Cry of the Peacock: A Novel (21 page)

She smiled with the charm of a three-year-old.

"My name is Zilfa." She extended a hand to Peacock, who did not know what to do with it. "I embroider handkerchiefs, and I'm looking for white silk."

Zilfa the Rosewoman
was her father's only child and the inheritor of all his money. She had been pretty—long ago, in the days of her youth, before age ate away at her strength. Her hair had been fiery red, her skin was white, and her eyes—she insisted until the day she died—took on an almost jade glow if she stood in the sun at the right angle in the right time of day.

She had had suitors from the time she was three—men lured at first by tales of her father's wealth and later by accounts of her own fair skin. Her father, Mirza Davood of

Tehran, had declared her engaged seven times before she reached the age of fifteen, but each time, Zilfa the Rose-woman had refused to marry the man he chose. She had let Mirza Davood sit through hours of negotiation and interview, allowed him to promise her hand, and then, days before the wedding, announced she was not pleased with the choice.

Mirza Davood was a respected man in his community. He was the wealthiest of all the merchants, more educated than all the rabbis together. He owned the larger of the two wells in the ghetto and, in times of drought, always gave water away for free. He knew he should force Zilfa to marry the man of his choice—the son of the moneylender, for example, with the blond mustache and the long overcoat that made him look like a Cossack, or the handsome son of Salman the Scent Seller, who always smelled of his father's perfumes and bowed before Mirza Davood every time he came into the house. But Mirza Davood respected Zilfa's wishes and allowed her a say in matters concerning her future. He was an enlightened man, he explained to his wife every time she cursed him for his softness. He had studied Hebrew and Arabic and even three years of medicine in Baghdad. He could plead and reason with Zilfa, but he could not force her to marry against her will. He held on to his liberal views until Zilfa ruined her life and brought shame upon her parents.

A man came to stay at Mirza Davood's house—a Muslim, with a tall black horse and eyes that had known no sorrow. His name was Sardar Ali Khan—heir to the throne of the defunct Zand dynasty in Shiraz. He lived on a three-hundred-acre estate famous across Persia for its gardens and architecture. In his house there were forty-seven bedrooms, three ballrooms, each larger than the ghetto square, and a polo field. The ceilings and the walls were all hand-painted with miniature figures of legendary heroes and fairies. The stables kept three hundred sixty-five horses—one for Ali Khan to ride on each day of the year. Zilfa the Rosewoman saw her father's guest the first night, and determined that he alone was the man worthy of her hand.

“It's Ali Khan," she declared to Mirza Davood, “or it's no one."

Mirza Davood was a good Jew, a prayer leader at every Sabbath service and a scholar in Talmudic law. That his daughter could even speak of marrying outside her religion brought despair to his heart and made him realize he had failed in raising her. He told Zilfa that Ali Khan was already married—to his niece, whom he had loved since childhood— and to a dozen other, younger women whom the niece had hand-picked and brought to the harem. Zilfa was undaunted by the news.

"He must leave them all," she concluded. "I will not share my man with another."

Mirza Davood hit Zilfa across the mouth, then locked himself in prayer to atone for the violence. His wife sat in the courtyard of their house and threw fistfuls of dirt onto her face and hair. Zilfa the Rosewoman, meanwhile, planned her meeting with Ali Khan.

She must be direct, she decided, but also subtle. She must leave a strong impression, command undivided attention. She was aware of the risk she was taking. She thought it worthwhile.

She took a length of white silk and sewed a handkerchief with lace edges, and white roses in each corner. She dabbed the roses with perfume she had received from the son of Salman the Scent Seller. One morning she woke up early to braid her hair and paint her eyes. Sardar Ali Khan stepped into the courtyard to saddle his horse. Zilfa the Rosewoman walked out of her room unveiled and called his name. She went up to him, her face glowing in the first light of day, and gave him the handkerchief.

"A token of admiration," she said, and Ali Khan was so charmed he took a bow of gratitude. But he rode away from Tehran and never came back.

Zilfa the Rosewoman had gambled with her life and lost. She remained unveiled, and was banned from her father's house. Mirza Davood sent her to live in the Pit, in a one-room rectangular house with no windows, and a tiny yard where nothing was expected to grow. Zilfa the Rosewoman came to her new home with joy and optimism. Ali Khan, she insisted, would send for her soon. In the meantime, it was her intention to make her house beautiful.

She would sleep in the only room, she decided, and use the basement as a place to “practice the arts." In the yard she would make a garden and plant roses. The neighbors laughed at her; nothing grew in the Pit but weeds and garbage, they said. Zilfa the Rosewoman planted seeds in the garden, and watched them bloom in full color.

With the allowance she received from Mirza Davood, she hired a voice tutor and a painting teacher. Samira the Seamstress came in once a month to make Zilfa dresses out of thin, clinging fabrics. Zilfa the Rosewoman insisted on transparent sleeves and refused to wear veils. She sent to the bazaar once a month for creams and perfumes from Salman's shop. She sat in her rose garden every morning and brushed her hair in the sun. She removed the hair from her legs with the flame of a candle, applied pastes made of vegetables and rose petals to her face, rubbed her hands with lard, and put snake oil on her lashes to make them long. And she waited for Ali Khan to come.

She waited five years, ten, fifteen. By the age of thirty she had become conscious of her age. Frightened by the deterioration of her skin, she soaked her face in goat's milk that she hid guiltily from the hungry children in the Pit. She worked less and slept more, and asked the women in the Armenian quarter—for she would never admit weakness to the Jews—for remedies against old age.

“Sheep's semen," they told her. “Apply it to your skin twice a week."

Zilfa the Rosewoman was disgusted and outraged by the suggestion. She would devise her own medicine, she decided, and came up with new herbal masks and mud potions. She practiced laughing with her lips close together— to keep lines from appearing around her eyes. She slept with her head lower than her body—to keep the glow in her cheeks. She wrapped herself from chin to toes in a tight sheet designed to keep the skin from sagging.

At forty she gave in and sent a messenger to Shiraz, to ask about Sardar Ali Khan's intentions toward her. The messenger returned too soon; Ali Khan had died in the Plague of 1866. His sons were all grown and married. His grandchildren had taken over the house.

Zilfa the Rosewoman threw the messenger out and cried for seven days. Then she came out and tended her flowers.

At fifty she sent word to all her old suitors and announced her readiness for marriage. She woke up later now, hoping to postpone the moment when she saw the world and realized she was still alone. Leaving her bed, she rushed to cover her face with powder, painted her lips and her eyes, then sat in the garden and embroidered white silk handkerchiefs with roses on each corner. She sewed two dozen handkerchiefs a day, stacked them in neat piles at the corner of her basement, and told her visitors she was saving them for her dowry. A year later she had filled every inch of her basement with white handkerchiefs and was still shopping for silk.

"I
will show you
my samples first,” Peacock lied to Zilfa the Rosewoman, as she fumbled in her sack for the best of her pieces. "I want you to get an idea of the kind of merchandise I offer.” was conscious of the accent that marked her immediately as a stranger, trying to hide from Zilfa the faded scraps of fabric that dropped from the bag. She took out a green taffeta, part of a dress that had belonged to Mad Ma-rushka.

“This is an antique,” she told Zilfa the Rosewoman. “It belonged to royalty in Esfahan."

Zilfa the Rosewoman looked as if she had been insulted. She turned her head away from Peacock and forced a halfsmile.

"Thank you." She was already walking away. "Perhaps another time."

"Wait," Peacock called her. "I have more. That was not my good piece."

She emptied the bag on the ground and began to sort through the rags. Reluctantly, Zilfa stopped. She knew she had come to the wrong peddler.

"White," she reminded Peacock. "I only need white."

Peacock extended a piece of brown silk at her.

"Yes." Zilfa looked for a way out. "But I need
white."

Peacock showed her a yellow, stained piece.

Zilfa the Rosewoman was about to protest, but she saw Peacock all flushed and flustered, and realized the extent for her need. She straightened the row of pearls around her neck and summoned patience.

"Where do you come from?" she asked, ignoring the fabric extended to her.

"Esfahan." Peacock was relieved to have stopped Zilfa. She pointed to Heshmat. "This is my daughter."

"Pretty girl," Zilfa remarked honestly. "But where is your man?"

The question surprised Peacock. For the first time in her life, she was among people who did not know her past.

"I don't have a man."

"Is he dead?"

Peacock was at a loss to explain.

"He's not dead. I left him."

Zilfa the Rosewoman raised her chin in disbelief.

"What do you mean, you left him? Do you mean he
divorced
you?"

"I mean I
left
him." Peacock was irritated and embarrassed.

"You ran away." Zilfa tried again. "He abused you and you ran to save your life."

Peacock stuffed the yellow fabric back into her bundle. She had lost interest in the sale. She wanted only to distance herself from Solomon's memory.

"He married someone else," she said. "He fell in love with a thirteen-year-old girl and brought her into my house, so I took my children and left."

She motioned to Heshmat that they should leave. She straightened her chador on her head, tightened the cheap metal clasp that held together the corners of her veil behind her head, and was about to walk away when Zilfa stopped her. She reached over casually and lifted Peacock's veil.

"But you're beautiful," she exclaimed, embarrassing Peacock even more. "Why would he have left you?"

Peacock rearranged her veil and began to walk again.

"Wait," Zilfa commanded, so engrossed in the effort to solve Peacock's mystery that she had become oblivious of the rules of etiquette she so ardently observed in normal times. "Did you love him, then—this husband you say you left?"

Peacock would not answer.

"You must have loved him," Zilfa declared, thrilled to have discovered a love story. "You wouldn't have left unless you were jealous."

Heshmat liked Zilfa. She let go of Peacock's hand, and approached the old woman.

"My father is here in Tehran," she said. "He's married to Tala Khanum, the daughter of Zil-el-Sultan."

Zilfa the Rosewoman was pleased with the new revelation.

"So you came to get him back," she decided for Peacock. "You came to reclaim him from the Qajar."

It never occurred to her that the story was unlikely.

Peacock dragged Heshmat away.

"Wait, I said," Zilfa commanded, now impatient. She took Heshmat's hand. She cleared her throat, and made an announcement.

“This is against my policy/' she said, “but you can stay with me for a while, till you get your husband back."

She took them to her house, and let them sleep in her garden. In the morning she announced breakfast.

Zilfa the Rosewoman ate in what she called a civilized manner: at a table, with chairs—she only had two—and white linen. She came to the table fully dressed, made up, and coif fed. Appalled by the Middle Eastern custom of sharing food from the same bowl, she designated plates for every guest, decorated the food with herbs and flowers, placed rose petals in everyone's tea. She demanded that her guests converse with her about "matters of interest to refined people"—about the state of opera in Europe, fashion in the Czar's court, art in the Shah's palace. Peacock and Heshmat looked at one another in confusion and opted for silence. Zilfa talked for everyone. Only when the meal was finished and they were clearing the table did she broach the subject of Peacock's fate.

"I think we should wait before calling on your husband," she suggested, scrutinizing Peacock closely. "It will do no good for him to see you in this state. You must gain some weight, have some decent clothes made, use proper makeup."

Peacock swallowed her tears.

"I'm not here for Solomon the Man," she said, wondering if it was true. "I'm here to find work."

Zilfa the Rosewoman winked at Heshmat conspiratori-ally, and decided to humor Peacock.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything."

Zilfa the Rosewoman said she knew a Muslim in the bazaar: a jeweler with an Esfahani accent, she recalled, who had come to Tehran with a chest full of stones.

"His name is Ezraeel." She chuckled. "I happen to know he's partial to Jewish women."

She brought her face close to Peacock and savored the gossip. "He's married, but I am told he keeps a mistress right here in the Pit."

She straightened herself again, suddenly indignant, and assumed a proper distance from Peacock.

"Anyway, I am above this sort of talk.
1
know him because I bought these pearls from him." She showed Peacock her pearls. "He has the best stones in the city. I've told him that when I get married, I want his purest diamond."

Zilfa the Rosewoman
took Peacock to see Ezraeel. They walked from the ghetto to the Tekkyeh, then bribed a coachman who agreed to overlook the law barring Jews from riding through town, and who drove them to the bazaar. Peacock was terrified of getting caught, but Zilfa the Rosewoman insisted on the carriage ride; she would not walk to the bazaar like a pauper, or present herself to Ezraeel the Avenger in dusty clothes. She sat in the carriage looking defiant and unafraid, but the moment they started moving, she pulled the curtains shut and grabbed the yellow patch on her chador into her fist.