by Gina nahai
At the end of the week of greeting, the Able One and her daughters paid a surprise visit to Peacock's house. As was customary, they arrived early in the morning, before Peacock could have a chance to comb her hair or hide her faults in deceiving clothes. They entered the courtyard without knocking, acknowledged the neighbors with a distant and haughty nod of their heads, and invaded Leyla and Joseph's room with militant urgency.
“Welcome/' Leyla stood up before them, unveiled. The Able One frowned at her beauty. She put her fat hands into Leyla's hair and pulled hard to make certain it was real. She ran her fingers over Leyla's skin, felt her arms and thighs, dug into her blouse to check the firmness of her breasts. Disgusted by the perfection she had found, she turned to her daughters and pronounced the first verdict:
“God forbid," she said. "No woman like her could stay on the path of righteousness."
She looked around the room and complained of its dinginess.
"Bring the girl outside," she ordered as she stepped into the courtyard. "I can't breathe in this hole."
When they were gone, Peacock still refused to come out from under her comforter.
"Send them away," she begged Leyla. "Make them leave."
Ever since Joseph the Winemaker had announced her engagement to Solomon the Man, Peacock had cried and begged and sworn she would not marry. It was preposterous—that Peacock should refuse the man everyone wanted. Even Leyla could not understand the child's behavior. She held Peacock's hands and made a plea:
"For my sake," she said. "Come outside and don't shame me."
The Able One and her daughters stayed all morning. They inspected Peacock, commented on the thickness of her skin and the darkness of her gums, remarked that her hips were so narrow no child could ever come through them alive. They made Peacock walk from one side of the courtyard to the other so they could see her stride, examined her knees and complained that she was too thin—not fed by her parents—gave her a tray full of fresh radishes, mint, and spring onions.
"We brought our own," said the Able One, not missing the chance to point out the poverty of Peacock's home. They watched as Peacock took the traditional test: if she threw away too much of the greens while cleaning them, they would know that she was a spendthrift. If she threw away too little, she was stingy. If she worked too fast, she had no patience. If she worked slowly, she was lazy. Peacock failed in all categories. Then the Able One called her daughters and left the house.
"Stay for lunch," Leyla offered, but the Able One scoffed. She knew there was nothing to eat.
The next day the Able One and her daughters began to make the invitations. They called on each household personally—all twelve of them—and stayed half a day, drinking tea and chatting until it was time to leave and the Able One extended an invitation for Solomon the Man's wedding. Then the hostess would stand up most excitedly and run into the back of the room where she had stored dried goods. She would bring a handkerchief full of raisins and nuts and offer it to the women, who promised to serve it at the reception. House by house and room by room they made the invitations. They worked till the night before the wedding, and sent messages for those they had not had a chance to visit personally. Solomon the Man, they promised, was going to throw the feast of a lifetime.
To the people of Juyy Bar, Peacock's wedding to Solomon the Man marked the end of the Great Famine of 1871. For although the earth did not yield a healthy crop for another decade, and although their poverty would become worse in the years to come, the three days and nights of celebration at Solomon's home managed to create in the minds of even the harshest of skeptics a lasting illusion of comfort, and a collective memory of never-ending wealth.
It began at dawn on a Monday, and did not end until after midnight on Wednesday. In between, the men gathered in Solomon's house and ate and drank and danced to the music of seven groups of entertainers he had imported from as far as Tehran and Rasht. They ate eggs and honey and sweetbread and halva for breakfast, drank cool essence of cherries and snacked on apples stewed in rosewater until noon, then feasted on roasted lamb, bread, rice, and golden cookies for lunch. In the afternoon, bands of musicians played, acrobats danced in the courtyard, and old storytellers recited verses from the book of kings while poets repeated the verses of Omar Khayyam. Before sunset, Joseph the Winemaker walked from room to room and poured Persian wine and Russian vodka into everyone's cup. By the time Homa the Ricemaker served dinner, the men were all drunk.
On the women's side, the celebrations were more solemn but just as extravagant. As tradition dictated, they gathered at the house of Joseph the Winemaker, where Solomon the Man had paid all expenses. The Able One and her eleven daughters hosted the affair. On the first of the three days of celebration, they took Peacock for a marriage bath.
They left in the dark, equipped with food, nuts and candy, jugs of cool drinks, and, most important, chunks of henna. In the bath, the Able One took Peacock into the well and watched as she performed the rites of purity. Then everyone came inside, around the pool, and undressed. A band of female musicians, courtesy of Solomon the Man, performed in the nude. Pari the Henna came forward, clicking her tongue to sound a cheer that echoed through the bath until it became deafening. She gave Peacock a dimpled smile and a reassuring pat, admired her beauty and remarked on her youth, then set about "turning her into a woman."
She tied the ends of two long threads around her thumb and forefinger, put the threads to Peacock's eyebrows, catching each hair and plucking them, until she had created two arched lines. Then she plucked Peacock's legs and thighs, the hair on her vulva and armpits. Finally she prepared a mold of henna, which she placed on the bride's fingernails and toenails, and on her hair. The other women, cheering, began to dye their own hair.
On Tuesday the women gathered at the winemaker's house to bless the bride. They brought Peacock into the courtyard and put her in a translucent chador made of gold thread. Grudgingly, while her daughters shed tears of envy, the Able One extended to Peacock the gifts Solomon had sent for her: a dozen gold chains, a sapphire necklace, turquoise earrings, and a diamond bracelet. Everyone gasped in awe. The Able One took out a bag of gold coins and placed a crystal bowl into Peacock's lap. One by one she pressed the coins against Peacock's forehead, letting each one stick momentarily—for luck, so that from now on the bride's forehead would be marked with joy and prosperity. Then Peacock bent her head and dropped the coin into the bowl as coal stoves burned wild rue seeds and smoke filled the air.
On the third day a delegation of women visited Solomon's house to arrange the bridal room. They spread the bed toward Jerusalem—ensuring that a son would be conceived of the first intercourse. Inside the sheets they sprayed rosewater, spread jasmine and rose petals. Above the pillows they put a white handkerchief that Solomon the Man would have to rub in Peacock's blood and present after the intercourse.
In the afternoon, Raab Yahya called at Solomon's house to perform the first half of the ceremony. Solomon the Man was bathed and shaved, dressed in a Western suit and top hat. He repeated the vows and then raised his cup in celebration.
"Bring her to me," he toasted.
Then Pari the Henna left Solomon the Man's house to carry the bridal gown to the bride.
But in the house of Joseph the Winemaker, Leyla was running from room to room, flushed and frantic; the other women were searching every corner, and rumors had begun to circulate that the bride was missing; she had disappeared sometime before noon, and no one could imagine where to look for her.
Joseph the Winemaker paced every inch of the ghetto and at last found his daughter in Mullah Mirza's basement which had been empty and abandoned since Muhammad the Jew's Massacre. Peacock sat there terrified by her own defiance, terrified also by the walls that reeked of poison and the smell of Mullah Mirza's dismay. Still, when Joseph grabbed her, she held his hand and begged that he call off the marriage.
"Solomon the Man," she cried, "will leave me."
Joseph the Winemaker t
ook his daughter home and dressed her in a pearl-embroidered gown, and in a veil—a gift from Zil-el-Sultan's harem—made entirely of silver and gold threads. He saw her wear the jewels Solomon had given her, and fought back his own tears of joy.
"Believe in luck," he whispered to Peacock as he took her before Raab Yahya.
When the wedding ceremony was over, a caravan of women walked from the winemaker's house to that of Solomon the Man. Peacock rode in front, mounted on Solomon's black horse. At the top of the alley leading to the house, she stopped and waited for messengers to announce her arrival to the groom.
"What if they know she ran away?" Leyla asked Joseph, who trembled at the possibility.
But in Solomon's house the sound of music and laughter had never ceased, and the matter of the bride's disappearance was quickly forgotten. When they heard that the bride was about to arrive, the men cheered and all seven bands of musicians played at once as women burned wild rue seeds and threw sugar-laced almonds on the bride's path. Peacock was led into the house and straight to the bridal room, where she would wait for the end of the reception. Leyla took her inside and kissed her good-bye, and then, suddenly, Peacock was alone.
She stood erect, looking ahead, and tried to gather the courage she had lost along the way. She told herself she was not going to stay, that no one could force her to stay. She reminded herself of the dream she had had: an old woman, alone and brokenhearted, walking the streets of an unfamiliar town and crying Solomon's name. In the dream, Peacock knew that she was the old woman.
She looked around the room. The walls were plastered white, the ceiling decorated with hand-painted moldings. There was a window in this room. Peacock remembered the house of Muhammad the Jew.
“But I won't stay," she reminded herself.
She could smell food from outside.
“When he comes in, I will tell him he has to send me back. 'You keep whores,’ I will say. 'I don't want a man who keeps whores."'
She waited, but hours passed and her legs became numb from standing, and still the sound of laughter had not ceased in the house. She sat on the floor, her chador around her, and found herself admiring the softness of her dress, the shine of her jewels, the beauty of her veil. She put her head on a cushion away from the bed and fell asleep.
She dreamt that the door opened and a man came into the room. He was tall, with long arms, and the smell of rain on his clothes. He brought with him a piece of the moonlit sky.
She dreamt that he stood above her, looking, then bent down and lifted her from the ground to place her on the bed. She thought he was about to unveil her, that she should stop him, but he touched her and she was not afraid anymore. He took her off her veil.
He stared at her—his eyes submerged in the blue light of dawn—and then he reached to the bottom of the bed and pulled a white sheet, as cool as the wind that came before every rain, over her body. He left. Without him the room was vast and empty.
Peacock sat up, jolted by the sound of the morning namaz, and looked about. She was in a strange bed, alone but unveiled, and her eyes still burned from last night's anger. She remembered her dream. She saw the white sheet that covered her. Solomon the Man, she realized, had seen her.
She stood up on the mattress and searched her clothes for blood. She looked on the sheets. There was no stain. She breathed with relief; he had not touched her. Then she realized why: he had seen her face, and decided she was too ugly to touch. She picked up her chador and walked out.
“Good morning," a voice greeted her on the porch. Solomon's eyes were full of sleep. His face was unshaven. He sat on the steps, smoking his water pipe and watching the sunrise.
“You wake up early," he said.
Peacock froze. She was disarmed by his casual manner, his smile. She thought his eyes played with her.
"I sent everyone home last night," he said. "I told them, 'My wife is asleep and I will wait for her.' Your father insisted I do the job. He's afraid I will change my mind about the marriage."
Peacock took a step back.
"No need for that," she answered. "I will go myself."
He raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"Where to?"
"Anywhere." But she had already lost her conviction. "Somewhere. I can't stay here. You keep whores."
Solomon the Man laughed and reached for her. She thought she should pull away, but she could not.
"You have married me." He picked her up off the ground. "You can't just leave someone you married."
He opened the door and walked in. She wanted to fight him, but he put her down and slowly opened the braids of her hair, undoing the string of pearls and letting each one fall into the bed of withering roses and dying jasmine, and then he took off her shoes and her gown, and lay her naked on the sheets and made love to her as if she were indeed a woman—as if he had chosen her knowingly, as if she were pretty, and desired, and worthy of his touch. Afterward he lay next to her and watched her cry—from the shock of encounter, perhaps, or the relief of being accepted, and then he kissed her and pulled the sheets back over her and told her to sleep.
“You are beautiful."
She heard his voice and wondered if he had lied and prayed she would never know. She saw him leave and missed his smell and his touch and the sound of his laughter. She fell asleep and dreamt of his eyes and loved him all her life.
Solomon the Man stayed home for a hundred days after his wedding. He slept with Peacock till the sun was out and all over his bed, bathed with her in donkey's milk and rosewater, then sat her down in the courtyard of his house and, with a brush dipped in henna, painted miniature figures on the soles of her feet. He dressed her in clothes he had chosen for her, braided her hair, and took her out in the afternoon to see Esfahan. He showed her Char Bagh, the Shah's Square, the Ali Ghapoo. He showed her the homes of his friends, took her into the mosques where no Jew was allowed. He took her to the bazaar and bought handmade dolls with satin skin and charcoal eyes, then led her into the palace of Zil-el-Sultan and introduced her to the prince. To mark the occasion, Zil-el-Sultan called the photographer, and posed for a picture with Solomon and Peacock.
At the end of the first three months of his marriage,
Solomon the Man returned to Esfahan and sang at the palace. But for a while yet he did not go to the Castle, and he rejected all invitations from his lady friends. Even later, when his resolve weakened and he succumbed to the temptation of the flesh, Solomon the Man believed himself faithful to Peacock. He treated her well and fulfilled her every wish and never once let her doubt that she was queen in her own house. When she reached puberty, he refused to let her lock herself in the "impurity room." He arranged a bedroom for her on the main floor, and insisted he would eat only food that Peacock had prepared. When the Able One objected to the new order, Solomon the Man hired a coach and sent her back to Kashan with her daughters.
Still, two years after he had married Peacock, Solomon the Man woke up every morning from dreams of Zil-el-Sultan's wife, and slept every night thinking of the woman with the sapphire eyes and shimmering palms.
He took Peacock for her first purity bath, then brought her home and into his bed, where he prayed aloud that she would conceive a child. He named his first daughter Sabrina—after a Russian he had once adored—and celebrated her birth as if she were a boy. He named his second daughter Heshmat, and never once asked Peacock for a son, but by then, Joseph the Winemaker was already panicked.
"This is wrong!" he yelled at Peacock every time a daughter was born. "You can't keep having girls like your mother. No man worth his penis will keep a wife with 'girl-bearing disease.'"
As if to prove Joseph right, Solomon the Man forgot Peacock in the wake of Heshmat's birth. In 1882 he met the wife of the Turkish ambassador in Esfahan, and began with her a year-long relationship that ended in disrepute. He left the Turk under pressure from Zil-el-Sultan, came home for only a month, then found an Armenian virgin who had run from her father's house with a chastity
belt still tied around her crotch. In 1884 he entered into a temporary marriage contract with a woman distantly related to the prince of Egypt, and then all at once he left for India—to see for himself the woman many swore was the most beautiful in the continent.
“Have a boy," Joseph the Winemaker screamed at Peacock every time Solomon the Man found a new passion. “Have a boy or you will lose your man for good."
In 1885 Leyla died. She went to take a purity bath alone one morning, and she never emerged from the well. Alarmed by the long absence, Mama the Midwife descended into the well and spent hours searching the water with a long oar that she used on the occasion of a woman's disappearance. In the end she climbed up angry and exhausted.
“No one that pretty was ever meant to live," she declared to Peacock, who had gone to claim the body. Leyla died without leaving a corpse, without a burial or a week of mourning for her.
"Have a boy,” Joseph the Winemaker told Peacock, who cried like a child for her mother. “Have a boy or you too will die someday without leaving a corpse."
Peacock was twenty years old. She went to see all the midwives in the ghetto and came back with potions designed to make boys. She ate dates and raisins and halva, gorged herself on walnuts and saffron. She went to every circumcision and swallowed the severed foreskin. She even drank wine—old wine that Joseph brought to her in secret and that she consumed without pleasure. When Solomon the Man returned from India, she crawled into his bed and asked that he make love to her. He opened his arms as if he had always wanted her.
Afterward, Peacock stayed awake and watched Solomon in his sleep: his profile was sacred, his skin holy, and she told herself then she would stay with him—through weeks and years of loneliness, through her youth and her pride and passion—that she would stay with him till he had loved every woman in the world and become tired and dejected, till he came back to her, too old to run, and she would keep him then and he would be hers and hers alone for always.