The Blood of Flowers

by Anita Amirrezvani

  “What else is possible?”

  “Nothing,” my mother replied darkly. “Gordiyeh is right. How can two penniless women expect more?”

  I adjusted the white cloth that covered my hair and returned my hands to my mother’s warm ones. “If it were my decision, I would say no. After all, Hajj Ali said that marriages made in this period would be full of passion and strife.”

  My mother withdrew her hands from mine. “It’s not your decision,” she said with iron in her voice.

  “I have the right to tell the mullah no if I object,” I replied angrily, remembering what Goli had once told me.

  “If you do that, you will forever estrange yourself from this family, and that includes me.”

  My heart was chilled by her reply. “You mean you would have me marry Fereydoon against my will?”

  “Our position in this household is unsound,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing that I was much to blame.

  “That’s why I am asking you not to be so imprudent for the first time in your life,” said my mother more gently. “This decision is best left to your elders, who have your interests at heart.”

  The merest allusion to my mistake made me want to hide my face in shame. Having acted rashly, I longed to show that I could learn from my misconduct.

  “Chashm,” I said meekly, using the word of obedience that soldiers give their commanders. “I submit to your will.” And with that, I touched my head to my mother’s swollen feet, determined to do whatever she asked of me.

  THE NEXT MORNING, my mother gave her consent to the proposal. Gostaham wrote a letter of acceptance to Fereydoon and offered his congratulations to us without enthusiasm. Almost immediately, we received a note back from Fereydoon proposing to formalize our union the next day, the first of Ramazan.

  We slept late that morning because we knew we would be observing the fast until nightfall. My mother helped Cook chop vegetables and fry meat, while I picked bugs and stones out of the rice and soaked it to remove its starch. Even that simple task seemed to take longer than usual because I was hungry and parched. My thoughts wandered often to Fereydoon as I worked. Since I had not seen him for several months, I wondered how he would look and whether I would regret bowing to my mother’s decision.

  By midafternoon, my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth and it was difficult to speak. The days had become hot, so everyone was thirsty and had to struggle not to think of water. The days were also long, which meant an endless wait until nightfall, when we were permitted to eat. Every moment required strength of will.

  By early evening, we were all enervated from lack of food and drink. Gordiyeh’s children and grandchildren gathered at the house, giddy with anticipation. As the thick aroma of Cook’s lamb and chicken stews permeated the air, I began salivating in a way that hurt my tongue. The adults fed the children who were too young to keep the fast. Tension built in the house as the moment of satisfaction drew near. Cook, who seemed especially nervous, barked orders at us as if we were soldiers. She wanted all the food to be ready on time, but not so soon that it would grow cold. I felt as if I might snap from the cloud of feelings that hung over me.

  At last, the great cannon’s boom stirred everyone to life. I helped Shamsi and Zohreh carry the food to the Great Room. Gostaham’s family descended on the meal like leopards tearing into deer. There was no other sound than that of chewing. Gostaham, who could scoop rice into his bread and lift it to his mouth without dropping a grain, now let the rice fall where it may. No one said a word until bellies had been filled and throats soothed with drink.

  In the kitchen, my mother and I and the servants were equally quiet as we served the food. Normally we would have waited until the family had finished eating, but not during Ramazan. We were too depleted. I could hardly decide whether to eat or drink first, but I started with a cup of Cook’s thirst-quenching sharbat, a mix of fruit juices, sugar, vinegar, and the essence of roses. The drink was sweet and sour at the same time, which enlivened my appetite. But when I sat down to eat, I couldn’t swallow a morsel.

  While we were drinking our tea, Fereydoon arrived at our door with his accountant and the mullah. Gostaham escorted them into the Great Room and treated them to drinks and sweetmeats before calling us in. I was fully covered in my chador, as was proper in mixed company. I peeked at Fereydoon, who was sumptuously dressed in a brown velvet robe patterned with golden steeds topped with horsemen like himself. Gostaham read the marriage contract out loud to verify its duration and the amount we would be paid. When the mullah asked for my consent, I gave it right away, as I had promised my mother. Fereydoon signed the document, and my mother, Gostaham, the mullah, and Fereydoon’s accountant were the witnesses.

  Fereydoon was very businesslike about the proceedings, but when no one was looking, he gave me a long, frank stare of appreciation that made me tremble. His gaze made my body feel heavy and ripe, like a date bathing in its own juices. I shivered at the thought of what it would be like to be alone with him for the first time. I knew I would have to shed my clothes, but I had very little idea what would happen after that. I hoped I would like it, and I prayed that he would like me. I drew comfort thinking of Goli’s words. “Everyone likes it,” she had once said.

  My mother collected a sack of coins from the accountant. Fereydoon and his entourage thanked us and departed. As we returned to our room, I heard the silver clinking within my mother’s clothes, which made my wedding seem more like a matter of trade than celebration.

  Because it seemed odd to stay at home quietly on my wedding day, my mother and I walked to the Image of the World for amusement later that evening. The shopkeepers had festooned their alcoves with lights so that people could examine merchandise until the early hours. Jugglers and storytellers amused the crowd with their tricks, and boys sold honeyed almonds and sugar crystals infused with saffron. Families bought sticks of grilled lamb and ate them while walking from shop to shop. It was lively, but it felt peculiar to be lost in this nameless crowd rather than celebrating my marriage as I would have in my village. Well-wishers would have surrounded me for a day and a night. Together, we would have danced, sung songs, told stories, and recited verse, and after we were all sated on rice with chicken, orange peel, and sugar, my husband would have arrived to claim me for his own. I thought about how proud my father would have been, and I missed him with all my heart.

  It was nearly dawn before we walked home again. My mother and I ate a meal of curds, herbs, nuts, sweets, and bread to keep us going through the day. I had a final glass of sour cherry sharbat before sinking into sleep not long before the sun’s first rays appeared. As I pulled the blankets around me, I hoped I would not awaken before the sun reached its zenith. But I tossed on my bedroll, for my body was not used to sleeping while it was light. I felt dizzy and unsettled by the changes that had occurred so suddenly. It reminded me of the time when my father had left us alone forever during the course of a single night. The very ground I walked on then had seemed to tremble, as if an earthquake were about to reduce our village to rubble.

  I DIDN’T HAVE to wait long for my first summons from Fereydoon. It came on the fourth day of Ramazan in the form of a letter that directed me to be bathed, dressed, and ready to meet him before the cannon went off the following evening. I was finally going to become a mature woman: Like Goli, I would know everything.

  The next afternoon, my mother and Gordiyeh took me to the elegant hammam in our district. For the first time, my mother directed Homa to take me into one of the private cubicles. She spread a thick, sour-smelling cream made from the lemon-colored orpiment plant on my legs and underarms. After a few minutes, she poured a bucket full of water over me and the hair melted away, leaving my legs and underarms as smooth as a little girl’s. Then she tilted my head back and groomed my eyebrows, not as strictly as if I had been a mature woman, but just enough so that they curved like crescent moons.

  “You’re looking prettier and prett
ier,” said Homa. I blushed, for I was not used to thinking of myself that way.

  When I was smooth, I rejoined the other women in the main part of the bath. I felt the new sensation of my hairless thighs whispering to each other as I walked. Returning to where my mother and Gordiyeh were lounging and laughing, I stretched out beside them. They prepared a batch of henna paste in a bowl, and Gordiyeh painted my palms to the wrist and half the length of the tops of my fingers. My mother did the bottoms of my feet and half the length of the tops of my toes. Many hours later, when they removed the paste, my toes and fingers looked like ornaments. They didn’t joke with me or tease me, which is what happened to most brides, for they were determined to keep my marriage a secret.

  Then it was finally time to bathe. As Homa scrubbed my back, she said, “Hair and henna, it’s as if you’re getting married!”

  “You’d be the first to know about it, Homa-joon!” I said, in what I hoped was a lighthearted tone. I was unaccustomed to lying, and the words seemed to stick in my throat.

  Homa laughed and poured a vessel of water over my head to rinse me. After that, we made the Grand Ablution in the hammam’s largest tub. The hot water usually made me sleepy and indifferent, but this time, I fidgeted until the other women begged me to stop.

  When we arrived home, Gordiyeh led me and my mother into her dressing room, a small chamber in the andarooni. It was filled with trunks containing garments for special occasions. As they pulled out the precious silks, Gordiyeh asked my mother about her own wedding.

  “I thought I was the luckiest girl in the village,” she replied with a smile, “because I was marrying the comeliest man.”

  “Ah, but beauty comes and goes!” replied Gordiyeh. “I was a lovely thing once myself, not heavy and sagging the way I am now.”

  My mother sighed. “I wouldn’t have minded if his beauty had fled, if only his life had remained! But if God is willing, my daughter’s future will be sweeter.”

  After I shed my clothes, Gordiyeh helped me into a transparent white silk sheath. I shivered, wondering how it would feel to show myself in that attire to Fereydoon, for I could not imagine revealing myself to him fully unclad.

  Next came a loose silk tunic, as red as an apple, matching trousers, and sparkling golden slippers with pointed toes. The jewel of the outfit was a golden robe patterned with red rosebushes, which looked as fine as if painted. Each bush sprouted a tender bud, a half-opened flower, and a rose at the height of its beauty. A butterfly stretched its wing toward the heart of the blossoming rose, eager to feed.

  My mother held open the robe for me, and I slipped it on. “Daughter of mine, see how these roses have no thorns,” she said. “Let that guide you when you are with your husband.”

  Suddenly I felt dizzy, probably because I hadn’t eaten anything since before the sun rose, out of respect for Ramazan. I sank onto a stool to steady myself. Gordiyeh painted my eyelids with kohl and darkened my eyebrows. Then she dabbed a bit of rose-colored paint on my lips, making them look smaller, and created a tiny black beauty mark below the outside corner of my left eye. My mother covered my hair with a bit of white lace, allowing a few stray locks to decorate my face. A string of Gordiyeh’s pearls went under my chin, outlining my face from temple to temple. Gordiyeh fastened another strand of pearls around my head. I could feel each jewel resting on my forehead, as cool as a stream.

  “Stand up, azizam—my dear,” said my mother. I arose and they looked at me. They seemed transfixed, as if they were gazing at a beautiful painting I had never seen.

  My mother put a hand on each of my cheeks. “You are as lovely as the full moon,” she said.

  Once dressed, I was afraid to move for fear of disturbing their fine work. My mother led me to a container of burning incense, bidding me place one foot on either side of it to perfume my clothes. “And everything under them,” Gordiyeh said with a lusty laugh. The sweet, strong smell of the incense clouded my thinking and made me feel dizzy again.

  Next, Gordiyeh covered me in a white silk chador and a picheh so that I wouldn’t be recognized. My mother put her own black chador over her mourning clothes. As it was Ramazan and too early to eat, they did not feed me a sweet dripping with almonds and rose water, but instead brushed it against my lips and wished me sweetness in my married life.

  My mother and I had been directed to meet Fereydoon at one of his homes near the old Friday mosque. We left Gostaham’s and walked away from the river in the direction of the North Gate, following the bazaar until we arrived at the city’s old main square. From there, we passed four caravanserais, three hammams, and two religious schools before reaching the old Friday mosque, which had been built some five hundred years before. The mosque was made of brick that was neither painted nor tiled. While the Shah’s square and his Friday mosque were magnificent beyond compare, this area of town had a quiet grandeur born of endurance. Even the Mongols had not destroyed it.

  “Let’s go in the mosque for a moment,” I said.

  We passed through its immense doorway into a dark corridor with solid brick walls and thick columns. I thought of all those who had prayed here before me, especially women who had been virgins one day and married the next. It seemed to me as if I were now in the darkness of ignorance, but soon I, too, hoped to pass into the bright light of knowledge. I stepped from the dim corridor into the mosque’s outdoor prayer space, which basked in the sun’s radiance. I stood for a moment in the light, uttering prayers, and my mother let me be until I was done.

  “I’m ready now,” I told her.

  We left the square and turned down a narrow street where the only visible sign of homes was their tall gates. The cannon was about to fire, and the streets were full of people hurrying to the places where they planned to consume their next meal. Their faces looked strained and full of anticipation.

  My mother asked a boy for directions to Fereydoon’s, and he led us to a carved wooden door. We used the women’s knocker, which made a high-pitched sound. Almost immediately, an older woman servant opened the door and introduced herself as Hayedeh. I recognized her, for she had joined in the festivities the day that Homa had sung my praises.

  We stepped inside and removed our chadors. She paid us her respects, yet, with a clear sense of her superior position, told my mother that she would take charge of me from that moment. I hadn’t expected to say good-bye so quickly. My mother put her palms against my cheeks and whispered, “Don’t forget you are named for a woman of strength and wisdom. I know you will live up to your name.”

  As she turned to go, I saw a flood rising in her eyes, and there was a matching one in mine. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone than in that moment. Noting my distress, Hayedeh said simply, “You will like it here.”

  The house had four rooms arranged around an open courtyard with a pretty fountain that sounded like music. Hayedeh collected my outdoor wraps and scrutinized my attire. She must have deemed it suitable, for she led me into one of the chambers and told me to remove my shoes and wait.

  The room was like a treasure chest. Its walls had numerous niches, which were painted with a design of orange poppies and fanciful turquoise flowers. The ceiling was decorated with a sunburst pattern like a carpet’s carved out of white plaster. It had been inlaid with small mirrors, which shimmered like stars. A very fine silk rug with a floral pattern covered the floor. Two smaller carpets that showed birds singing together in a flowering tree hung on the walls, too precious to be walked upon. Within arm’s reach lay bowls filled with melons, grapes, and tiny cucumbers, as well as tall ewers containing water and red wine.

  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 mu
ch 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.