The Blood of Flowers (18 page)

I have no sense of how much time passed before Fereydoon arrived. Each minute seemed as long as a year, and I hardly moved for fear of ruining my appearance. I think I must have looked as frozen as a princess in a painting. Every detail was as perfect, yet I was not myself. I examined my hennaed hands and toes as if they belonged to another, for I had never been decorated before. I thought of my friend Goli, and of how much I had longed to know the mysteries she had known for years. Now I wished I didn't have to know them.

The cannon fired, and within moments the door to the room opened and Fereydoon strode in, trailed by a half dozen servants bearing platters of steaming food. "Salaam," he said, sitting down on a cushion close to mine. He was wearing a lavender robe over a green tunic, and a white turban shot with silver thread. Two servants whipped open a dining cloth and placed it in front of us, while others laid out platters with enough food for twenty people. Then they all respectfully withdrew.

Fereydoon seemed as comfortable as when he had first seen me uncovered. "You must be famished," he said. "Let's break our fast together."

He tore a piece of bread, scooped up a morsel of lamb and rice cooked with dill, and offered it to me. I looked at it in alarm. I had never before accepted food from a strange man's hand.

"No need to be shy," said Fereydoon, leaning toward me. "We are man and wife." When I recoiled, he laughed. "Ah, virgins!" he said, with a smile of delight.

I took the food from his fingertips and placed it in my mouth. It was as savory as any I had ever eaten, and there were mountains of it. We had also been served two stewed chickens, the haunch of a roasted lamb, rice with fava beans and onions, and a sweet rice dish made with saffron, barberries, orange peel, and sugar. I couldn't consume much, but Fereydoon ate magnificently of everything, as might be expected of one in his position. From time to time, he stopped and prepared a choice morsel for me. Just as at home, we didn't speak as we ate, the better to appreciate the gift of food.

When we had finished, Fereydoon called for the servants and ordered the dishes to be removed. I could see them assessing how much food remained on the platters and calculating whether or not they'd be eating well tonight. Having done the same thing myself, I knew they would.

Now Fereydoon called for a water pipe and a musician. A large glass pipe with a burning ember on top of the tobacco appeared at the same time as the smooth-skinned young player, who still didn't have his first beard. Fereydoon took a pull on the pipe and offered it to me, but I declined, never having smoked before. The musician seated himself across from Fereydoon and waited until he commanded him to play by lifting his hand. Then the musician began moving his bow over his kamancheh, whose melodies seared my heart. As I watched the duo, so in harmony with one another, I felt a piercing loneliness. The kamancheh and its player called out to me about a life of closeness I had never known, and perhaps never would. I suddenly began missing my father. I took a breath to try to calm myself, but my expression caught Fereydoon's eye.

"What's this?" he said. I couldn't reply, as I was fighting my feelings. The musician kept playing. Fereydoon signaled him to stop, but he didn't notice. Finally Fereydoon said loudly, "Enough! You may go." The young man played a bit longer before he finally looked up. I noticed a strangely flirtatious smile at the corners of his lips as he thanked his master and departed.

I felt wretched, as if I had already made a terrible blunder. But rather than being angry, Fereydoon reached over to me and began stroking the top of my hennaed hand. His hands were twice as large as mine, and his skin was the color of brewed tea against my red fingertips. His hand was softer than any I had ever felt before. He lingered over my callused fingertips, smiling as if he liked the way they felt.

While Fereydoon was looking at my hand, I glanced at his face. He had a thick black mustache and a closely cropped beard that reached all the way to his ears. I could smell tobacco in the vicinity of his lips, which were as red as my tunic. I had never been so close to a man's face before, except for my father's, and I must have looked frightened. Fereydoon drew me into his arms and stroked the hair near my face and each of my hands. The warmth of his skin started to make mine glow in return.

"So," he said, "this is my little mountain girl from the south, so tough and hard on the outside, yet so buttery underneath! Who would have thought?"

I wouldn't have described myself that way, yet it must have been true. After my father's death, tenderness had seemed an emotion for other people to enjoy.

"From the day I saw you shed your coverings, I wanted to have you," he said.

"And yet, I snapped at you," I replied, remembering how I had told him to stop looking.

"As you should have!"

"Why did you wait until now to ask my family for me?" I asked.

"You weren't ready," he said. "But things had changed when Hayedeh saw you at the hammam."

I blushed, and Fereydoon kissed my forehead right underneath the string of hanging pearls. My body flushed. It was a wonder to be the one person who mattered to someone, if only for a moment, more than anyone else.

I wanted to talk more, but Fereydoon took my hand and led me into a small bedchamber located through a carved wooden door. Light flickered from a few oil lamps placed in niches in the walls. A large bedroll with a pillow big enough for a couple filled most of the room. It was a chamber made for just two things: sleep and love.

We sat down on the bedroll, and my heart began to beat so fast I could see the silk tunic respond to its thuds. Fereydoon removed Gordiyeh's precious golden robe, tossing it aside with the casualness of a person accustomed to things of value. Then he gently lifted the tunic over my head. I shivered in the sheer silk undergarment that revealed almost everything. Fereydoon put his hands on my waist for a moment, and their warmth calmed and stilled me. I could feel him waiting for that. When I relaxed, he began caressing the front of my body very, very lightly with just the tips of his fingers, which were hot through the silk.

I wanted him to continue, but Fereydoon removed the last of my garments rather quickly and gazed upon my naked body, while I tried not to twist away like a worm on a hook. A look of delight filled his eyes. "Breasts as firm as pomegranates, hips like an oasis! Somehow, I always know!"

I was blushing from his words of praise. "Red roses are blooming on your cheeks," he said gently. He cast aside his own garments, the precious fabric twisting up like rags. When Fereydoon removed his turban for the first time, I drew in my breath. His hair fell to his shoulders in thick black shining waves. I wanted to touch it, but didn't dare.

The wiry hairs against his body looked like velvet patterns on brocade. Though I didn't look directly at his middle, I glimpsed something that made me think of sheep organs for sale in the meat bazaar: kidney, liver, and tongue.

When Fereydoon took me in his arms, with nothing between us, I smelled fresh apple-flavored tobacco at his lips and felt the bristly hair on his face and chest. His body felt deliciously warm against mine. I was so innocent I didn't know what to expect next. I had seen animals rutting in the fields, and I knew men and women did something similar. But when Fereydoon joined his body to mine, I held on to the bedroll to brace myself, for it seemed violent. As his passion flowered, I knew it was inspired by me, but I felt far away from it. I was indeed like a princess frozen in a painting, watching Fereydoon as he devoured me. When he ascended the seven heavens and shouted with joy, I observed him curiously through a half-open eye. After he fell asleep, I felt thwarted and confused. Why was what we were doing the source of so many jokes among the women of my village and, no doubt, among the men? Why had Goli looked rapturous when she talked about it?

Sometime in the early hours, Fereydoon woke up and took me in his arms. It seemed he wanted to do the same thing again. I complied, although I felt like a raw sore. Inspired by his actions, I began moving my hips against his as if I knew what to do, increasing my efforts when I saw his eyes flutter like the wings of a butterfly. As I continued, he reared up out of the bedclothes and squeezed my back fiercely with his soft hands, as if he were trying to crush his body into mine. After a few long moments, his arms relaxed and he slid onto one side of the bed.

"That was beyond compare," he said, kissing one of my breasts. Before he slept, he smiled at me, and I had the feeling I had done just the right thing.

I had a dream that night about polo. The rival horsemen were pursuing the ball fiercely and blocking each other from it. When one of them finally drove the ball through the goalposts, I expected the crowd to leap and roar, but no sounds emerged from their throats. I awoke with a start, thinking about Fereydoon's thighs shooting between mine, and wondering why the feeling hadn't been as delightful as I thought it was going to be.

AS I WALKED home that morning, everything I saw--the old Friday mosque, the bustling bazaar, the plane trees sheltering the road through Four Gardens--seemed newly born under the hot sun. My skin tingled with the memory of Fereydoon's embrace. My heart raced, like the day I had stood on the bridge looking into Isfahan and had longed to unlock the city's mysteries. Yet I felt a hollowness inside as if something were missing, something I could not name.

As I passed through Four Gardens, my eye was caught by a wealthy man's pleasure grounds, which were planted with bright pink dog roses and lilies in an unearthly shade of blue. I wondered what it would be like to recline in the thick green clover under those shady poplars, with a picnic of bread, almonds, and sheep's cheese-- and a husband. A couple of lusty young men noticed I was dawdling and began begging for a sign from me. "She's as plump and as pliable as a peach," one of them whispered loudly to the other. "You can tell from the shape of their ankles."

As I turned toward Gostaham's street, ignoring them, I smiled secretly under my picheh. Now I knew exactly what bothered them so much beneath their robes. I looked around at other women, delightfully hidden behind their veils. We were a surprise to be unwrapped layer by layer.

My exhilaration was not pure. Something had been missing in my night with Fereydoon; something that caused others to celebrate the act in countless songs, poems, and knowing looks. "It is like a fire that catches dry grass and joyfully consumes it," Goli had once said. But what did that mean?

When I arrived home, my mother greeted me with affection and asked how my health was. I replied that I was well, thanks be to God.

"And how was your evening?" she asked, anxious to know everything.

I stretched out on my bedroll, suddenly tired. "I believe that everything happened as it was supposed to," I replied.

"Praise be to God!" she said. "Was Fereydoon pleased?"

"As far as I could tell," I said flatly, remembering how important his pleasure was to our future.

My mother stroked the hair away from my face. "You sound as if you didn't enjoy yourself."

It was as if she could read my thoughts. "How did you know?"

"Don't worry, my child," my mother said. "It will improve from one time to the next. Just have patience."

"Why will it improve?"

"You'll get used to each other, and you'll do things to please each other."

"Truly?"

"I promise."

I longed to talk with a married friend like Goli about what had happened, but I knew no one like that in Isfahan.

Naheed came to visit me that afternoon, knowing nothing of where I had been. I had not seen her in more than a month, for I had been punished most of that time and not allowed to leave the house or have visitors. When she arrived, I was sleeping. I arose to greet her, yawning. She hardly noticed my tiredness and didn't even remark on my hennaed hands and feet. Naheed was in love, and she was unable to think of anything else. We kissed each other on both cheeks and sat on my bedroll while my mother went to the kitchen to have her tea.

"I'm so excited," Naheed said. There was a red blush on her cheeks, and her lips seemed full and soft. I had never seen her looking so beautiful. Compared with her, I knew I looked fatigued, with circles under my eyes from lack of rest.

"Has anything happened lately?" I asked. I glanced at her hips, which looked thicker than usual. She was keeping his letters inside her clothes, tied up in the sash that hung low.

"Yes," she said, "I've brought his latest missive, which I've already read a thousand times over." She pulled it out of her sash. "It is full of beautiful sentiments, but I will read you the line that is the most important."

Unfolding the letter, she read:

Give me assurance that your eyes, as green as emeralds, will shine their love on me, and be assured that I will be as eternally true to you as a diamond.

"That sounds like a marriage proposal!" I said.

"That's exactly what I thought," she replied, "although he would have to make a formal offer to my family." She sighed and leaned back into the cushions, her face a picture of bliss.

I wished I could tell her that in the last few hours, while she was exulting over a letter, I had revealed my most secret parts to a man--and seen all of his. But then I would have had to tell her it wasn't as wonderful as I had hoped it would be.

Naheed sighed. "I can't stop thinking of his eyes. They are so black and shiny, even from far away."