with trembling fingers, each of the carpet makers accepted the image the photographer had created with his shabby, ancient apparatus.

  Then the master of ceremonies spread wide his arms in a sweeping gesture that demanded silence; he closed his eyes and waited until quiet had settled over the large square, where everyone now paused and followed the events on the stage, spellbound. All conversation stopped, the craftsmen at their stands put aside their tools and other implements, everyone stood where he was, and stillness descended—so complete that every rustle of clothing and the wind lamenting in the beams of the large houses could be heard.

  “We give thanks to the Emperor with all we have and with all we are,” he solemnly intoned the traditional prayer. “We offer our life’s work in gratitude to the One through whom we live and without whom we would be nothing. Just as every world in the Empire contributes its best to the beauty of the Emperor’s Palace, we praise our good fortune that we may gratify the Emperor’s eye with our art. He who created the brightest stars in the heavens and the darkness between them grants us the favor of placing his foot on the work of our hands. May he be praised now and forevermore.”

  “May he be praised,” the people mumbled across the great square and bowed their heads.

  The master of ceremonies gave a signal and a gong sounded. “The hour has come,” he called out as he turned to the young men, “when the eternal covenant of the makers of hair carpets is renewed. Every generation takes on a debt to the previous one, and pays off its debt to its own children. Are you willing to keep this covenant?”

  “We are willing,” the sons responded in chorus.

  “So you shall receive the work of your fathers and become indebted to them,” the master of ceremonies concluded the ritual formula and gave the signal for the second striking of the gong.

  The old carpet makers took out their knives and carefully severed the bands holding their carpets in the knotting frame. Cutting the carpet from the frame was a symbolic act closing out their life’s work. One after the other, the sons approached their fathers, who carefully rolled up their carpets and—many with tears in their eyes—laid them in the arms of their sons.

  Applause surged up when the last carpet had been presented, music began to play, and, as though a dam had been breached, the loud bustle of the market began again and turned into a festival.

  * * *

  Dirilja, the trader’s beautiful daughter, had watched the presentation ritual from her window, and when she heard the music ring out, she had tears in her eyes, too—but they were tears of pain. Crying, she lowered her head against the windowpane and dug her fingers into her long, reddish-blond hair.

  Moarkan stood before the mirror and busied himself with giving just the right cast to the folds of his radiantly glittering robe; he snorted angrily, “It’s been more than three years, Dirilja! He has surely found someone else, a
nd all the tears in the world won’t change that.”

  “But he promised to wait for me!” the girl sobbed.

  “Pah! That’s easy to say when you’re in love,” the merchant replied. “And just as quickly forgotten. A hot-blooded young man makes that promise at least every three days to someone else.”

  “That’s not true. I’ll never believe that. We swore to love one another forever—until we die—and it was an oath as sacred as the covenant oath of the carpet makers.”

  Moarkan observed his daughter silently for a while and shook his head with a sigh. “You hardly knew him, Dirilja. And believe me: someday you’ll be happy that everything worked out this way. Why would you want to be the wife of a hair-carpet maker? You can’t comb your hair without someone standing behind you to pluck every one of the strands from your brush. You have to share him with two or three wives or more. And if you bear him a child, you have to assume that it will be taken from you. On the other hand, with Buarati—”

  “I don’t want to become the wife of a fat, oily trader, even if he pays my weight in hair carpets!” Dirilja screamed in rage.

  “As you wish,” Moarkan responded. He turned to the mirror again and put on the heavy silver chain, the symbol of his status. “I have to go now.” He opened the door, and the noise of the market flooded in. “But it seems to me,” he said as he went out, “that fate is on my side—thank the Emperor!”

  * * *

  Accompanied by the guildmaster of the carpet makers, the trader stepped onto the stage to appraise the carpets and to buy them. With dignified bearing, Moarkan approached the first heir and had the young man’s hair carpet displayed to him. He tested the density of the knots with his fleshy fingers and thoroughly inspected the pattern before naming a price. The music played on without interruption; observers could only see the merchant’s gestures and the carpet makers’ reactions when he made his offer. The words that were spoken were hopelessly lost in the tumult of the market.

  Usually the young men simply nodded with pale but composed expressions. Then the trader signaled to a servant who had been waiting a few steps away and gave him some brief instructions. In turn, with the help of several soldiers, the servant took care of the remaining business—bringing and counting out the money and transferring the hair carpet to the armored wagon—while Moarkan went on to the next carpet.

  The guildmaster intervened when the price named by the trader seemed unjustifiably low to him. Heated discussions sometimes ensued, in which, however, the trader had the upper hand. The carpet makers could only choose to sell to him or to wait a year in the hope that the next trader would make a better offer.

  One of the old carpet makers collapsed suddenly when Moarkan named his price, and he died a few moments later. The merchant waited until the man had been carried from the stage and then continued on without emotion. The crowd hardly took note of it. Something like that happened nearly every year, and the carpet makers considered such a death especially honorable. The music didn’t even stop playing.

  * * *

  Dirilja opened one of the windows on the side of the wagon toward the stage and extended her head. Her beautiful, long hair caused a stir, and whenever she saw someone looking in her direction, she waved him over and asked, “Do you know Abron?”

  To most, the name meant nothing, but some of them knew him. “Abron? You mean the carpet maker’s son?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “For a while, he was often at the school, but I heard his father was against it.”

  “And now? What’s he doing now?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody’s seen him for a long time, for a very long time.…”

  Although it cut her to the heart, when she found an old woman who knew Abron, she overcame her reluctance and asked, “Have you heard if he has married?”

  “Married? Abron? No…,” said the old woman. “That would have had to be last year or the year before at the Festival, and I would know about that. You see, I live right here on Market Square, in a little room under the roof of that house over there.…”

  * * *

  In the meantime, preparations for the Courting had begun. While the last hair carpets were being sold, fathers brought their daughters of marriageable age to the edge of the platform. And when the hair-carpet trader and the guildmaster left the stage, the band switched over to lively dance tunes. With seductive movements, the girls began to dance slowly toward the young carpet makers, who were standing in the middle of the platform with their money chests. There, somewhat embarrassed, they watched the performance being played out for them.

  Now the city folk gathered closer around the stage and clapped encouragement. The girls swirled their skirts as they tossed their heads, so that their long hair flew through the air and, in the setting sun, looked like the colorful flames of will-o’-the-wisps. In this manner, each one danced toward the young man who attracted her, touched him fleetingly on the chest or on the cheek, and leapt away again. They lured and teased, laughed and batted their eyes; sometimes they even raised their skirts above their knees for just a moment or traced the curves of their bodies with their hands.

  The crowd cheered when the first of the young men stepped out of the circle and followed one of the girls. She tossed him promising glances while seeming to fall back in mock shyness, and she ran the tip of her tongue slowly over her half-opened lips to keep her advantage over the other girls now also trying their luck with this fellow. She lured him over to her father to ask for her hand with the ritual words. As usual, the father requested a glance into the carpet maker’s money chest, and they walked back together through the wild hubbub to the circle at the center of the stage, from which other young men were now separating themselves to choose their own headwives. There the young carpet maker opened the lid of his chest, and if the father was satisfied with what he saw inside, he gave his consent. Then it was up to the guildmaster to examine the woman’s hair and, if he had no objections, to perform the ceremony and record the marriage in the guildbook.

  * * *

  Dirilja stared at the platform without really seeing what was going on there. The Courting of the carpet makers seemed sillier and more trivial to her than any children’s game. Once again, she relived the hours together with Abron—back then, three years ago, when her father’s trading caravan last made a stop in Yahannochia. She saw his face before her; again she felt the kisses they had exchanged, felt his soft hands on her body and the fear of being found together in a situation that had gone far beyond the boundaries of what was appropriate for young unmarried people. She heard his voice and felt again the certainty of that day, that this was real.

  Suddenly she knew she could no longer live without learning about Abron’s fate. She might try to forget Abron, but the price she would pay would be the loss of faith in herself. She would never know again whether she could trust her feelings. It was not a question of wounded honor or of painful jealousy. If it was the nature of the world, that such certainty as she had felt could be an illusion, then she didn’t want to live in this world anymore.

  She looked out through all the cart’s windows and couldn’t see her father anywhere. He was probably sitting with the city elders, swapping news and making secret deals.

  In the marketplace, the first torches were being lit as Dirilja began to pack articles of clothing and other personal effects into a small shoulder bag.

  * * *

  The music had stopped. Many stands were already being dismantled, the wares packed into wagons, and the money counted. Many of the city folk had already gone home.

  After the marriage ceremonies of the young carpet makers to their headwives, the platform had become the scene for another market—for carpet makers seeking other wives, their subwives. The podium was illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. Men stood there expectantly with their young or not-so-young daughters. Several older carpet makers, most of them accompanied by their wives, shuttled their critical gazes from o
ne girl to another, felt their splendid hair with trained fingers and, here and there, began serious discussions. No special ceremony was necessary to take a subwife; it was sufficient for the father to release her and for her to follow the carpet maker home.

  * * *

  The next morning, the departure of the caravan was delayed. The wagons were ready to move, the buffalo snorted in agitation and shuffled their hooves, and the foot soldiers stood waiting in a large circle around the train of wagons. The sun rose higher and higher without the trumpets blaring out the departure. The gossip was that Dirilja, the trader’s daughter, had disappeared. But, of course, no one dared to ask.

  Finally, the sound of express riders galloping through the city streets was heard. A trusted servant of the trader hurried to his wagon and knocked on the windowpanes. Moarkan opened the door and stepped outside, decked out in his most splendid robes and decorated with all the insignia of his rank. He awaited the report from the scouts with a stony expression.

  “We’ve looked everywhere, in the city and on all the roads leading out to the fortifications,” the commander of the mounted soldiers reported, “but we’ve found no trace of your daughter anywhere.”

  “She is no longer my daughter,” said Moarkan darkly, and issued his order: “Signal the departure! And make a note on the maps: we never intend to return to Yahannochia again.”

  * * *

  The merchant’s caravan began to move slowly, but as unstoppably as a landslide. Now, as the train moved out of the city, only the children lined the roadside. In a cloud of dust, the monstrous parade of carts, animals, and people surged ahead, leaving behind deep wheel ruts and hoofprints that would not be covered over by the wind for many weeks.