sang a song Ibrahim had composed that referred to Shamkhal as the Ingratiator, Mirza Shokhrollah as the Naysayer, and the Shah as the Vacillator. Pari laughed so hard, she told me, she was at pains not to spit out a slice of quince.
The princess and I agreed that Mirza Shokhrollah’s position as grand vizier was a great obstacle. In addition to the fact that he had criticized her in the Shah’s presence, he was neither efficient nor clever. Isma‘il needed a smart deputy who could compensate for his own weaknesses. Pari began doing what the royal women have always done: working quietly to discredit an official she disliked and replace him with her own man.
We decided it was wise to continue to cultivate Mirza Salman. Pari asked me to visit him and take his measure, but before I could, he sent a message asking to see the princess, even though the Shah had expressly forbidden the nobles from visiting her.
From behind the lattice, Mirza Salman told us that he had been reconfirmed as Guardian of the Royal Guilds. We both felt that he deserved much better. He also reported that the business of the court was at a standstill—many governors had not been appointed, the Councils of Justice were barely functioning, and the rebellion in Khui had been ignored. For about an hour, the three of us strategized about whom to contact and what exactly they could do to throw doubt on Mirza Shokhrollah’s effectiveness.
“Ah, Princess! I miss your glorious efficiency,” said Mirza Salman as he prepared to take his leave.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I have dreams of reshaping the court so that it is neither the strict and pious regime of my father nor the lackadaisical playground Isma‘il prefers, but rather one that re-creates the glorious age that produced so many great poets and thinkers: Hafez and Rumi, Avicenna and Khayyam—such an age requires prosperity, peace, and tolerance. Yet it is possible, I swear.”
“It will rival the promise of paradise!” Mirza Salman said, his eyes shining.
“It is worth dying for,” I added.
Pari’s quarters had always been filled with people, but after she fell out of favor, they were eerily quiet. I was able to spend more time at her side, helping her compose letters and discussing strategies for her rehabilitation. Sometimes, on cold days, we created a korsi by throwing blankets over a table and heating up the space underneath it with a charcoal brazier. Then we thrust our legs under the blankets—awkh joon!—and recited poetry to one another, including our own compositions. Pari shared her heart with me more than before, telling me of the great sorrows of her young life—the loss of a beloved mare, the death of her favorite aunt, Maheen Banu, but most of all, about her passionate desire to steer Iran into a period of greatness. I began to feel, when we were alone, that we were not just princess and servant—we were hamrah, companions on the same road.
One day, Pari confessed her fear that Isma‘il would try to claim Maryam, her dearest treasure, as a way of punishing her further. Her eyes grew soft when she spoke of Maryam, which emboldened me to ask about her.
“How did she first find favor with you, Princess?”
“Her father offered her to the court because he had eight daughters and no dowry money. I was fifteen then, and I urged my father to take her in. After five years of training as a hairdresser, Maryam entered my service. Before I knew it, she had bewitched me.”
“And you, her.”
A handsome blush appeared on Pari’s cheeks.
“I have made her wealthy, but she tells me she finds all the riches in the world by my side.” She glowed with satisfaction as she said this, and I thought about how often she must have faced sycophants who pretended to love her. I was glad that she was not blind, like so many other courtiers, to honest feeling.
“And what has become of her sisters?”
Pari looked at me curiously. “God be praised, she has provided six of them with excellent dowries.”
“Princess, I confess there is someone I wish to help in the same way,” I blurted out. My heart was full as I confided in her about Jalileh and showed her one of my sister’s letters, which I kept in an inside pocket of my robe. Pari glanced at it and was sufficiently impressed to read out loud the part where Jalileh revealed her ecstatic feelings about Gorgani’s poetry.
“What a thoughtful child! Surely