The Carpet Makers

by Andreas Eschbach

  “I don’t know who or what Garubad met. Maybe someone was playing a bad joke on him. Maybe he ran into an insane man. Maybe he imagined the whole thing—it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that you came. It proves that you think it’s possible that there could be a rebellion against the Emperor. Maybe you even think it’s possible—although a delusion of that magnitude goes beyond my imagination—that somebody could depose the Emperor. However that may be, your mere presence here proves that you are not a believing, god-fearing man. It proves the opposite. You’re a doubter, and you probably have been all your life. And who knows how much misery you have brought on your fellow men?”

  “Heretic,” screamed one of the men.

  The first stone struck Parnag near his temple and knocked him to the ground. He saw the sky … the wide, empty sky. I submit to you, my Emperor, he thought. The stones rained down on him now. Yes, I confess. I doubted you. I confess. I gave doubt a place in my heart, and I didn’t repent. I confess. In your righteousness, my Emperor, you will destroy me, and I will be lost. I confess, and I submit to your judgment.…

  IV

  The Lost Hair Carpet

  LATER, HE COULDN’T REMEMBER what had awakened him, whether it had been the smell of fire or the rustling of the flames or something else. He jumped up from his bed and screamed with only one thought—the carpet!

  He screamed, screamed as loud as he could, screamed out against the raging crackle of the fire, filled the whole big house with the sound of his voice.

  “Fire! Fire!”

  He saw nothing but the licking tongues of flame, the scornfully flickering orange-red reflection on the walls and doors, the soot trails ascending like ghosts, and the smoke swirling and boiling at the ceiling. He shook off the hands trying to hold him back; he didn’t hear the voices calling his name. He saw only the fire that would destroy his life’s work.

  “Borlon, stop! Save yourself!…”

  He dashed ahead, without a thought for his wives. The smoke enveloped him and launched a stinging attack: it filled his eyes with tears and burned his lungs. Borlon grabbed a tatter of fabric and pressed it to his face. A clay pot burst on the floor; he stumbled over the shards and ran on. The carpet. He had to save the carpet. He had to save the carpet or die.

  The fire roared through the house with unimaginable violence, like a raging storm; it looked for a worthy opponent and found none. Half-suffocated, Borlon reached the foot of the stairway leading up to the carpet-knotting room just as the wooden steps, charred black and spraying sparks, collapsed. His uncomprehending eyes watched as tongues of flame leapt up in a wild ballet to the balustrade where his knotting frame stood, and his ears heard the sound of the supporting beams slowly beginning to give way—it sounded like the terrified scream of a child. Then something inside him, which understood that it was too late, took over and allowed him to retreat.

  When he reached his family standing outside at a safe distance, everything happened very fast. They took him between them—Karvita, his headwife, and Narana, his subwife—and he watched with a stony expression and without feeling as the fire ate its way through the ancient house, as it shattered the windowpanes and then flickered through them as though offering a derisive greeting, and as the roof suddenly began to glow, became more and more translucent, and finally collapsed, sending a cloud of sparks spiraling toward the sky. They hung there in the darkness like gently dancing stars and went out one after another while the fuel for the fire ran out below; in the end, there were hardly enough embers to send a bit of light into the night.

  “How could that happen?” he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t. He could only stare at the walls, charred black, and his mind refused to grasp the enormity of the event.

  He would have stood there, motionless, until dawn, not knowing what to do. It was Karvita who found the charred remains of the money chest and put the sooty coins into her scarf, and it was Karvita who led the three of them along the difficult footpath through the bitter cold night to the house of her parents on the edge of the city.

  * * *

  “It’s my fault.” He said it without looking at anyone, his tortured eyes staring off into an uncertain distance. A nameless pain swirled inside his chest, and something within him hoped to bring just punishment more quickly and painlessly down on his head by indicting himself and declaring his own guilt.

  “Nonsense,” his wife responded firmly. “Nobody knows whose fault it is. And you should finally have something to eat.”

  The sound of her voice pained him. He took a quick, sidelong glance at her and tried to find in her again that girl with the breathtakingly long, black hair he had fallen in love with. She was always so cool, so unapproachable, and in all the years, he had never succeeded in melting the ice. It was his own heart that had been frostbitten.

  Without a word, Narana pushed a plate of grain mush across the table to him. Then, almost frightened that she had overstepped her bounds, she retreated to her chair. The delicate, blond subwife, who could have been the daughter of the other two, ate silently and quietly, bent over her plate as though she wanted to make herself invisible.

  Borlon knew that Narana believed Karvita hated her, and she was probably right. Whenever the three of them were in a room together, there was tension in the air. Karvita never let it be seen in her cool mien, but Borlon was sure that she was jealous of the young subwife, because he slept with her.

  Should he have forgone the pleasure? Narana was the only woman from whose bed he ever rose with a happy heart. She was young and shy and troubled, and originally he had only taken her to wife because of her glorious white-blond hair, which formed an unbelievably effective contrast to Karvita’s hair. And she had lived untouched in their household for several years before he slept with her for the first time … at Karvita’s suggestion.

  When he was alone with her, she could be wonderfully relaxed, passionate, and filled with grateful tenderness. She was the ray of light in his life. But since that time, Karvita’s heart had become inaccessible to him—permanently, it seemed—and he felt responsible for that.

  He watched from the corner of his eye as Karvita ran her fingers through her hair, and out of pure habit, he extended his hand to receive the hairs that had come out in her fingers. In the middle of this gesture, he realized what he was doing, and he stopped himself. There was no carpet anymore on which he could continue his work. He sensed the memory of it like a burning ache in his chest.

  “It does no good to blame yourself,” Karvita said when she noticed the movement of his hand. “It won’t bring back the carpet … or the house. There could be any number of causes: a spark from the cooking fire, embers in the ashes, anything.”

  “But what should I do now?” Borlon asked helplessly.

  “First we have to rebuild the house. Then you’ll start a new carpet.”

  Borlon raised his hands and looked at his fingertips, grooved from years of work with the knotting needle. “What did I do to bring this on me? I’m not young enough to finish a carpet of regulation size. I have two wives with the most wondrous hair ever seen in the Emperor’s realm, and—instead of tying a carpet—I will only be able to complete a narrow, little rug—”

  “Borlon, please stop complaining. You could have died in the flames, then you couldn’t have accomplished anything in your life.” Now she was really annoyed. That’s probably why she added, “Besides, you still don’t have an heir, so the size of the carpet isn’t very important.”

  Yes, Borlon thought bitterly. I haven’t managed to do that either. A man with two wives, who still had no children, had nobody to blame but himself.

  * * *

  Borlon thought he could see a hint of disapproval, even disgust, in the eyes of his mother-in-law when the little old woman let in the guildmaster of the carpet maker’s guild.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Borlon,” said the guildmaster. “I was deeply shocked when your wife reported to me.… Such a misfortune hasn�
�t occurred for as long as anyone can remember!”

  Was he trying to humiliate him? To rub his nose into it, to show him what a failure he, Borlon, was? He scrutinized the tall, gaunt figure of the guildmaster; the old carpet maker’s gray-flecked hair was more disheveled than Borlon had ever seen it.

  It sounded honest. The old man, otherwise always businesslike and serious, was really deeply moved and filled with empathy.

  “When did it happen? Last night?” he asked as he sat down. “No one has heard about it in the city—”

  “I don’t want people to talk,” Borlon said with effort.

  “But why not? You can use all the help you can get—”

  “I don’t want it,” Borlon insisted.

  The guildmaster observed him for a while and then nodded his understanding. “Well, yes. At least you’re informing me. And you’re asking for my advice.”

  Borlon stared down at his hand lying large and heavy on the unfinished wood of the tabletop. The veins on the back of his hand pulsed almost unnoticeably, but continuously. When he began to speak, he had the feeling he was not speaking at all; he listened to himself and thought he could hear Karvita speaking in his voice. Hesitantly at first, then, after he got started, more and more fluently, he repeated what she had drilled into him.

  “It’s about my house, Guildmaster. It has to be rebuilt, I need a new knotting frame, new tools—I don’t have enough money for all that. My father got a very bad price for his carpet, back then.” My father was a failure, too, he thought. He tied a wonderful carpet and gave it away for a lousy starvation wage. But at least, he finished a carpet—the son of the failure, on the other hand …

  “I know.”

  “And?”

  “You’re asking for a long-term loan.”

  “Yes.”

  The old carpet maker opened his hands slowly in a gesture of regret. “Borlon, please don’t put me in a bind. You know the guild regulations. If you don’t have a son, you can’t get credit.”

  Borlon had to fight the feeling that he was sinking into a bottomless black hole. “I have no son. I have two wives and neither will bear me a son—”

  “Then it probably isn’t the fault of the women.”

  Oh yes. Of course not.

  He stared at the guildmaster. There was something he was supposed to say now, but he had forgotten it. Or maybe there was nothing he could say.

  “Look, Borlon, this sort of credit would have a term of a hundred twenty or a hundred sixty years. The children of your children would still have to pay on it. You can’t make such a decision lightly. And naturally, the guild treasury needs some sort of security. If it appears that you might have no heirs, we can’t give you long-term credit. That’s the purpose of the regulation. And even so, we would be taking on a big risk, because who knows whether your son would have a son himself?”

  “And short-term credit?” Borlon asked.

  “With what do you intend to pay it back?” the guildmaster asked tersely.

  “I’ll tie another carpet,” Borlon assured him hastily. “If I should have no heir, I can pay back the loan with it, and if I actually do have a son, then the credit could be changed over to a long-term loan.…”

  The old man sighed. “I’m sorry, Borlon. I’m really sorry for you, because I have always valued you, and I loved the carpet you were making. But I am responsible to my office, and at the moment, I think I have a more realistic view of things than you do. First, you’re no longer very young, Borlon. How large a carpet can you make, even if you work until you’re blind? And a carpet that doesn’t reach the prescribed dimensions will draw an extremely low price, as you know. In most cases, one would have to be satisfied if the trader took it at all. And second, you’d have to do your work on a new carpet frame whose wood still has to settle and which hasn’t yet been under tension for decades. Everyone knows—and you know it, too—that you can’t achieve the same quality on a new frame as on an old one. And you want to build a house, you have to live—I can’t see how you could accomplish all that.”

  Borlon listened in disbelief while the guildmaster, whom he had considered a friend in good times and from whom he had hoped for help, delivered blow after blow without mercy.

  “But … what should I do, then?”

  The guildmaster looked at the floor and said quietly, “It happens from time to time that a carpet maker’s line comes to an end. Some die young or without heirs—that’s always been the case. Then, the guild looks for somebody who wants to fill the vacant position and found a new line, and we take care of his training and so on.”

  “And give him credit.”

  “If he has a son, yes.”

  Borlon hesitated. “One of my wives … Narana … she may be pregnant.…”

  It was a lie and they both knew it.

  “If she bears you a son, the credit will be no problem, I promise you,” the guildmaster said, and stood up.

  At the door, he turned around again. “We’ve talked a lot about money, Borlon, and very little about the meaning of our work. In this difficult time, I think you should try to renew your faith. There’s a preacher in the city, I’ve heard. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to look him up.”

  * * *

  Borlon sat motionless after the guildmaster had gone and brooded in numb silence. Soon Karvita entered and asked about the outcome of the discussion. He just shook his head angrily.

  “They don’t want to give me a loan, because I have no son,” he finally explained when she persisted.

  “Then let’s try,” she responded immediately. “I’m not too old yet to have children.” Reluctantly, she added, “And Narana’s not nearly too old.”

  Why was everything the way it was? Why did everything have to be this way? You spend your entire life on one single carpet …

  “And what if it still doesn’t work? Karvita, why have we been together for so long and still don’t have any children?”

  She looked him over while her hands played with a lock of her blue-black hair. “Your son,” she said cautiously, “just has to be borne by one of your wives. But it isn’t really necessary that … you also father him!”

  What was she daring to suggest to him? Penniless and battered by fate—now he was supposed to let himself be dishonored?

  “It would naturally have to be done with the greatest discretion…,” his wife continued her thoughts.

  “Karvita!”

  She looked into his eyes and stopped in fright. “Pardon me, it was just an idea. Nothing more.”

  “Do you have any more ideas like that?”

  She was silent. After a while—after she gave him a cautious glance—she said, “If the guild won’t help you, maybe you have friends who will give you a loan. We can ask some of the more well-to-do carpet makers. Benegoran, for example. He must have much more money than he and his family can ever spend.

  “Benegoran won’t give me anything. That’s why he’s so rich—because he doesn’t give anything away.”

  “I know one of his wives well. I could make a casual inquiry through her.”

  Borlon looked at her as she stood there in the doorway, and suddenly he could see the young girl in her again, and he remembered another late afternoon many years ago when she had stood in this doorway, exactly like this. The memory sent a sharp pain through his heart. She had always been a good companion to him, and he hated himself for all the times he had done wrong by her or treated her badly.

  He stood up, actually intending to take her in his arms, but then he turned away and walked to the window.

  “All right,” he said. “But I don’t want the whole city to hear about it.”

  “Sooner or later, we won’t be able to keep it a secret.”

  Borlon thought about the isolated homes of the carpet makers in the mountain gorges and valleys all around the city. There was probably no spot in the whole region from which you could see two of these country estates at the same time. If all of them had succumbed t
o flames, it would have taken a long time before it was noticed in the city.

  It would probably be the itinerant peddler women who would find the charred ruins and pass the news along.

  “If so, then I prefer later. After we know how we’ll get on with our lives.”

  The sun was low on the horizon again. Borlon could see the city gate and a few old women who stood chatting beneath it. An older man hurried out of the city; Borlon thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him at the moment. Only after he was out of sight did it occur to him that it had been the teacher. In the past, he had come occasionally to ask about children, but he hadn’t come for many years now, and in the meantime, Borlon had even forgotten his name.

  I don’t know the people in the city anymore, he thought. I had already reached the point in a carpet maker’s life when he no longer leaves the house. Among all the feelings coursing through him at that moment was a powerful disillusionment: the boundless disillusionment of a man who has taken on a great and arduous enterprise and has failed shortly before reaching his goal.

  He felt the strain and stress of the day—physically now, as well: the long march in the night and the few short hours of fitful sleep from which he had repeatedly awakened with a start; the forenoon when they had all tramped back out there to pace around the burned-out skeleton of the house, to rescue a few household articles from the ashes and to estimate the damage. Borlon reached for a bottle of wine and two cups. Suddenly, the acrid smell of the ashes was in his nose again, and he thought he could taste the smoke on his tongue.

  He set down a cup for Karvita and one for himself. Then he opened the bottle. “Come,” he said. “Drink with me.”

  * * *

  He was up early the next morning and was drawn out into the city streets. For the first time in his life he had lain with both his wives in one night, and also for the first time in his life, he had not been able to successfully complete this marital act—neither time.

  My life is crumbling away beneath me, he thought. One piece after another is disappearing, failure is rippling out in all directions, and in the end, I will sink down and disappear, too.