Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,145

closely behind.

The tent was made of a thick, coarse fabric to protect inhabitants from winter winds. When the eunuch lifted the flap of the tent and we stepped inside, Azar gasped with delight. The interior had been furnished with ruby-red rugs and cushions, which made it seem warm. The walls were hung with crimson satin embroidered with whirling flowers and other twirling forms dancing within them. Soft cushions were arranged into seating areas and a bedroll was placed behind a long embroidered cloth. Wooden trunks had been brought in for Pari’s clothing and cosmetics.

We were admiring the tent when another eunuch arrived promptly with steaming vessels of tea and pastries. We refreshed ourselves, then unpacked Pari’s things. By the time everything was set up, it was the hour for the evening meal, which was brought to the princess by Mohammad Khodabandeh’s servants. They spread out a clean cotton cloth and served a large platter of roast lamb on hot bread, which soaked up all the meat juices, as well as yogurt and greens. I left Pari and her ladies to their meal and walked to a tent used by Mohammad’s eunuchs. Before I entered the tent, I heard some of them talking.

“Have you seen that woman’s retinue? It is as if she thinks she is shah!”

“With an armed guard like that, he will have to think twice about offending her.”

I chuckled. When I walked in, I was welcomed like an old friend. Together we supped and conversed and celebrated late into the night.

The next morning, Pari was summoned to meet the shah-to-be. A eunuch led us to his tent, which, for his safety, was not identified in any way from the outside. Inside, though, it was even more opulent than Pari’s. The carpets on the floor were deep indigo wool with white silk patterns that sparkled like stars in a twilight sky. There were porcelain vessels for water and wine that had been transported all that way, despite their value, and porcelain cups and serving platters. Fruit and sweets and nuts were piled high on engraved silver trays.

Mohammad Khodabandeh was seated on cushions, his wife, Khayr al-Nisa Beygom, on his right side. His dark eyes were blank, and he sat with his head thrust forward as if to better position his ears for listening. He wore a brown robe, a gray sash, and a white turban, subdued attire that made him look like a man of God. Next to him, his wife glittered like a peacock. Her pink robe seemed bright over a green tunic, which matched a triangular headdress made of pink and green silks. She wore gold bangles on both wrists, rings on every finger but her thumbs, a chain of pearls on her forehead, and large pearl and ruby earrings. Her full lips glowed red from madder, as did her cheeks. While her husband gave the impression of being thoughtful and retiring, she threw off sparks like the jewels she wore. Her eyes swept across us and around the room with frequency, as if to make up for the fact that her husband could see nothing.

“Welcome, sister. Your arrival brings us happiness,” Mohammad said to Pari.

“Yes, welcome,” added his wife in a voice that was high, nasal, and loud. “I have rarely had the pleasure of seeing you, but all of us have heard your father’s praise of you as a paragon among women.”

Pari dropped gracefully onto a cushion facing them, while I remained standing near the door. “I am unworthy of your generous words, but I thank you for your kindness. How are you? How are your children?”

“All are well, except, of course, for my husband’s son Sultan Hassan Mirza, whose loss we still mourn,” she replied.

“The loss of a child is worse than anything that can be described,” Mohammad said. “Truly it was as if the light of my eyes had been extinguished.”

“May God comfort you in your sorrow. What a terrible affliction you have endured.”

“Your losses have been equally great,” he said.

“I hope that God has granted you good health during this difficult time.”

“Since we last saw you, my husband’s eyesight has worsened,” Khayr al-Nisa replied. “It is a calamity for a man so gifted at reading and writing poetry.”

“It is the will of God,” he interjected, sounding resigned. “Now I compose my verses in my head, and my scribes write them on paper. By then I have committed my poetry to memory anyway.”

“Shall we exchange verses?” Pari asked. “It would be a joy