by Isobel Chace
‘It’ll take her a day or so to convince herself that you’re not going to put the evil eye on her,’ Maxine went on. ‘It’s best to leave her alone.’
‘Salaam,’ Deborah said hopefully.
The effect was magical. Toobi flung her chador back off her face and came running forward. A babble of words came flooding out of her mouth and she began to weep, her shoulders heaving in her distress.
‘I told you!’ said Maxine.
Deborah put her arms round the tiny woman and hugged her. The contorted face straightened into a countenance that had once, in youth, been beautiful.
‘You don’t have to be afraid of us. We’re only people too,’ Deborah soothed her. She turned to Maxine. ‘Didn’t you realise how frightened she was when she found foreigners in her house? How long has she been here?’
‘A couple of weeks.’ Maxine shrugged her shoulders. ‘I haven’t stood over her with a whip or anything! There’s no need to look like that!’
‘You could have got Roger to talk to her,’ Deborah admonished her. ‘You must know somebody who speaks her language!’
‘I’d hoped she’d speak English. Oh, all right, I should have guessed she found us peculiar, but not half as peculiar as I think her!’
But Deborah wasn’t listening to her. She tried to think of some way she could communicate to the old woman, to give her a familiar task that would make life seem more normal to her. In the end she pointed to Maxine, to herself, and then to the old woman. ‘Chai,’ she commanded hopefully.
‘Bale,’ the old woman said at once. She patted Deborah’s shoulder and managed a half-smile. ‘Chai,’ she agreed.
‘Tea!’ said Maxine. ‘Surely you don’t drink tea! Howard and I always have coffee when we have anything—’
‘I don’t know the word for coffee,’ Deborah said. ‘We’ll have to drink lots of tea until we learn what it is. The poor thing has to have something to do!’
‘Well, you can explain it to Howard,’ Maxine grumbled. ‘Oh, Debbie, you should have seen yourself! I’ve always heard the English are at their best in an emergency, but I’ve never seen them in action before! I’d willingly drink tea for a week just to have seen the look on your face!’
‘You may have to!’ Deborah warned, beginning to smile. ‘If we’re going to survive, lessons in Farsi are a must. We ought to be able to find a teacher nearby—’
‘Ask Roger!’
Deborah shook her head. ‘I’d rather not. Wouldn’t Howard know?’
Maxine shook her head. ‘I saw an advertisement somewhere. It’s in a shop in that square where the renovated tea-shop is, just round the corner. I’ll show it to you when you’ve seen your room.’
Deborah thanked her warmly. ‘It’ll be fun!’ she claimed. ‘It’s always more fun if you can talk to people.’
‘Just so long as you don’t expect miracles from me,’ Maxine agreed, ‘it might be fun at that. Come on, and I’ll show you the rest of the house.’
To Deborah’s surprise, her hostess led the way to the largest of the four bedrooms that took up the whole of one side of the house. She and Howard had quarrelled over who should have it, Maxine said, retailing the story with relish. They had decided in the end to leave it vacant, but now Deborah should have it because it would be a pity if no one was to enjoy its splendour, seeing that it was there waiting to be used.
It was indeed splendid. The walls were hung with medallion carpets from Kashan, the sixteen original panels radiating out from a circular sixteen-pointed medallion in the centre. Beneath were more carpets of a similar design on the floor. A huge double bed took up much of the floor space, hung about with silk drapings, brown with age. In contrast, between the windows that looked out across the central patio that had once been filled with sweet-scented flowers, were three badly framed photographs of the Shahanshah, the Empress Farah, and the lively features of the Crown Prince.
‘Do you like it?’ Maxine asked her. ‘It hasn’t any of the modern conveniences that one looks for nowadays, but it doesn’t seem to matter somehow. Who cares if there’s nowhere to put your clothes?’
Deborah stood in silence for a long moment, drinking in the beauty of the priceless carpets about her. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t matter at all.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The chai khane in the square was justly famous. They were greeted at the door by a man in traditional Turkoman costume, a dagger at his belt and a rather Chinese-looking hat on his head. He gestured them towards one of the pretty inlaid tables that surrounded a fountain in the centre of the darkened room. Mirrors had been placed round the walls, interspaced with complicated geometric designs that intrigued the eye. ‘Tea? Coffee? Sherbet?’ the man asked them. ‘Sherbet,’ Maxine said with decision. ‘We’ve only just had tea.’
‘Yes, madame. Of course, madame.’
‘I guess I’m getting to be pretty well known here,’ Maxine said. ‘I come here all the time because they don’t mind my coming in here by myself. I can’t say the same for everywhere in Iran. Women do most of their entertaining in their own homes and leave the public places to the men. That’s another reason why I’m glad you’ve come. Respectable women do their hunting in pairs and we’re less likely to be misunderstood if we stick together.’
‘We’ll do better still when we can speak the language,’ Deborah put in, determined that the object of their visit to the square should not be forgotten.
Maxine’s face lit with laughter. ‘I wonder if we shall be hunting for the same thing,’ she said with a naughty laugh. ‘I’d like to give Roger a jealous pang or two. He’s had things far too much his own way so far.’
‘I should have thought you’d find Roger a bit well—stuffy?’ Deborah suggested.
‘Roger? Did he strike you that way? Howard says he’s quite a lad when he gets going. Loves them and leaves them all over the place.’
Deborah made a little moue of distaste. ‘What a combination!’ she exclaimed. ‘Stuffy, and unsteady with it. It should be an easy mixture to resist.’
‘If you want to,’ Maxine sighed. ‘Only where Roger’s concerned, I don’t want to try!’
Deborah blanked Roger out of her mind with an effort. She wasn’t going to be given the chance to resist him. He had been quite clear about that! Maxine was welcome to him!
The sherbet was pale pink, very sweet, and smelt of roses. Deborah wished she had followed her first instinct and ordered coffee, but it was too late now, so she swallowed down the drink as fast as she could, wondering as she did so how Maxine could relish such a sickly taste. The American girl however, sipped her sherbet with satisfaction, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.
‘We’re being watched,’ she told Deborah. ‘Do you think he’s curious, or interested?’
Deborah’s eyes met those of the man in one of the mirrors on the wall. She expected him to look away, but he did nothing of the sort. Her expression changed to one of indignation, but he was quite unimpressed by her obvious displeasure. Slowly, almost languidly, he rose to his feet and came over to the two girls.
‘I am Dr. Reza Mahdevi,’ he introduced himself as he gained their table. ‘I think you are American, no?’
‘No,’ Deborah said, rather more curtly than she had intended.
‘I’m an American,’ Maxine chimed in.
The man smiled. ‘I have seen you here before,’ he told her. ‘I hoped you might be an American. My mother is an American also.’
‘Oh, really?’ Maxine was delighted. ‘Sit down and tell us all about her,’ she invited. ‘Does she live in America?’
‘She lives in our family home in one of the villages close by Shiraz.’ His gaze encompassed Maxine with obvious approval. ‘I thought at first you were a tourist on a brief visit to Shiraz, but I have seen you several times now over a space of about three weeks. I began to hope you had come to live among us?’
‘My brother is on an exchange at the university,’ Maxine told him. ‘I’m Maxine Reinhardt, and this i
s my friend Deborah Day.’
Dr. Mahdevi bowed to Deborah with a faint smile. ‘Miss Day must be British since she is not American? I hope you are enjoying your visit to Iran?’
‘Very much.’ He was nice, Deborah thought. She liked the way he held himself and the way he had checked his obvious admiration for Maxine from becoming too apparent.
‘That is good. You must forgive my coming over to speak to you without an invitation. My mother’s need must be my excuse. Now my father is dead there are few people close to her who can converse with her in her own language. It would give her great pleasure if you would agree to visit our home while you are here and talk to her about America—and Britain too, of course?’
‘Why, we’d love that!’ Maxine enthused.
Dr. Mahdevi looked inquiringly at Deborah. ‘And will you love it too?’ he asked with an inquiring look in his dark eyes.
‘If you think it will give your mother any pleasure,’ Deborah acknowledged. ‘But I expect she speaks Farsi very well by now—’
‘And the Turkish dialect of the Qashgai tribes to which my family belongs.’ He smiled at her surprise.
‘It is a long time since we travelled back and forth with our animals as most of our people do, but my grandfather used to do so. Even now we are settled, our lands are open to those of our people who still travel. We are proud to think we still belong to them.’
‘The Qashgai who make carpets?’
Dr. Mahdevi nodded. ‘Are you interested in carpets, Miss Day? My mother is very keen to market the products of the Qashgai on a more businesslike basis than is being done at present. But she will tell you all about that herself.’
Deborah’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Then yes, please, I’d love to meet your mother. You see, I’m part-owner of a shop in London and that is exactly the sort of thing we want to sell more of. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for new lines that we can sell.’
‘Carpets?’ he asked. ‘Just carpets, or do you have other interests?’
‘Pretty well everything! Ceramics, textiles, leathers, glass—anything we can sell at a modest profit.’
The Persian laughed. ‘Not too modest. Most of those commodities sell for much more in London than they do here. But my mother will be pleased to advise you better than I can; particularly if you show an interest in my people. Her love for them is as great as my own.’
Maxine smiled readily at him. ‘It’s a good thing we ran into you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Deborah and I were looking for a Farsi teacher, but it won’t do much good if the people we want to talk to don’t speak it. What with your mother being American, I don’t see that we need bother, do you?’
‘Toobi speaks Farsi,’ Deborah persisted.
‘Toobi?’ the doctor inquired.
‘She’s our badji,’ Maxine explained. ‘Deborah has her making tea for us, but that’s about the only word we have in common. Deborah thinks she’s lonely and unhappy, but I don’t see what we can do about it. Her husband divorced her, poor thing, and she used to live in our house. I suppose she has nowhere else to go.’ ‘She would feel better if she had something to do,’ Deborah added. ‘It must have been a shock to her to find her old home inhabited by foreigners.’
‘I daresay,’ Dr. Mahdevi agreed. ‘I am afraid most of us are still suspicious of strangers. We are not apt to think their ways are better than ours and we are never sure that their motives are good.’
‘She doesn’t suspect Deborah,’ Maxine complained, ‘but she does me, and poor Howard. I’m sure she thinks we have the evil eye. She rattles her blue beads whenever she sees me coming, and she hides from Howard altogether!’
‘Would you like me to explain to her that you mean her no harm?’ the doctor offered.
‘Will she mind a man calling to see her?’ Deborah hazarded. Toobi was her own personal challenge and she would have liked to have comforted her herself.
‘Under the circumstances I don’t think she will object. You can stay beside her all the time and then she will feel reassured. I will merely translate for you and explain to her the little things you would like her to do for you.’
But still Deborah hesitated. ‘It’s Maxine’s house. She ought to be the one to decide on her work.’
Maxine made a face at her. ‘Be my guest! If you hadn’t come along she’d still be weeping in a corner and not even making tea!’
Dr. Mahdevi clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval. ‘How could you put up with such a state of affairs?’ he asked Maxine.
To Deborah’s surprise, Maxine flushed and looked away, as though she minded what he should think of her.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ the American girl defended herself. ‘I thought she was unhappy because of what her husband had done to her. That’s what Howard told me was wrong with her.’ She sighed. ‘I should have got Roger to speak to her, I suppose, but I didn’t want to bother him with our domestic difficulties. Howard’s always bothering him about his work as it is. He gets impatient sometimes, and I don’t blame him. Howard ought to do his own work.’
The doctor raised his eyebrows, ‘And who is Roger?’ he asked.
‘Roger Derwent—Professor Roger Derwent. He has the most marvellous British manners and is the most handsome man I’ve ever met. Don’t you think so, Deborah?’
Deborah shook her head. ‘No, I don’t.’
Maxine pouted a little. ‘I can’t think why you don’t like him—’
‘Perhaps Miss Deborah doesn’t see him with the eyes of love as you do,’ the Persian doctor laughed at her. ‘It would be unfair if you had both lost your hearts to him.’
Deborah joined in the laughter. ‘I’m saving mine for Maxine’s brother,’ she said lightly.
‘For Howard? You must be mad! All he’s good for is spouting Persian poetry at you. He won’t even see you unless you bang him over the head with a copy of Saadi’s Gulestan, or Rose Garden, or whatever it was he called his book.’
‘You are unkind,’ the doctor told her, softening the rebuke with an appreciative smile when she swept her long fair hair behind her shoulders. ‘But then beautiful women are often unkind, are they not?’
Maxine stared at him in silence. ‘I wish I were beautiful,’ she said at last. ‘In this country one needs to be beautiful because the people have such an appreciation of the visual. It doesn’t seem to matter half as much as back home.’
The doctor’s expression was enigmatic and distant.
‘I share my father’s taste for flowers with long stems. My mother, too, is tall and fair, and moves like a queen.’
‘You mean you like long legs? Most men think I’m too tall to be seen out with them.’
The doctor’s eyes met hers. ‘Yes, I mean I like long legs, but in Iran we don’t usually make such personal remarks to women not of our family. It is not considered complimentary to the girl concerned.’
‘Oh,’ said Maxine. ‘I didn’t know. Don’t Persian girls like to be told they look nice?’
‘By their husbands. They are unlikely to be on speaking terms with many other men, apart from their brothers, cousins, and close friends of the family.’
‘I shouldn’t like that at all,’ Maxine said frankly. ‘Would you, Deborah?’
Thus appealed to, Deborah found she didn’t know the answer. She tried to tell herself that it was only a matter of upbringing, but she didn’t think she would mind not receiving the compliments of other men if her husband was someone she could like and admire. Someone like Roger Derwent. If one belonged to him, what need would one have of other men? Roger Derwent? She must be mad to think such a thing! ‘No, I shouldn’t like it either,’ she said.
‘But you are not convinced?’ Dr. Mahdevi accused her.
‘It would depend,’ she compromised. ‘I don’t set much store on compliments. They don’t always mean what they say.’
Maxine gave her a cornered glance. ‘Oh, don’t say that I Ian may have been a rat, but I always believe the nice things men say to me!
’
‘Then you’ll believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful even by Persian standards?’ Dr. Mahdevi teased her. ‘You may believe me,’ he added, ‘because it is the truth and I mean exactly what I say.’
Maxine was disconcerted and looked suddenly shy. Deborah was amused when the American girl’s eyes fell before the Persian’s. She thought it must have been a long time since anyone had dented Maxine’s exuberant confidence as easily as this man had done.
‘I expect Maxine has heard it all before,’ she said with a smile, ‘Blondes have an advantage over the rest of us, especially when they’re as fair as she is.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Maxine bade her. ‘I won’t listen to you! Either of you!’
Dr. Mahdevi quickly hid the triumphant look in his eyes. ‘My mother is right I She is always telling me that American girls are not so different from Persian ones, and now you have proved it to me, Miss Maxine. I shall have to tell her that you have convinced me in a few minutes where she has failed in all these years, that I can be equally proud of being half American as I can be of being half Iranian.’ His lips twitched. ‘She will be grateful to you.’
If Deborah suspected that he was exaggerating his doubts over his American heritage, Maxine did not. She was completely shocked.
‘If you ever felt like that I’ll have to use all my best propaganda on you,’ she decided. ‘America is better than anything! It’s the best!’
Dr. Mahdevi looked suitably serious. ‘It’ll take a lot to convince me,’ he claimed, ‘but if anyone can do it, I’m sure it’ll be you.’
He paid for their sherbets at the same time as he paid for his own tea, shrugging off Deborah’s efforts to pay for her own with a smile. ‘I’ll walk home with you and speak to the badji. We can then arrange when you will come with me to visit my mother, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Deborah agreed. ‘But I think I still want to try and learn some Farsi for myself.’
‘My mother and I will be happy to teach you between us. She especially will be glad to have the excuse to see more of you.’
