Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,13
Her face was red from the exertion of honest weeping, yet there was a spark in her eyes. The Georgian women approached her; then Gowhar, the late Shah’s eldest daughter, gave Sultan-Zadeh a goodbye kiss on each cheek and whispered into her ear. Sultan-Zadeh brightened. Gowhar said a perfunctory goodbye to Sultanam, wrapped herself in her black chador, and departed.
The room was emptying rapidly. Pari paid her respects to Sultan-Zadeh, and both women uttered condolences about the rewards in heaven for a life well lived.
“Everything will be different now,” Sultan-Zadeh added, her pretty mouth pursed as if she were about to plant a kiss on Pari’s cheek. “May I hope for your support of my son Haydar?”
I knew Haydar as a spoiled pleasure-seeker who had never made a serious study of the business of governing. But when had that ever stopped a prince from believing he deserved the throne?
Pari drew back. “How can you ask now, when my father is so newly—?”
Sultan-Zadeh’s lip curled slightly, as if she were a small starved animal baring its teeth.
“I mean no disrespect. I suppose you would understand if you had your own sons.”
Pari ignored the slight. “No matter how eager you are for your son’s advancement, you should not breach the established traditions,” Pari replied. “There is a procedure to follow when there is no will. Do you know what it is?”
“No.”
“The elders meet and discuss who is the best candidate. That is what happened when my father was selected. In times of uncertainty, procedure is all we have.”
“But, Pari, let me tell you why my son—”
“Not now,” said Pari, moving away from her.
Sultan-Zadeh frowned, and her pretty green eyes looked hard.
Pari crossed the large room to kiss Sultanam. The two women talked politely for a few moments, even though Sultanam had never approved of Pari because she dominated her husband’s attention.
As the princess took her leave, the somber, grieving face that Sultanam had shown Pari transformed, and her strong white teeth flashed in a nakedly victorious smile. As soon as we left the building, I told Pari what I had seen.
“How they delight in the idea of squelching my power!” she said as we walked past the garden of red and pink roses. “Until today, they didn’t dare be so bold. Now I expect to bear the brunt of all their aspirations. My mother will plead with me to marry and be safe, but a life of safety is not what I desire.”
I was struck by how different Pari was from everyone else. A desire to protect her surged through me.
“I promise to fight to keep you secure.”
“I thank you,” Pari said, resting her hand for a moment on my arm.
I heard footsteps behind us and turned around to see Massoud Ali speeding past the rosebushes toward us. He was panting, but that didn’t prevent him from trying to tell us something.
“What is it, my little one?”
“All the noblemen have left their mourning ceremony and are gathering for a meeting at Forty Columns Hall,” he said, almost out of breath.
“About the succession?”
“Yes.”
“You must go,” said Pari.
“Chashm,” I replied. Since the royal women could not show themselves at the men’s meetings, I would be Pari’s eyes and ears. I told Massoud Ali to wait for me while I walked Pari back to her house. As we entered the gate to her courtyard, she was making plans. “As soon as you return from the meeting, we must review the details for the public mourning ceremonies for my . . .”
I was shutting the heavy door behind us when her voice trailed off. Pari stopped moving and her shoulders slumped dangerously. For a terrible moment, I feared that she might drop to the ground.
“Princess,” I said softly, rushing to her side, “I know all too well what oceans of sorrow drown your heart.”
Her eyes filled. To my astonishment, she draped her arms on my shoulders and clung to me like a child, her head against my chest. Sobs shook her long, thin body, and hot tears soaked the front of my robe. I tried to stand as firm as the famous cypress in Abarkuh that has witnessed three thousand years of human sorrow.
When her sobbing had subsided, Pari begged me for a handkerchief. Her eyes were bloodred, her nose wet with mucus. I handed her the cotton handkerchief that hung from my sash and watched her dry her eyes and her face.
“My heart is breaking over the loss of my father,” she said.