The Blood of Flowers by Anita Amirrezvani Page B
Authors: Anita Amirrezvani
Tags: Bestseller
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gossip all night about the mysteries of our new household.
I waited until Gostaham seemed in a cheerful mood before asking if I could show him the design. He seemed surprised by the request, but beckoned me to follow him into his workroom. We sat on cushions, and he unrolled the paper onto the floor in front of us. It was so quiet in the room that I could hear the last call to prayer from the Friday mosque. The evening caller, who sat high in the minaret, had a clear, sweet voice that always filled me with happiness and hope. I thought his call might be a good omen.
Gostaham glanced at the design for only a moment. "What's the meaning of all this?" he asked, looking at me.
"W-well," I stammered, "I wanted to make something very fine, something that. . ."
An unpleasant silence fell on the room. Gostaham pushed aside the paper, which curled up and rolled away. "Listen, joonam," he said, "you probably think that carpets are just things--things to buy, sell, and sit down on. But once you become initiated as a rug maker, you learn that their purpose is much greater, for those who care to see."
"I know that," I said, although I didn't grasp what he meant.
"You think you know," said Gostaham. "So tell me--what do all these patterns have in common?"
I tried to think of something, but I couldn't. I had drawn them because they were pretty decorations. "Nothing," I finally admitted.
"Correct," said Gostaham, sighing as if he had never had to work quite this hard before. He tugged at one side of his turban as if trying to pull out a thought.
"When I was about your age," he said, "I learned a story in Shiraz that affected me deeply. It was about Tamerlane, the Mongolian conqueror who limped his way toward Isfahan more than two hundred years ago and ordered our people to surrender or be destroyed. Even so, our city revolted against his iron hand. It was a small rebellion with no military might behind it, but in revenge Tamerlane had his soldiers run their swords through fifty thousand citizens. Only one group was spared: the rug makers, whose value was too great for them to be destroyed. Even after that calamity, do you think the rug makers knotted death, destruction, and chaos into their rugs?"
"No," I said softly.
"Never, not once!" replied Gostaham, his voice rising. "If anything, the designers created images of even more perfect beauty. This is how we, the rug makers, protest all that is evil. Our response to cruelty, suffering, and sorrow is to remind the world of the face of beauty, which can best restore a man's tranquillity, cleanse his heart of evil, and lead him to the path of truth. All rug makers know that beauty is a tonic like no other. But without unity, there can be no beauty. Without integrity, there can be no beauty. Now do you understand?"
I looked at my design again, and it was as if I were seeing it through Gostaham's eyes. It was a design that tried to cover its ignorance through bold patterns, one that would sell only to an unwashed farangi who didn't know better. "Will you help me make it right?" I asked in a meek voice.
"I will," said Gostaham, reaching for his pen. His corrections were so severe that there was almost nothing left of my design. Using a fresh sheet of paper, he chose to draw just one of the motifs that I had selected: a teardrop-shaped boteh called a mother and daughter because it had its own progeny within it. He drew it neatly and cleanly, intending for there to be three across the carpet and seven down. That was all; and yet it was far more beautiful than the design I had made.
It was a sobering lesson. I felt as if I had more to learn than I had time on earth. I leaned back in the cushions, feeling tired.
Gostaham leaned back, too. "I've never known someone as eager to learn as you," he said.
I thought perhaps he had--himself. Yet I felt ashamed; it was not a womanly quality to be so eager, I knew. "Everything changed after my father . . ."
"Indeed, it was the worst luck for you
I waited until Gostaham seemed in a cheerful mood before asking if I could show him the design. He seemed surprised by the request, but beckoned me to follow him into his workroom. We sat on cushions, and he unrolled the paper onto the floor in front of us. It was so quiet in the room that I could hear the last call to prayer from the Friday mosque. The evening caller, who sat high in the minaret, had a clear, sweet voice that always filled me with happiness and hope. I thought his call might be a good omen.
Gostaham glanced at the design for only a moment. "What's the meaning of all this?" he asked, looking at me.
"W-well," I stammered, "I wanted to make something very fine, something that. . ."
An unpleasant silence fell on the room. Gostaham pushed aside the paper, which curled up and rolled away. "Listen, joonam," he said, "you probably think that carpets are just things--things to buy, sell, and sit down on. But once you become initiated as a rug maker, you learn that their purpose is much greater, for those who care to see."
"I know that," I said, although I didn't grasp what he meant.
"You think you know," said Gostaham. "So tell me--what do all these patterns have in common?"
I tried to think of something, but I couldn't. I had drawn them because they were pretty decorations. "Nothing," I finally admitted.
"Correct," said Gostaham, sighing as if he had never had to work quite this hard before. He tugged at one side of his turban as if trying to pull out a thought.
"When I was about your age," he said, "I learned a story in Shiraz that affected me deeply. It was about Tamerlane, the Mongolian conqueror who limped his way toward Isfahan more than two hundred years ago and ordered our people to surrender or be destroyed. Even so, our city revolted against his iron hand. It was a small rebellion with no military might behind it, but in revenge Tamerlane had his soldiers run their swords through fifty thousand citizens. Only one group was spared: the rug makers, whose value was too great for them to be destroyed. Even after that calamity, do you think the rug makers knotted death, destruction, and chaos into their rugs?"
"No," I said softly.
"Never, not once!" replied Gostaham, his voice rising. "If anything, the designers created images of even more perfect beauty. This is how we, the rug makers, protest all that is evil. Our response to cruelty, suffering, and sorrow is to remind the world of the face of beauty, which can best restore a man's tranquillity, cleanse his heart of evil, and lead him to the path of truth. All rug makers know that beauty is a tonic like no other. But without unity, there can be no beauty. Without integrity, there can be no beauty. Now do you understand?"
I looked at my design again, and it was as if I were seeing it through Gostaham's eyes. It was a design that tried to cover its ignorance through bold patterns, one that would sell only to an unwashed farangi who didn't know better. "Will you help me make it right?" I asked in a meek voice.
"I will," said Gostaham, reaching for his pen. His corrections were so severe that there was almost nothing left of my design. Using a fresh sheet of paper, he chose to draw just one of the motifs that I had selected: a teardrop-shaped boteh called a mother and daughter because it had its own progeny within it. He drew it neatly and cleanly, intending for there to be three across the carpet and seven down. That was all; and yet it was far more beautiful than the design I had made.
It was a sobering lesson. I felt as if I had more to learn than I had time on earth. I leaned back in the cushions, feeling tired.
Gostaham leaned back, too. "I've never known someone as eager to learn as you," he said.
I thought perhaps he had--himself. Yet I felt ashamed; it was not a womanly quality to be so eager, I knew. "Everything changed after my father . . ."
"Indeed, it was the worst luck for you
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