watched—some in the orchard from the peripheries of the dance circle, some in the house from behind the windows. Their own dance floor—the large salon, decked with white lace and ribbon and flanked with two rows of chairs in front of which sat small tables laden with fruit and sweets—was a gaudy scene of jubilance and jitter, where Homa’s best friend was dancing with Shamse, a friend of her sister-in-law. The bond between the two, though distant and flimsy, barely there at all, brought solace to Homa, whose mother’s heart was not with the wedding. Behind her made-up face that smiled at Pooran, Homa could read her mother’s dissatisfaction, except that this time she tried not to show her usual disapproval outwardly and Homa was at least grateful for that.
In her white wedding dress, she watched Ahmad from behind the lace curtain, in his black suit in the circle of men, holding his arms up, swinging to the sides to the rhythm of music, and she did not feel a doubt about the decision she had made. Music slipped out of vibrating strings and throbbing percussive skin, from under restless picks and hands. Great Uncle reached into his breast pocket and threw a fistful of bills into the air, then a second. Children dived to collect the money from under the stomping feet. Seeing this, Khan left the circle and strode away from the celebration. Outside, he motioned for the chauffeur to open the trunk of the white Jaguar. Back at the dance the crowd split open to let in Khan and his driver boy who carried two sacks under his arms. Khan dug his hand into one and the bills flew into the air. Children ran around trying to catch them as they spun like raining pin-wheels. The Great Uncle emptied his pockets and then motioned at Colonel Delldaar for more. As the evening proceeded, more nimble-fingered musicians performed. The cool, fall breeze could not dry sweat off the dancing bodies. Until the last one dropped down panting, Khan and Great Uncle showered bills on the dancers. So much money was dispensed that after the wedding was over and the last of the guests had left, the owner of the orchard spent a sunset to sundown excavating bills from under mud and dirt.
The last player of the night was Maestro Shahnaz. After the dinner tables were cleared, a humble wooden chair was placed for him in the middle of the open space. The night was calm except for the murmur of those outside and the chatter of those inside and the chirping of the creatures of the night. The maestro approached his chair with slow, calm steps and sat himself, eyes cast down. He crossed his legs and balanced his taar on his thigh. A silence fell over the wedding as he turned the pick in his hand and took a deep breath, his head bent toward his instrument. With the first strum of his pick on the strings, the dead branches of the trees turned soft and before the end of the overture, green shoots had sprouted on them. A few scales into the rhythmic piece, blossoms opened on the leafless trees. The music was almost visible, floating in the breeze, weaving in and out of the plum trees, billowing the curtains into the house, scaling up the women’s legs and wafting around their bosoms. Suddenly happy cries rose from the bride and groom’s room. The bride’s dress had bloomed. Homa’s mother kept picking the blossoms from her veil so she could see. Ahmad smiled at Homa and got up from beside her to look at the maestro through the window. The orchard was carpeted with orange and plum blossoms that grew and fell from the trees. A pinkish-white petal sat on the maestro’s bald head.
“We’ll be happy together,” Homa whispered in Ahmad’s ear when he sat back by her. Ahmad took her hand and gave it a gentle but firm squeeze. “This is a sign.”
After the wedding, the newlyweds boarded the automobile that Mohammad Reza had, with Khan’s directions, rented for the wedding ride. Parked right outside the orchard, the Jaguar, too, like all the other cars, had grown little flowers on its handles, trunk, and hood. Sitting in the backseat, one ringed hand locked into a ringless one, smiling and calm, Ahmad and Homa circled the streets of the city in the mirth of their unity. Years later, after the Revolution and the Eight-Year War had