Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,157

who served her know the truth, even if it must die with us.” He told me to work in the company of the palace scribes, where I would find abundant supplies of paper, ink, and reed pens, and would be spared the grief of working in the princess’s old quarters in the palace, which in any case were about to be occupied by members of Khayr al-Nisa’s family.

I arrived at my posting the next day shortly after the morning prayer. Once I had conveyed my orders from Anwar, I was welcomed into the large, light-filled office by Rasheed Khan, the chief of the scribes. He gave me a wooden lap desk and showed me how to request supplies. I thought I saw sympathy in his weary, red-rimmed eyes.

Massoud Ali fetched and delivered all the letters that had come for Pari after her death, which had been held by the chief palace courier. Although it had been only a few weeks since her murder, it took Massoud Ali several trips to bring them in. He still looked wan with grief.

“Want to play backgammon later, my little radish?”

“All right,” he said in a dull voice, and I knew he was just trying to please me. How it pained me to see him suffer! I swore to myself that I would try to get him assigned to me permanently at my new posting so that I could watch over him every day.

I stared at the pile of letters. The dry white paper made me think of Pari’s bones whitening somewhere under the earth. I could hardly bear to touch the pulverized linen and hemp, but as I was now under the scrutiny of Rasheed Khan and his staff, I assumed a workmanlike demeanor and began my task.

The first letter I opened was from a prostitute Pari had met once when she had gone to the shrine of Fatemeh Massoumeh in Qum to honor that holy sister of the Imam Reza. The letter, which had been written by a scribe that the prostitute had hired, reminded Pari where they had met and that the princess had given her money to start a new life. The prostitute had spent the money on felt and tools and had started a business making felt blankets for horses. After two years of hard work, she had developed a small stream of income that allowed her to quit her old profession. She thanked Pari for her belief in her goodness, and promised to say prayers for her every week at the shrine.

Yes, I thought, that was the princess I knew. Not the scheming Pari that tongues wagged about in the palace, but the Pari who would never let a request from a poor woman go unanswered, no matter how shameful her profession.

I began composing the response to the prostitute in my mind. “Dear Friend of the Court, I am very sorry to have to convey to you the earth-destroying news that the princess Pari Khan Khanoom, the most celebrated and revered flower of the Safavi women, has . . .”

I dropped the letter, my hands shaking.

“What is the matter?” asked Rasheed Khan, who happened to be passing by my station. “You don’t look well.”

“It is nothing,” I said. “I need some tea and sugar.”

“Ask the tea boys; you can’t drink anything in here.”

I went into the next room, away from all that precious paper, and a boy served me a glass of tea with a date before I had even asked for it.

My new job was ghastly. To have to convey Pari’s death in formal courtly language made me feel as if I were reliving her murder. I imagined her bruised neck, gaping eyes, and bared teeth, and wished that Khalil Khan’s maid had spared me.

When I returned to my task in the main writing room, I noticed a letter with a swooping, intricate royal seal indicating its provenance from the Ottoman court. I opened it carefully, certain that it must bear news of political import. Murad III’s wife Safiyeh wrote that she was eager to ensure that the long-running peace treaty between the two countries be maintained, but had been discouraged by friction between Safavi and Ottoman troops near Van. Were the reports true? She begged for a reply before the soldiers escalated the fighting. The tone of her letter was polite but not warm, which alarmed me since she and Pari had enjoyed friendly relations in the past. I put the letter aside to show to Anwar;