The Blood of Flowers (31 page)

It was the hardest thing to achieve as a designer yet the simplest and clearest thing to see as a viewer. I tried three more times. By the time I colored the last copy, I felt I had found the balance I needed among the parts. I begged my mother to give me some of my sigheh money to hire workers. Alone, it would take me a long time to make a rug as tall as I was. But with two workers, it could be done in a few months. My mother didn't want to part with the money because it was all we had, but she changed her mind after she saw my design. "Mash'Allah!" she said. "That is more beautiful than any pattern you've ever made."

As soon as she gave me the money, I went to the bazaar and bought all the wool, and I hired Malekeh to help me. Her husband's health had not improved, and she was grateful for a chance to earn money without having to sell her wares on the street. She had a young cousin named Katayoon who was a fast knotter, and I hired her, too. Neither one knew how to follow a design on paper, so I promised to call out the colors for them.

Before we started the carpet, I showed my final design to Gostaham and asked for his approval. It took him only a few moments before he smiled and said simply, "You have understood."

There was something like wonder in his eyes. "Although you are not a child of my own, you are indeed a child of my heart," he said. "I have always wished to share the secrets of my work with a son. Although God never granted me a boy, He has brought me you."

He fixed a look on me that was so tender, I felt as if I could see my father's bright eyes shining through his.

"Thank you, dear amoo," I said, bathing in his love. It was the first time I had dared to address him as "uncle."

NAHEED HAD MOVED to one of the many homes Fereydoon owned, this one located close to the Eternal River with a view of the water and the mountains. After she was settled, she sent a messenger asking me to visit her. I didn't want to go, but I knew that I must, to make things look right.

As I walked through Four Gardens toward the river, I was glad her house was far from the old Friday mosque and the jewel-like home where I met Fereydoon. I turned onto a street near Thirty-three Arches Bridge. The air was fresh, for it was cooled by the river. I understood that the houses were large from the vast distances between one tall gate and the next. Naheed's messenger had told me to look for a new house with a lot of wind catchers on its roof. They sucked air inside and cooled it over pools of water in the basement, keeping its occupants fresh on even the hottest days.

When I stepped through the tall gates that guarded the outside of Naheed's home, I was taken aback. It was a small palace, as if Fereydoon hoped to populate it with a dozen sons and daughters. A deferential servant took my chador and led me into a guest room with silk carpets knotted with rosettes so small they could only have been made by children. The vessels for flowers and libations were all of silver. The cushions sparkled, for they were woven with silver thread. I tried to quell the envy that surged in my heart.

When Naheed entered the room, I was surprised at how quickly she had assumed the role of a woman of wealth and power. She wore thick gold armbands with hanging turquoise and pearls, and the same combination of stones on her forehead, strung on a gold band that held her lacy white head covering in place. Her pale blue silk robe and tunic were subdued, making her look older. Her face was quiet and composed. Her eyes seemed larger than ever, but they were not red. She now reigned over a domicile with twelve servants who attended only to her needs.

"Naheed-joon!" I said, kissing her on each cheek--"though I suppose now that you're married, I should call you Naheed-Khanoom! How are you?"

"How do I look?" she asked wearily.

"Like the moon," I said, "but older than before."

"And sadder."

"Yes, and sadder," I said. We looked at each other, and the sadness in her eyes found a reflection in my own. We sat on cushions close to each other, and Naheed called for coffee and sweets.

"How is married life?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"It's as good as can be expected," she said with a shrug. "I don't see him much."

That seemed odd for a new bride, yet I couldn't help hoping that the reason was me.

"Why not?"

"He is very busy with his land, his horses, and his duties to his father."

"But surely he spends time with you."

"Only at night," she said.

That was not what I wished to hear. I searched her body and face for signs of satisfaction that I hoped not to find. I couldn't bear to know if they were enjoying each other, so I said quickly, "I suppose you can't forget Iskandar."

Her eyes became bigger and sadder, but she retained her composure. "Never," she whispered.

She beckoned me closer. "I must speak quietly. I cannot show myself here until I know who is loyal to him and who is loyal to me. I must pretend that everything is exactly as I want it to be."

"I'm sorry you are so unhappy," I whispered back.

"How can I be happy?" she said. "He is nothing like Iskandar. He is neither handsome nor kind."

In my eyes, Fereydoon had become more handsome than Iskandar. I thought about his muscled thighs wrapped around my hips and his warm wiry chest pressed close to my own. I wanted to protest, "But what about his beautiful hair? And what about when his tongue is drawing patterns on your thighs?" Instead, I began speaking of other things--the carpet I was working on, the wedding presents Naheed had received, her calligraphy--but the conversation kept returning to Fereydoon.

"I could almost stand being married to him--any man is as bad as the next if he isn't Iskandar--except for what happens at night," she said, and then she stopped speaking abruptly.

She took a sip of coffee from a fine blue porcelain cup. "I wish you were married so I could tell you all about it."

Even as she said this, I knew Naheed would tell me everything because she needed to talk, and I was the only woman she trusted. But I didn't want to hear.

"Have you gotten to know his daughter?" I asked quickly, trying to change the subject.

Naheed looked surprised. "Who told you about her?"

For a moment I didn't know how to answer. I had to be very careful now not to reveal too much.

"Ahhh--the carpet," I sputtered. "Remember the carpet he commissioned with talismans to thank God for his daughter's return to health?"

"You mentioned that carpet long ago, when you were helping Gostaham," said Naheed. "But you never told me that Fereydoon commissioned it."

I breathed with difficulty. "I didn't put him together with the man you were marrying until recently," I lied.

"Oh," she said. "I would have expected to be told everything you knew about the man I was marrying." Her tone was sharp.

"I'm truly sorry," I said. "I must have forgotten."

"How strange," she replied. "Is there anything else you know about him?"

My heart was turning blacker than ever, like a lamb's heart roasting over a fire. "Only that Gostaham hopes for more commissions!" I said quickly, trying to sound lighthearted.

Naheed raised her eyebrows, for as the wife of a wealthy man, it was now in her power to offer them. I ducked my head, embarrassed by what I had said.

"I didn't mean anything by that," I said quickly.

She waved her hand. "I know."

Naheed took another sip of coffee while I felt sweat leak down my back.

"I'm glad your home is so beautiful," I said.

Naheed looked around herself with dead eyes. "I would have preferred a hovel, if it could be one I shared with Iskandar," she said, and then her face tightened around her eyes. "Remember when the women were teasing me at the wedding? I was afraid, but I never thought having a man in my bed would be as bad as this."

I felt a thrill in my black heart. The better part of me wanted to tell her: It will improve.

Naheed shivered, and the pearls hanging from her upper arms shivered, too. "During the day, he exhibits good manners and good breeding. But at night, he transforms into an animal. When I feel his hot breath at my neck, I want to scream."

That was exactly what I liked about him. He was like an animal in the dark, and being with him allowed me to be the same way. At home, with Gordiyeh, I had to be deferential and show myself to be a good worker; with Gostaham, I tried to be a good pupil; with my mother, to show respect; with visitors, to prove myself a well-mannered daughter. Only with him could I show the truth of my flesh. It had taken me a long time to discover that, and on the nights I didn't see him, it was what I longed for.

I cleared my throat, embarrassed.

"You're blushing," said Naheed with a smile. "I suppose that's only natural, for a virgin."

"Do you think you'd like it better if he were Iskandar?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "The sight of him without his clothes makes me long for my beloved. His hands on my body feel as rough as a cat's claws. Even his beard scratches my face. I want to throw him off, but I must lie there and wait until he is done."

"How does he like that?" I blurted out. I had felt shy when I had first lain with him, but never repulsed in the way Naheed described. The one time I had failed to please him, he had punished me for weeks. What would he do to her?

Naheed looked at me with an odd expression, the corners of her mouth turning down. "He doesn't seem to notice very much. It's as if he's just doing his duty as a husband."

Was it possible that he went to her bed because it was required, but saved himself for me? I wanted to believe it.

"What if you praised him?"

"I tell him that he's as fierce as a falcon and as strong as a lion. I give him honey all the time, but it doesn't matter."

Fereydoon disliked such hollow words, I knew. She would have to do better than that.

"But you don't believe those things about him?"

"No."

"Perhaps, in time, you could learn to like it."

"I doubt it," she said. "But I could live with it, if not for having lost the one thing I cared about."

"Iskandar?"

"Not just him, but also his letters. Right before I got married, he and I agreed it would be too dangerous to continue."

"You were right," I said. "But Naheed, now that you are married forever, do you think you can try to like your husband after all?"

I could hardly believe I had uttered those words. I was caught between wanting my friend to be happy, and wanting her husband--and mine--for myself.

"Never," she said.

"But then, how will you live?" I asked gently.

"I don't know," she said, looking as if she were going to cry. But rather than sobbing in my arms, as she had done before her marriage, she quickly gained control of her face, though I could see how painful it was for her to hold herself back.

"Naheed-joon!" I said sympathetically.

"I cannot show myself here," she whispered, and only then did she grind her teeth together to prevent her tears from rising. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and frown lines etched themselves near her mouth. When she had assassinated the tears, she looked as beautiful as ever, but the grief in her eyes was terrible to see.

As I was leaving, I remembered with a pang of guilt the twist of rainbow-colored threads hidden under my clothes, at my throat. The charm maker had been right: It had knotted up her love. I should have pulled the threads off my neck, but I could not bear to relinquish Fereydoon.

THE DAY AFTER I saw Naheed, Fereydoon summoned me again. As I sat in the little room anticipating how Fereydoon and I would come together, I shivered with pleasure. While Naheed recoiled from him with her whole body, mine opened up pore by pore at the thought of him. How different it was from when I had first lain underneath him! Then I had been the slave, and he the master. Now he was sometimes slave to me. I waited for him that afternoon with the foreknowledge of where we would go together, yet with luxuriant uncertainty about how we would travel there. Fereydoon, I knew, did not plow a groove in the same way twice.

When he arrived that day, it was with a large bundle that he told me promised heavenly delights. After the servants departed, Fereydoon asked me to remove my clothes on my own. I did so slowly in the semidarkness, while he sat cross-legged on a cushion with the bundle beside him. I started awkwardly, but by the time I reached my undergarments, I began to enjoy his gaze.

When I was bare, he arose and lifted me into his arms, twirling me gently around the room. I felt giddy with my long hair swinging behind me and the air stroking my body. When we were close to the bedroll, he lowered me on top of it and told me to close my eyes. I lay there, warm and waiting. I could hear him untying the bundle; then he stood above me quietly. After a moment, I felt a delicate pitter-patter on my belly, the gentlest of showers. I smiled and arched my back. He crouched, pulled another handful from the bundle, and let the rain fall again. Still above me, he rubbed his hands together and the scent of a rosebush filled the room. I opened my eyes: my whole body was patterned in rose petals. Some were pale pink, others bright red, and still others mauve, a multicolored carpet of flowers. A hot red wave started at my toes, surged up my middle, bloomed on my cheeks. I reached for his waist and drew his hips to mine.