The Carpet Makers (3 page)

“But he promised to wait for me!” the girl sobbed.

“Pah! That’s easy to say when you’re in love,” the merchant replied. “And just as quickly forgotten. A hot-blooded young man makes that promise at least every three days to someone else.”

“That’s not true. I’ll never believe that. We swore to love one another forever—until we die—and it was an oath as sacred as the covenant oath of the carpet makers.”

Moarkan observed his daughter silently for a while and shook his head with a sigh. “You hardly knew him, Dirilja. And believe me: someday you’ll be happy that everything worked out this way. Why would you want to be the wife of a hair-carpet maker? You can’t comb your hair without someone standing behind you to pluck every one of the strands from your brush. You have to share him with two or three wives or more. And if you bear him a child, you have to assume that it will be taken from you. On the other hand, with Buarati—”

“I don’t want to become the wife of a fat, oily trader, even if he pays my weight in hair carpets!” Dirilja screamed in rage.

“As you wish,” Moarkan responded. He turned to the mirror again and put on the heavy silver chain, the symbol of his status. “I have to go now.” He opened the door, and the noise of the market flooded in. “But it seems to me,” he said as he went out, “that fate is on my side—thank the Emperor!”

*   *   *

Accompanied by the guildmaster of the carpet makers, the trader stepped onto the stage to appraise the carpets and to buy them. With dignified bearing, Moarkan approached the first heir and had the young man’s hair carpet displayed to him. He tested the density of the knots with his fleshy fingers and thoroughly inspected the pattern before naming a price. The music played on without interruption; observers could only see the merchant’s gestures and the carpet makers’ reactions when he made his offer. The words that were spoken were hopelessly lost in the tumult of the market.

Usually the young men simply nodded with pale but composed expressions. Then the trader signaled to a servant who had been waiting a few steps away and gave him some brief instructions. In turn, with the help of several soldiers, the servant took care of the remaining business—bringing and counting out the money and transferring the hair carpet to the armored wagon—while Moarkan went on to the next carpet.

The guildmaster intervened when the price named by the trader seemed unjustifiably low to him. Heated discussions sometimes ensued, in which, however, the trader had the upper hand. The carpet makers could only choose to sell to him or to wait a year in the hope that the next trader would make a better offer.

One of the old carpet makers collapsed suddenly when Moarkan named his price, and he died a few moments later. The merchant waited until the man had been carried from the stage and then continued on without emotion. The crowd hardly took note of it. Something like that happened nearly every year, and the carpet makers considered such a death especially honorable. The music didn’t even stop playing.

*   *   *

Dirilja opened one of the windows on the side of the wagon toward the stage and extended her head. Her beautiful, long hair caused a stir, and whenever she saw someone looking in her direction, she waved him over and asked, “Do you know Abron?”

To most, the name meant nothing, but some of them knew him. “Abron? You mean the carpet maker’s son?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

“For a while, he was often at the school, but I heard his father was against it.”

“And now? What’s he doing now?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s seen him for a long time, for a very long time.…”

Although it cut her to the heart, when she found an old woman who knew Abron, she overcame her reluctance and asked, “Have you heard if he has married?”

“Married? Abron? No…,” said the old woman. “That would have had to be last year or the year before at the Festival, and I would know about that. You see, I live right here on Market Square, in a little room under the roof of that house over there.…”

*   *   *

In the meantime, preparations for the Courting had begun. While the last hair carpets were being sold, fathers brought their daughters of marriageable age to the edge of the platform. And when the hair-carpet trader and the guildmaster left the stage, the band switched over to lively dance tunes. With seductive movements, the girls began to dance slowly toward the young carpet makers, who were standing in the middle of the platform with their money chests. There, somewhat embarrassed, they watched the performance being played out for them.

Now the city folk gathered closer around the stage and clapped encouragement. The girls swirled their skirts as they tossed their heads, so that their long hair flew through the air and, in the setting sun, looked like the colorful flames of will-o’-the-wisps. In this manner, each one danced toward the young man who attracted her, touched him fleetingly on the chest or on the cheek, and leapt away again. They lured and teased, laughed and batted their eyes; sometimes they even raised their skirts above their knees for just a moment or traced the curves of their bodies with their hands.

The crowd cheered when the first of the young men stepped out of the circle and followed one of the girls. She tossed him promising glances while seeming to fall back in mock shyness, and she ran the tip of her tongue slowly over her half-opened lips to keep her advantage over the other girls now also trying their luck with this fellow. She lured him over to her father to ask for her hand with the ritual words. As usual, the father requested a glance into the carpet maker’s money chest, and they walked back together through the wild hubbub to the circle at the center of the stage, from which other young men were now separating themselves to choose their own headwives. There the young carpet maker opened the lid of his chest, and if the father was satisfied with what he saw inside, he gave his consent. Then it was up to the guildmaster to examine the woman’s hair and, if he had no objections, to perform the ceremony and record the marriage in the guildbook.

*   *   *

Dirilja stared at the platform without really seeing what was going on there. The Courting of the carpet makers seemed sillier and more trivial to her than any children’s game. Once again, she relived the hours together with Abron—back then, three years ago, when her father’s trading caravan last made a stop in Yahannochia. She saw his face before her; again she felt the kisses they had exchanged, felt his soft hands on her body and the fear of being found together in a situation that had gone far beyond the boundaries of what was appropriate for young unmarried people. She heard his voice and felt again the certainty of that day, that this was real.

Suddenly she knew she could no longer live without learning about Abron’s fate. She might try to forget Abron, but the price she would pay would be the loss of faith in herself. She would never know again whether she could trust her feelings. It was not a question of wounded honor or of painful jealousy. If it was the nature of the world, that such certainty as she had felt could be an illusion, then she didn’t want to live in this world anymore.

She looked out through all the cart’s windows and couldn’t see her father anywhere. He was probably sitting with the city elders, swapping news and making secret deals.

In the marketplace, the first torches were being lit as Dirilja began to pack articles of clothing and other personal effects into a small shoulder bag.

*   *   *

The music had stopped. Many stands were already being dismantled, the wares packed into wagons, and the money counted. Many of the city folk had already gone home.

After the marriage ceremonies of the young carpet makers to their headwives, the platform had become the scene for another market—for carpet makers seeking other wives, their subwives. The podium was illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. Men stood there expectantly with their young or not-so-young daughters. Several older carpet makers, most of them accompanied by their wives, shuttled their critical gazes from one girl to another, felt their splendid hair with trained fingers and, here and there, began serious discussions. No special ceremony was necessary to take a subwife; it was sufficient for the father to release her and for her to follow the carpet maker home.

*   *   *

The next morning, the departure of the caravan was delayed. The wagons were ready to move, the buffalo snorted in agitation and shuffled their hooves, and the foot soldiers stood waiting in a large circle around the train of wagons. The sun rose higher and higher without the trumpets blaring out the departure. The gossip was that Dirilja, the trader’s daughter, had disappeared. But, of course, no one dared to ask.

Finally, the sound of express riders galloping through the city streets was heard. A trusted servant of the trader hurried to his wagon and knocked on the windowpanes. Moarkan opened the door and stepped outside, decked out in his most splendid robes and decorated with all the insignia of his rank. He awaited the report from the scouts with a stony expression.

“We’ve looked everywhere, in the city and on all the roads leading out to the fortifications,” the commander of the mounted soldiers reported, “but we’ve found no trace of your daughter anywhere.”

“She is no longer my daughter,” said Moarkan darkly, and issued his order: “Signal the departure! And make a note on the maps: we never intend to return to Yahannochia again.”

*   *   *

The merchant’s caravan began to move slowly, but as unstoppably as a landslide. Now, as the train moved out of the city, only the children lined the roadside. In a cloud of dust, the monstrous parade of carts, animals, and people surged ahead, leaving behind deep wheel ruts and hoofprints that would not be covered over by the wind for many weeks.

Dirilja waited in her hiding place at the edge of the city until the caravan had disappeared beyond the horizon—then still one more day—before she dared emerge. Most of the people didn’t know her, and the few who did recognize her reacted with nothing more than disapproving glances.

She managed to ask unobtrusively for directions to the house of the carpet maker Ostvan. Outfitted with some provisions, a water bottle, and a gray cloak for protection from the sun and dust, she started on her way.

The road was long and difficult without a mount. Enviously, she eyed a peddler coming toward her, a small woman, as old as the hills, riding on a yuk mule and leading behind her two others packed high with bundles of fabric, baskets, and leather purses. Although Dirilja had enough money to buy any animal in the city, nobody would have sold even a lame yuk mule to her, a young woman traveling alone.

When the stony path led uphill, she often had to stop, and while the sun was high in the sky, she crept into the shadow of an overhanging ledge and rested until her strength returned. In this way, it took her almost the entire day to reach her destination.

The house squatted there, sun-bleached and weathered like the skull of an old animal. The black caverns of its windows seemed to stare inquisitively at the young woman standing exhausted in the clean-swept yard, looking about indecisively.

Abruptly, a door opened and a small child came toddling out on unsure legs, followed by a slender woman with long curly hair.

A cramp gripped Dirilja’s heart when she recognized that the child was a boy.

“Excuse me, is this the house of Ostvan?” she asked with effort.

“Yes,” said the woman, and looked her over curiously from head to toe. “And who are you?”

“My name is Dirilja. I’m looking for Abron.”

A shadow darkened the woman’s face. “Why are you looking for him?”

“He was … I mean, we had … I’m the daughter of the hair-carpet trader Moarkan. Abron and I had promised one another … but he didn’t come and…” Her speech faltered when the woman stepped up at these words and embraced her.

“My name is Garliad,” she said. “Dirilja, Abron is dead.”

*   *   *

They led her inside—Garliad and Mera, Ostvan’s headwife. They sat her down on a chair and gave her a glass of water. Dirilja told her story, and Mera, Abron’s mother, told hers.

And when everything had been said, they were silent.

“What should I do now?” Dirilja asked quietly. “I left my father without his permission; he will be forced to reject me, and if I should ever meet him again, he will have to kill me. I can’t go back.”

Garliad took her hand. “You can stay here. Ostvan will take you as a subwife if we speak with him and explain everything.”

“Here you’ll be safe—that, at least,” said Mera, and added, “Ostvan is old and won’t be able to lie with you, Dirilja.”

Dirilja nodded slowly. She looked down at the small boy sitting on the floor, playing with a little wooden carpet-knotting frame; she turned to the door that stood wide open and looked out into the distance across the rocky peaks and valleys, across the dusty, unfruitful desert land known only to the wind and to the merciless sun. Then she opened her bundle and began to unpack her things.

III

The Hair-Carpet Preacher

A SUDDEN GUST OF WIND
tousled his hair and blew strands of it across his face. He pushed it back with an irritated sweep of the hand and then looked sullenly at the white hairs that had come out between his fingers. He was annoyed by every reminder that he was steadily getting older. He shook the strands of hair from his hand as though he were trying to rid himself of this thought.

He had tarried too long in all those houses, had tried too often to enlighten those recalcitrant patriarchs. A lifetime of experience should have told him he was just wasting his time. Now the evening winds were already tugging at his worn, gray cloak, and it was starting to get cool. The long, lonely roads between the remote houses of the carpet makers seemed more arduous to him each year. He decided to make only one more stop and then head home. Besides, the house of Ostvan was on his way.

Still, age did have one advantage that softened his mood from time to time: it gave him authority and dignity in people’s eyes in a way that the poorly respected office of teacher had never afforded him. It happened less and less frequently that he had to argue about the necessity of children attending school or that a father refused to pay school fees for the next year. And more and more often, a stern look was sufficient to nip such objections in the bud.