Read Online The Blood of Flowers by Anita Amirrezvani - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Amirrezvani
Tags: Bestseller
Ads: Link
She looked lost among her sisters, though, and I realized that she didn't speak our language. I felt sorry for her, for she had probably been captured in battle.
"Look!" said Gordiyeh in a tone of awe. "There's Jamileh!"
She was the Shah's favorite. She had black curls surrounding her tiny white face and lips like a rosebud. She wore a lacy undershirt slit from the throat to the navel, which showed the curve of her breasts. Over it, she had chosen a long-sleeved silk sheath dyed a brilliant saffron. Flowing loosely on top was a red silk robe, which opened at her throat to reveal a golden paisley pattern on the reverse side. She had tied a thick saffron sash around her hips, which swayed as she walked. On her forehead pearls and rubies hung from a circlet of gold, which shimmied when she turned her head.
"She's the very image of a girl the Shah loved when he was a young man," Gordiyeh said. "They say she spends her days in the harem quizzing the older women about her dead predecessor."
"Why?"
"To curry favor with the Shah. She pinches her own cheeks all the time now, because the other girl's always bloomed with pink roses."
By the time Jamileh and her entourage reached our alcove, Gordiyeh was as nervous as a cat. She bowed practically to the ground, inviting the ladies to have something to drink. I fetched hot coffee, hurrying so that I wouldn't miss anything. When I returned, the white-cheeked Jamileh was flipping up a corner of each rug with her index finger and examining the knots.
After I served her coffee, she sat down, explaining that she was refurnishing the Great Room in her part of the harem. She would need twelve new cushions for reclining against the wall, each of which was to be about as long as my arm and knotted with wool and silk.
"To make him comfortable, you know," she said significantly.
Hiring Gostaham to design cushion covers was like paying a master architect to design a mud hovel, but Jamileh would have only the best. A fluent stream of flattery poured from her lips about his carpets, "the light of the Shah's workshop, by any measure."
Gordiyeh, who should have been immune to such flattery, melted as quickly as a block of ice in the summer sun. When the two began bargaining, I knew she was doomed. Even her first price for the work was too low. I calculated that it would take one person three months of knotting to make the cushion covers, not including the work on the design. But whenever Jamileh arched her pretty eyebrows or pinched her small white cheeks, Gordiyeh slashed a few more toman off the price or made another concession.
Yes, she would make some of the knots out of silver-wrapped thread. No, the cushions would look nothing like her predecessor's. Yes, they would be ready in three months. By the time the bargaining was over, a sly expression had stolen into Jamileh's eyes, and she looked for a moment like the village girl she had once been. No doubt she would make the ladies of the harem laugh out loud over the tale of what a good deal she had made on this day.
One of the Shah's eunuchs wrote up two copies of the agreement and stamped them with the Shah's elaborate wax seal. The deal was done.
When dusk fell, we returned home and Gordiyeh went straight to bed, complaining of a headache. The house was unusually quiet as though awaiting a catastrophe. Indeed, when Gostaham came home and read the receipt, he went straight to Gordiyeh's room and yelled at her for breaking his back.
The next day, Gordiyeh retaliated by staying in bed, leaving him to manage the household and all the visitors on his own. In desperation, Gostaham sent my mother to run his shop, and I went with her. He couldn't have made a better choice: My mother knew the value of every knot. This was a surprise to the junior harem women with limited shopping allowances who had heard of Jamileh's triumph. All day, my mother drove hard bargains with these women, who whined over her stiff prices but nonetheless agreed to pay
"Look!" said Gordiyeh in a tone of awe. "There's Jamileh!"
She was the Shah's favorite. She had black curls surrounding her tiny white face and lips like a rosebud. She wore a lacy undershirt slit from the throat to the navel, which showed the curve of her breasts. Over it, she had chosen a long-sleeved silk sheath dyed a brilliant saffron. Flowing loosely on top was a red silk robe, which opened at her throat to reveal a golden paisley pattern on the reverse side. She had tied a thick saffron sash around her hips, which swayed as she walked. On her forehead pearls and rubies hung from a circlet of gold, which shimmied when she turned her head.
"She's the very image of a girl the Shah loved when he was a young man," Gordiyeh said. "They say she spends her days in the harem quizzing the older women about her dead predecessor."
"Why?"
"To curry favor with the Shah. She pinches her own cheeks all the time now, because the other girl's always bloomed with pink roses."
By the time Jamileh and her entourage reached our alcove, Gordiyeh was as nervous as a cat. She bowed practically to the ground, inviting the ladies to have something to drink. I fetched hot coffee, hurrying so that I wouldn't miss anything. When I returned, the white-cheeked Jamileh was flipping up a corner of each rug with her index finger and examining the knots.
After I served her coffee, she sat down, explaining that she was refurnishing the Great Room in her part of the harem. She would need twelve new cushions for reclining against the wall, each of which was to be about as long as my arm and knotted with wool and silk.
"To make him comfortable, you know," she said significantly.
Hiring Gostaham to design cushion covers was like paying a master architect to design a mud hovel, but Jamileh would have only the best. A fluent stream of flattery poured from her lips about his carpets, "the light of the Shah's workshop, by any measure."
Gordiyeh, who should have been immune to such flattery, melted as quickly as a block of ice in the summer sun. When the two began bargaining, I knew she was doomed. Even her first price for the work was too low. I calculated that it would take one person three months of knotting to make the cushion covers, not including the work on the design. But whenever Jamileh arched her pretty eyebrows or pinched her small white cheeks, Gordiyeh slashed a few more toman off the price or made another concession.
Yes, she would make some of the knots out of silver-wrapped thread. No, the cushions would look nothing like her predecessor's. Yes, they would be ready in three months. By the time the bargaining was over, a sly expression had stolen into Jamileh's eyes, and she looked for a moment like the village girl she had once been. No doubt she would make the ladies of the harem laugh out loud over the tale of what a good deal she had made on this day.
One of the Shah's eunuchs wrote up two copies of the agreement and stamped them with the Shah's elaborate wax seal. The deal was done.
When dusk fell, we returned home and Gordiyeh went straight to bed, complaining of a headache. The house was unusually quiet as though awaiting a catastrophe. Indeed, when Gostaham came home and read the receipt, he went straight to Gordiyeh's room and yelled at her for breaking his back.
The next day, Gordiyeh retaliated by staying in bed, leaving him to manage the household and all the visitors on his own. In desperation, Gostaham sent my mother to run his shop, and I went with her. He couldn't have made a better choice: My mother knew the value of every knot. This was a surprise to the junior harem women with limited shopping allowances who had heard of Jamileh's triumph. All day, my mother drove hard bargains with these women, who whined over her stiff prices but nonetheless agreed to pay
Similar Books
