heavenly sharbat, must use less fruit and more rose water. My mother, who had been mistress of her own household since she was my age, was being ordered around like a child.
One day, during the afternoon rest, my mother burst into our little room so angry that I could feel the heat burning off her skin.
"Ay, Khoda," she said, calling on God for mercy, "I can't bear it anymore!"
"What is it? What happened?"
"She didn't like the pastries I made," replied my mother. "She wanted squares, not ovals! I had to throw all the dough to the dogs and make it again."
That kind of waste would have been unimaginable in my village, but Gordiyeh demanded perfection.
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling guilty. I had spent the day with Gostaham, and my work had been pleasant and light.
"It's not just the pastry," my mother said. "I'm tired of being a servant. If only your father were alive, we could be in our own home again, doing things our own way!"
I tried to console her, for I loved what I was learning. "At least now we eat well and have no fear of starving."
"Unless she throws us out."
"Why would she do that?"
My mother snorted in exasperation. "You have no idea how much Gordiyeh would like to be rid of us," she said.
She was exaggerating, I thought. "But look at how much we do for the household!"
She kicked off her shoes and collapsed on her bedroll. Her feet were bright red from standing so long while making the pastry. "Oh, how they ache!" she moaned. I arose and put a cushion underneath them.
"In Gordiyeh's mind, we are draining this household, yet we're not hired help that she can dismiss whenever she likes. She told me today that dozens of Isfahani women would give one of their eyes to work in her kitchen. Women who are young and who can work long and hard without complaint. Not women who want to spend valuable kitchen time learning about rugs."
"What can we do?" I asked.
"We can only pray for a husband for you so that you can start a household of your own," she said. "A good man who will consider it his duty to care for your mother."
I had thought the discussions about my marriage had ended now that we had nothing to offer.
"Without a dowry, how am I to find such a husband?"
My mother stretched her feet to release the pain. "What an unkind comet, to have taken him away before you were settled!" she complained. "I have decided to make herbal remedies and sell them to neighbors to help build a dowry for you. We must not wait much longer," she added, in a tone of warning.
It was true that I was getting old. Everyone I knew had been married by the age of sixteen, and most were married well before.
"I will start another carpet for my dowry," I promised.
"Marrying you is the only way we can hope to live on our own again," said my mother. She turned away and fell asleep almost immediately. I wished there were a way to make her life sweeter. I turned toward Mecca and prayed for a speedy end to the evil influences of the comet.
ONE EVENING, when I didn't have anything to do, I picked up a large piece of paper Gostaham had thrown away and took it to the room I shared with my mother. Hunching under an oil lamp, I began drawing a design for a carpet that I hoped would grace a wealthy man's guest room and make his other rugs blush. My design was filled with all the motifs I had been learning--I managed to fit in every one of them. I sketched leaping steeds, peacocks with multicolored tails, gazelles feeding on grasses, elongated cypress trees, painted vases, pools of water, swimming ducks, and silver fish, all connected by vines, leaves, and flowers. While I was working, I thought about an unforgettable carpet I had seen in the bazaar. It showed a magnificent tree, but rather than sprouting leaves, its branches ended in the heads of gazelles, lions, onagers, and bears. The merchant called it a "vaq-vaq tree," and it illustrated a poem in which the animals discussed humans and their mysterious ways. I thought that such a tree could
One day, during the afternoon rest, my mother burst into our little room so angry that I could feel the heat burning off her skin.
"Ay, Khoda," she said, calling on God for mercy, "I can't bear it anymore!"
"What is it? What happened?"
"She didn't like the pastries I made," replied my mother. "She wanted squares, not ovals! I had to throw all the dough to the dogs and make it again."
That kind of waste would have been unimaginable in my village, but Gordiyeh demanded perfection.
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling guilty. I had spent the day with Gostaham, and my work had been pleasant and light.
"It's not just the pastry," my mother said. "I'm tired of being a servant. If only your father were alive, we could be in our own home again, doing things our own way!"
I tried to console her, for I loved what I was learning. "At least now we eat well and have no fear of starving."
"Unless she throws us out."
"Why would she do that?"
My mother snorted in exasperation. "You have no idea how much Gordiyeh would like to be rid of us," she said.
She was exaggerating, I thought. "But look at how much we do for the household!"
She kicked off her shoes and collapsed on her bedroll. Her feet were bright red from standing so long while making the pastry. "Oh, how they ache!" she moaned. I arose and put a cushion underneath them.
"In Gordiyeh's mind, we are draining this household, yet we're not hired help that she can dismiss whenever she likes. She told me today that dozens of Isfahani women would give one of their eyes to work in her kitchen. Women who are young and who can work long and hard without complaint. Not women who want to spend valuable kitchen time learning about rugs."
"What can we do?" I asked.
"We can only pray for a husband for you so that you can start a household of your own," she said. "A good man who will consider it his duty to care for your mother."
I had thought the discussions about my marriage had ended now that we had nothing to offer.
"Without a dowry, how am I to find such a husband?"
My mother stretched her feet to release the pain. "What an unkind comet, to have taken him away before you were settled!" she complained. "I have decided to make herbal remedies and sell them to neighbors to help build a dowry for you. We must not wait much longer," she added, in a tone of warning.
It was true that I was getting old. Everyone I knew had been married by the age of sixteen, and most were married well before.
"I will start another carpet for my dowry," I promised.
"Marrying you is the only way we can hope to live on our own again," said my mother. She turned away and fell asleep almost immediately. I wished there were a way to make her life sweeter. I turned toward Mecca and prayed for a speedy end to the evil influences of the comet.
ONE EVENING, when I didn't have anything to do, I picked up a large piece of paper Gostaham had thrown away and took it to the room I shared with my mother. Hunching under an oil lamp, I began drawing a design for a carpet that I hoped would grace a wealthy man's guest room and make his other rugs blush. My design was filled with all the motifs I had been learning--I managed to fit in every one of them. I sketched leaping steeds, peacocks with multicolored tails, gazelles feeding on grasses, elongated cypress trees, painted vases, pools of water, swimming ducks, and silver fish, all connected by vines, leaves, and flowers. While I was working, I thought about an unforgettable carpet I had seen in the bazaar. It showed a magnificent tree, but rather than sprouting leaves, its branches ended in the heads of gazelles, lions, onagers, and bears. The merchant called it a "vaq-vaq tree," and it illustrated a poem in which the animals discussed humans and their mysterious ways. I thought that such a tree could
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