In The Palace of Flowers E-Book

Victoria Princewill

• Herausgeber: CASSAVA REPUBLIC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Sex and friendship, ambition and political intrigue, secrets and betrayal will set the fate of the two slaves— Jamīla and Abimelech—in this ground-breaking debut novel. In the Palace of Flowers recreates the opulent Persian royal court of the Qajars at the end of the nineteenth century. This is a precarious time of growing public dissent, foreign interference from the Russians and British, and the problem of an aging ruler and his unsuitable heir. It tells the story from the unique perspective of two Abyssinian slaves: Jamila, a concubine, and Abimelech, a eunuch. Torn away from their families, they now serve at the whims of the royal family, only too aware of their own insignificance in the eyes of their masters. Abimelech and Jamila's quest to take control over their lives and find meaning leads to them navigating the dangerous politics of the royal court and to the radicals that lie beyond its walls. Richly textured and elegantly written, at its heart In The Palace of Flowers is a novel about the fear of being forgotten.

Leseprobe

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IN THE PALACE OF FLOWERS

Victoria Princewill

Contents

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1

We shall be forgotten, Jamīla realised, watching the funeral rites with empty eyes.

She usually enjoyed the funerals. The slaves heard the tragedies first; gossip slid through walls and under doors. Distress seeped into antechambers: the news, like the life itself, unspooled quickly. In the first house where she had served, Jamīla would rise early to hear the recitation of the Qur’an from the roof. Back then, the older slaves would turn a blind eye whilst she darted into an empty bedroom to peer through a window, scanning the roofs of the houses nearby to see where the imam was reciting from. He would stand on the roof that housed the deceased, the sound of his announcement a bell to her mind. She had always enjoyed the sobriety. A life had been lost, and that weight meant something. Precisely what, she remained unsure of.

It was January; almost the end of the year. Death seemed fitting, as an end to a cycle. Still, Jamīla did not want to be there but whilst women were forbidden from the service, any Abyssinian slave who had served him had to be present. And so Jamīla stood amongst them, at the back of the mosque. He had been one of the noblemen free to enter the harem, a physician for the Shāh and his wives. Jamīla, recalling his slithery presence, suspected the slaves’ attendance was required to bolster the numbers.

The imam’s monotone never wavered. Jamīla was bored. She stared up at the curved dome of the mosque’s ceiling: thousands of minuscule sapphire tiles adorned it. Mingled with dazzling glass, the tiles dripped from the walls. She sought to count them, but, glancing around, saw hers was the only upturned face. She 4stared at the floor. She traced a silk embroidered shoe over the marble, wishing she could stand on the slivers of exposed stone. She looked up. Every slave in the mosque faced forward; there was nary a shuffle nor a sigh. She lowered her shoulders and lifted her chin, trying to practise solemnity. The faces of the nobles were haggard and drawn. The prince – her prince – her old playmate behind closed doors in the harem quarters, who used to sneak smiles at her through crowds – he too was facing forward, his expression indistinguishable from the rest. For a moment, she wondered how he might behave at her funeral.

But, of course, she would not have one. Not long ago, a slave had died. He was thrown into an unmarked spot in one of the gardens where a glut of bodies lay. Jamīla could not help but see them in her mind, jumbled together: anonymous, rotting, mute. Nobody was notified. Wherever his birth family was, they remained ignorant – filled with faint hope, perhaps or muted despair.

With the ceremony completed, the slaves headed back to Golestan Palace at a brisk pace. The snow had arrived late this year, and it was tentative at first; the falling flakes appeared to falter, so much she barely felt them as they trembled onto her cheek. She brushed her face as she walked, the velvety crunch beneath her floral mules a world away from the soft clouds wrapped snugly around a gable of one of the palace roofs. Jamīla had lived there for only four years, yet without question she felt it was home. The sprawling complex of gorgeous buildings formed a medley of colours as indigo arabesque tiles, stone carvings in flaxen gold and emerald muqarnas, undimmed by winter’s first frost, captured the eye. Returning here would always give her pause, even as men sighed, stooped over, brows studded with sweat, working on the Shāh’s latest renovation. But it was not 5hers, any more than it was theirs, and as she tramped through the geometric gardens, shivering under her thin čhādor in the crisp evening air, she felt a sudden thrill at the realisation. On darker days, she had called herself fortunate. She would linger by the precision-cut flowerbeds. This is your home. She would repeat the words until the pain of her bruises began to fade. This is your home. Now she felt foolish. Was this her home? Did it matter? The earth is the earth is the earth, as her mother liked to say. Jamīla’s lips trembled. She continued walking.

Jamīla was the last slave to return to the harem from the mosque, and as she hurried through the passageway to her mistress’s apartment, she began to feel a touch of unease. The harem was large, built to house and entertain over 80 wives and concubines, with communal entertaining spaces, like the royal coffeehouse and the royal theatre. The wives all had private residences, most in adjoining interior courtyards, and one had to cross the length of the harem, past the various pantries, salons, and harem offices to get to them. Jamīla’s mistress, Chehra Khaanoum, like many of the newer poorer and younger wives, had an apartment even further out, far from the communal spaces. As such, Jamīla was always late getting to her, regardless of her intentions or how she tried to be on time. Chehra used to be more forgiving, but in recent months, her patience had worn thin. There was always something that gave Chehra reason to complain. Jamīla would often hear Chehra’s plaintive cries as she snapped at Gul, the most senior slave in her retinue, over the size of her room. When Jamīla first arrived, it was Gul who told her that the wives were housed according to their status. They all lived in grand apartments, plush rooms with high ceilings and gilded furniture, adjacent to the main harem. Chehra’s five rooms, though 6a squeeze for her slaves, were more than sufficient to Jamīla.

As she pushed open the door to the apartment, she bumped into Gul standing on the other side. ‘Jamīla!’ she said, sighing and rolling her eyes.

‘I am here!’ Jamīla was looking past Gul.

‘She is in her room,’ Gul said, a laugh in her voice. A robust slave, whose wrinkled smiles revealed a warmer woman than her frame would assume, she ran Chehra Khaanoum’s household with benign efficiency. She had little patience for Jamīla’s tardiness but thought it more prudent to mask it than openly scold her for it. ‘You should know, Jamīla, she is angry.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘Abimelech requested you.’

‘Abimelech?’ A smile spread across her face.

‘On behalf of the prince,’ Gul said. ‘Prince Nosrat summoned you.’

‘Then I must go!’ Jamīla turned back to the door.

Gul shook her head, grimacing. ‘Chehra Khaanoum insisted you stay. She became…unhappy, shall we say. She asked, “Is Jamila his concubine or my slave?”’

‘Well, if I was the prince’s concubine, perhaps I might have some rooms of my own.’

‘Be serious, Jamīla. She wants you to draft a letter to someone on the Shāh’s council.’

‘Gul, all I do is write correspondence.’

‘This is different. She would have him stop seeing you. She shall take a sudden interest in “finding Nosrat Mirza a wife”.’

Chehra’s door was slightly ajar; she was bathed in a chink of light, pacing the room. Jamīla knocked and pushed it open, watching as Chehra glanced at her and continued to pace at a furious, unstable speed. She was soft and plump with a 7heavy brow that was perpetually furrowed. She would insist on having her face painted on with precision every single morning, but, due to her frequent naps during the day, would have a smeared face and stained pillow by midday. Her make-up today was meticulous: cheeks burnished tulip-pink, rosebud lips shone a cherry red and the faint lines of soft hair that trickled from her nose to the top of her lips looked lightly brushed. Jamīla, noting this, with muted surprise, realised with some foreboding that Chehra Khaanoum had not had her daily rest.

‘Shahzadeh Khaanoum,’ Jamīla addressed her formally and dipped into a deep bow.

‘Are you ready to work?’ Chehra demanded in a high-pitched tone.

‘Yes, Shahzadeh Khaanoum,’ Jamīla answered, and placed herself attentively beside the desk, wondering whether Chehra might stop walking long enough to offer instructions.

‘How was the service?’ Chehra asked. Without waiting for a response, she burst out, ‘We have work here, Jamīla. You have to be here to serve me, not everybody else.’

‘Yes, Shahzadeh Khaanoum. What should—’

‘I have been invited to a dinner this evening!’

‘Shall I—’

‘I was certain that they loathed me; they strive to make me uncomfortable. They smile, but they do not speak, their politeness merely a mask…Could I have been mistaken? It was Raem, Raem Khaanoum, who invited me. Are you aware of Raem Khaanoum? She lost her son in childbirth last year, but prior to that she was the Shāh’s beloved. They say he does not call on her now. You are to assist me here and when I return. Select my attire; I still have to find…’

Jamīla watched Chehra Khaanoum with interest; even her 8burbling seemed frenetic. She had taken to drinking during the day, but she was too alert to be drunk already. Usually when Chehra overindulged, she became sloppy and maudlin. Jamīla thought perhaps she should get Gul, but before she could suggest it, Gul appeared at the door.

‘Nothing to alarm you, Shahzadeh Khaanoum,’ she said, but her face was fraught. ‘The chief eunuch is outside. Nosrat Mirza, it appears, is rather insistent. He has requested the company of Jamīla this evening. It transpires that he is…ah…unhappy with the delay…’

Jamīla stared from Chehra to Gul and back again. Her eyes widened. Chehra marched past her and out to the front door, Gul and Jamīla hurrying behind. Chehra stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. Jamīla winced as Chehra began to shout and looked to Gul. The chief eunuch sounded obsequious, his words filled with platitudes and promises. When the front door was flung open, Chehra marched past again and slammed her room door shut. The chief eunuch looked at Jamīla, trying for a smile. His lips withdrew as he spoke, baring two sets of teeth. ‘The Shāhzadeh has summoned you to his quarters in the ḵalwat. Proceed with haste.’

9

2

The first time Jamīla was sent to Prince Nosrat’s quarters, she had felt like she was meeting a stranger. Handsome as always, he looked less comfortable than usual. His large hazelnut eyes searched hers as he stood before her and whilst his gentle rounded face held glimmers of his goofy smiles of old, he was fundamentally changed. He towered over her, far taller than she remembered. His neck was thick, his shoulders broad. He looked like a man, not the boy she knew, struggling to fit in his skin. His old awkwardness pushed through, however. The air was strained and he tried to mask it with a new habit of thrusting his chest out forward whenever he was lost for words. Over the course of that evening, it happened with increasing frequency. She tried at points to play with him as they used to, but when she threw a cushion at him, he snatched it from the air, tossing it to one side, and grasped her firmly by the hand.

‘I was told they would explain.’

She stuttered and nodded.

His hand was awkward as it fluttered against her throat. ‘May I…?’

She did not know what to say. He stood over her, thrusting his chest forward again. ‘Must we?’

‘You would refuse?’ He looked embarrassed.

‘Not at all, Shaazdeh,’ she said, wondering if she could still use this familiar title. She paused, then asked, ‘Might we be friends as well?’

He sighed. ‘They did not explain.’

‘I am not sure I…understood.’

He swallowed hard. ‘It shan’t be entirely unpleasant, although, 10perhaps at first. You shall come to enjoy it, they said.’

‘Who said?’ she asked, but he did not reply.

She watched him now, turned away from her, as he struggled to undress himself. She thought about how little he had changed. She felt a swell of pity as she watched him; his movements laced with that old blend of anxiety and defiance.

It was an oppressive room, heavy with dark colours and filled with ornate furnishings. The chandelier that hung in the centre, a solid structure overlaid with gilt and crystals, was in perpetual motion. The crystals would clink at every sound: footsteps across the Mashad rug, the aggravated thrusting of Nosrat as he penetrated her in bed. Jamīla would stare at the chandelier, convinced of its impending descent. She would close her eyes and grit her teeth, the image of the chandelier plummeting to the ground, incinerating them both, a welcome distraction.

He flung the offending robe to the floor with a sigh. ‘I thought you might be tired at the service. I do not wish for you to be at odds with your mistress – I merely wanted some time…undisturbed.’ Jamīla could tell Nosrat was trying not to sound petulant. She kept her back to him as he spoke.

‘Indeed. I am grateful, Shaazdeh,’ she said, turning around. The words hung in the air.

He coughed. ‘You-you must feel free, Jamīla. I wish for you to do as you please.’

Jamīla paused and then said, in something of a rush, ‘Might Abimelech join us?’

‘Abimelech? Whatever for?’

‘Well…’ Jamīla could not think of an adequate reason. I prefer his company didn’t seem ideal. ‘He is your favourite, after all. I assumed you would not mind.’ 11

Nosrat shrugged. ‘He is three doors down.’

Jamīla paused. ‘He sleeps in your quarters, in the ḵalwat?’

‘You expect me to live there with only my father and his men, all alone?’ He paused, adding ruefully, ‘The ḵalwat is a disagreeable place. And Abimelech is my favourite. But for him, I would not return here. I miss staying with my mother, and all the women, in the harem.’ His mouth twitched as he looked at her and she stepped closer to him, wanting to put her arms around him. He stopped her midway and gestured with his hand. ‘Go. Fetch him.’

‘Yes, Shaazdeh.’ She left.

When Abimelech arrived, he ignored the cushions, stacked against a wall near the door, walking past them to the centre of the room. He sat down on the floor. Nosrat looked at him, irritated, before joining him. Amused, Abimelech flung an arm around him. Jamīla watched Nosrat betray a smile and lean on Abimelech’s shoulder. She placed herself opposite them, also on the floor, wrapping her arms around herself, watching them, with mild apprehension. Topaz and pearl, Nosrat had once said, pressing her cheek against his and staring at both in the mirror. It was truer now than then. Abimelech’s skin shone with a gleam that hers could never match. Even for an Abyssinian, of whom beauty was expected, Abimelech surpassed the standard. Beside him, the fat of his cheek nestled in the crook of Abimelech’s collarbone, Nosrat’s skin was more pale than pearl, dull by mere comparison to Abimelech’s unconscious glow.

Jamīla here requested you.’ Nosrat prodded Abimelech, his voice petulant.

‘I am very flattered,’ Abimelech replied.

Nosrat, hearing his words, quickly acquiesced. ‘Well, you have 12always been my favourite. Tell me, how did you find the service?’

‘It was a fitting monument to an honourable life,’ Abimelech said.

Jamīla looked hard at him but said nothing.

Nosrat chuckled. ‘I found it tiresome. The man was unremarkable. He was just another sycophant hovering around my father.’

Looking from one face to the other, he added in a quieter tone, ‘I believe I have raised these concerns before. I do not wish to be lied to. Do not refrain from sharing your innermost thoughts. I do not wish to entertain sycophants in my own rooms. Speak with candour, or I insist you leave.’

Abimelech nodded with a smile but said nothing.

‘Speak!’

Jamīla sighed. ‘The service was beautiful. It is a marvellous thing to be remembered. We, of course, will not be remembered at all. We shall be forgotten. Such were my innermost thoughts.’

Abimelech was looking at her with something approaching horror on his face.

‘We?’ Nosrat asked.

‘Abimelech and I,’ she said, as Abimelech shook his head.

Nosrat frowned, looking from one to the other, and asked, ‘Is this something you two have been discussing for some time?’ He turned to Jamīla. ‘Is this why you sought Abimelech?’

‘We have never discussed this!’ Abimelech interjected, glaring at Jamīla.

‘I am the son of a Shāh. I shall be remembered throughout time.’ There was a silence. ‘Surely, by extension, you two will also be remembered.’ He frowned again. ‘What does it even mean to be remembered?’

There was a light knock. Nosrat fell silent as the door inched open. Abimelech moved to stand, but Nosrat brushed past and opened the door himself. ‘Well?’ 13

‘Hazrat-e Aghdass-e Vaalaa,’ the eunuch, voice trembling over the honorific, fell into a deep bow. ‘I apologise! I thought it was empty!’

‘You were mistaken.’

‘Please accept my profound regret; I had not intended to—’

‘What brings you here?’

The eunuch stood holding a pair of black mules with raised tips. His hand trembled; Jamīla could see the floral motif on the underside of the shoe. ‘Hazrat-e Aghdass-e Vaalaa, I was told you wanted these polished again. I am returning them; I attended to them myself. I understand the old polish was not—’

‘I did not like it; was it replaced?’ The eunuch began to answer, but Nosrat continued to speak, raising his voice. ‘Why was this not done in the daytime?’

‘Please, Shāhzadeh, I can return in the morning…’

‘You do realise you interrupted me when you tried to enter?’ Nosrat paused; there were tears running down the eunuch’s face. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Shāhzadeh, I am f-fine.’

‘You do not seem fine.’ Nosrat dropped his voice. ‘Would you like an apology?’

Jamīla shot a look at Abimelech. In short, quick strides, he crossed the threshold and was outside the room. ‘Shāhzadeh,’ he said, inclining his head, ‘Wahbi is my subordinate. Allow me to sanction him for his error without continuing to interrupt your night.’

Nosrat looked at Abimelech. He nodded. Jamīla exhaled.

As the door closed, Nosrat turned back to her, shaking his head in wonder. ‘He is without fault. How does one become so?’ Almost to himself he added, ‘What would I be without Abimelech?’

Impatient, unenlightened, alone? Jamīla thought. She closed her 14eyes and fell silent for a moment, steeling herself. She moved closer to Nosrat and nuzzled his arm. ‘Well, Shaazdeh,’ she began, with a beguiling smile, ‘shall we play a game?’

It was another hour before Abimelech returned, his face wan. Nosrat and Jamīla were curled together on the bed. Nosrat jumped up. ‘Oh-ho! He returns. I thought they were keeping you from me, in the harem!’

Jamīla and Abimelech exchanged glances. She wore only a quilted waistcoat, the one Nosrat had worn earlier. Abimelech said, ‘Shaazdeh, perhaps I should leave.’

‘You have only just arrived.’

‘I do not wish to interrupt you.’ He added with a light smile, ‘I know you cannot abide interruptions.’

‘Come over here and say that again.’ Jamīla couldn’t see Nosrat’s face, but she could see Abimelech’s: he looked relaxed and amused. Nosrat and Abimelech began chuckling together, an insular, jocular laugh. Watching them, she rose from the bed and wriggled onto a chair, taking one of the cushions spread across the floor and placing it on her lap. She had never let Abimelech see her like this; she was unused to being so exposed in the presence of more than one man. Yet they laughed like they could not see her. She felt like another ornament in the room, adorned but anonymous, as invisible as the voluptuous gold curtains that hung in the carefully constructed archways.

‘So, was he flogged?’ Nosrat asked, his tone languid as he paced the room. He drummed his fingers on a mahogany bureau before clasping one of the gilded metal handles and pulling open the drawer. ‘It is French,’ he announced, before removing an item and presenting it with a flourish to Abimelech. ‘Do you know what these are?’ he asked, watching his face. ‘These cigarettes 15are from the imperial court of Russia, but they were made in London. Sobranies of London. Do you approve? They are better than ḡalyāns, are they not?’

‘They are much better, Shaazdeh.’

Jamīla smirked. She knew full well Abimelech preferred to smoke a pipe.

‘Try one.’

‘Certainly – but then, Shaazdeh, I should like to retire.’

‘No!’ Nosrat and Jamīla spoke at the same time. Nosrat peered at her, but continued regardless. ‘I wish to resume our previous discussion, about the service.’

‘And how you will be remembered?’ Jamīla asked.

Nosrat looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Yes.’

***

Hours slid by. The room was bathed in pungent fumes. Nosrat refused to open the window further. He was pacing, pontificating. Jamīla was facing away from him, lying on her back, holding a goblet upright. Abimelech snorted as he poured more wine into it: Jamīla kept slopping it as she struggled to swallow. Nosrat shook the stem of his goblet. He stared into it. ‘It seems absurd that this – this should surpass everything.’

He had not paused for breath. Jamīla hoped he would. She had almost forgotten what silence was like. She no longer knew what he was talking about. He continued. Abimelech gulped back his drink and lay on the floor, his head nudging Jamīla’s. She turned towards him, their faces mere inches apart. They had never been so close together.

He had no facial hair beyond his brows and lashes. There was nothing on his top lip, not a wisp on his chin. She traced a cheekbone with her finger. It swooped outwards and hollowed out beneath. He was somehow aged, yet with creamy, childlike skin. 16She led her hand across his entire face, pausing before his lips.

She hesitated and then crumpled her fingers against them. Abimelech, who had been lying almost perfectly still, grasped her hand. He held it against his lips, kissed it and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he pushed it firmly away from him. He rose and walked over to Nosrat, and stroked the back of his head. Jamīla snorted. Abimelech caught her eye for a moment and held her gaze. He tugged Nosrat’s chin and watched him dimple in delight and surprise. Soon they were cuffing each other and laughing aloud. Jamīla watched Nosrat yelping as Abimelech tickled him. She rose to leave, but Abimelech reached out and grabbed her ankle.

‘Stay.’ He was gasping for breath, Nosrat behind him, tugging him and cackling.

She stood for a moment and watched them, a quagmire of interlinked limbs, squealing voices and vibrant fabric. Then she dressed and left with speed before Abimelech could convince her otherwise.

Outside Nosrat’s room she paused. It was too late to return to the harem. Chehra Khaanoum would hear her; she would either be angry or take her to bed. Jamīla suppressed a shudder as she wandered around Nosrat’s quarters. She idled until she came to a familiar door, and, pushing it open, froze at the sight. It was not just a room built for a prince, it was a room built for a European prince.

This room, like those in the photographs Nosrat had shown her, had gilt-lined wooden panelling, European chairs pressed against the walls and a chaise longue at the foot of the bed. There was not a single cushion. Unlike Nosrat’s room, Abimelech’s room was pristine. It was empty of personal items but for a tall smooth pillbox hat that she knew to be his. It was part of the 17eunuch’s uniform, mirroring that of a nobleman’s. It sat, serene, on a gleaming bureau, as bold and discreet as its owner. The rest of the room was similar: muted colours, without the explosions of gold Jamīla was accustomed to seeing throughout the palace.

She felt guilty about stealing the bed; no slave was worthy of sleeping in such opulence. She was rather surprised that Abimelech dared to sleep here himself; Nosrat could not protect him from the wrath of the Shāh if he were caught. She wondered what would happen if Abimelech saw her in the bed. She envisioned him entering the room, heavy with drink but light-footed with caution, caught by surprise at the sight of her. She would be flagrantly presented, her brown skin sprawled across the royal duvet for all to see. Abimelech, she suspected, would simply settle himself on the floor at her feet. It was the most gallant of the options – even if his carpet woven with rubies was more luxurious than the mattresses in the harem. Or perhaps he would continue drinking with Nosrat tonight. They would pass out in Nosrat’s room, and she could slip away, unnoticed, just after dawn.

She clambered onto the bed, squirrelling herself into a corner. Slipping her hand under the pillow, she withdrew a tattered copy of Hafiz’s Divan and smiled. It was not a warm night; she pushed some of the bedding onto the floor so that if Abimelech returned, he would have something to sleep under. But when she woke, she found he had slipped in beside her.

18

3

Her dreams at night always ended the same way. Flickering reinventions of that night would stalk innocuous worlds before wholly taking them over. They might start as all her dreams had lately: chasing ibex through mosques she had never entered. Trees would poke their twigs through open windows, roots would spread over the mirrored tiles. The Persian mosque would become an Abyssinian forest, and Dinha, panting beside her, would remind her she was playing a chieftain. Jamīla in the dream would sigh because, of course, she knew what was coming. Each night she sought to do something different at that moment. Before she and Dinha fought, before the latter fled, before the figure appeared to drag her far away.

Jamīla turned over as she woke and found Abimelech staring at her. His eyes, almond shaped and dark, with lashes so long and curled she wanted to stroke them, were often opaque. She started to speak, but he spoke over her. ‘You should not be here.’ She didn’t reply and he turned on to his back, away from her.

No matter how terse his tone, she always felt a warmth when they were alone. It was then and only then that he would speak to her in the language of their home. It was important to her; without those four years of secret conversation she would have forgotten more than her tongue, she would have struggled to retain her history. And it would not have grown with her. At best it would exist as a relic, consigned to memory, insufficient as a medium through which to depict her life now.

Nosrat had learned Afaan Oromoo from his nurses, and had spoken it as a baby, but he refused to speak it to her or have the 19‘Galla nonsense’ spoken in his presence. It had taken Jamīla a while to recall it at first. Her last memories of Afaan Oromoo had been the songs her mother used to sing. She couldn’t remember on her own, but whenever Abimelech spoke the tongue, the lullabies rose unbidden.

Her mother’s voice was voluptuous; it rolled and clicked like a ductile cube. It moved as swiftly as her hand. Jamīla had two memories of her mother: her voice as she sang her to sleep and her fist as it furled when she fumed. Her mother was not one for punching, but whenever she smacked Jamīla, she would clench her fist first, steeling herself. She would spread her fingers out again immediately, flexing them at the tips, before chasing after Jamīla. Jamīla missed it all. She missed the sting of her mother’s palm as it curved through the air like a lasso, languid as it stung her skin. Sometimes it burned the tip of her nose, often it cuffed her chin. Jamīla had no other memories of her mother, not the shape of her body as she stood or the arch of her back when they passed strange men, her shoulders proud as she ignored their praise. She had memories of those memories, but she could never recall those moments herself.

Abimelech turned his head slightly, his glance fluttering on Jamīla’s mouth, before fixing his eyes to the ceiling once more. With a light cough, he said, ‘You really should not be here.’

She scoffed. ‘The chief eunuch sent me to Prince Nosrat. He will expect me to stay the night. Chehra Khaanoum knows. I shall say Nosrat kept me late in the morning. Nobody will ask him, and thus, for now, my time is my own.’ She leaned towards him and added, ‘Once Nosrat gave me a day to myself. He said I had to stay within the palace walls, and should I be questioned later, he would be my excuse.’

Abimelech looked incredulous. ‘What did you do?’ 20

‘Well, I stayed with him. I did not dare wander by myself. But he did show me,’ she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, ‘the Shāh’s photography studio and he took my picture! There is a photograph, Abimelech. Of me. It is the strangest thing. I look – I look as I do in the mirror. It is…exact.’

‘Well. That is generous of him.’

‘You sound surprised.’ Jamīla laughed.

‘I am not surprised. I know Nosrat Mirza is a fair master.’ Abimelech sighed, his words wistful. ‘He did not grant me a new name when I arrived. He allowed me to remain “Abimelech”. I have served kinder men than he, but none who let me keep my identity.’

‘It matters little, in the end.’

‘As we will all be forgotten…’ Abimelech’s tone was sober. ‘What compelled you to say such a thing? What were you thinking – were you even thinking?’

‘It is the truth.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Does it not concern you?’

‘That I shan’t have 40 days of funeral rites in the bāzār’s most beautiful mosque?’

‘No,’ Jamīla said in a quiet voice. ‘I am referring to the reasons why.’

‘I am a slave.’

‘Thus your life is of no consequence. You are of no consequence!’

‘Is this about Aabir?’

‘This is about all of us!’

There was a silence.

‘It does not bother you?’ Without waiting for an answer, she rose from the bed. Abimelech sat up, following her movements warily. ‘Last night, Chehra Khaanoum was nervous and anxious 21because she was invited to a dinner with women she cannot stand. The day before, we were to discuss why, in great depth, they might hate her. Prior to that, she decided to cry because she felt unloved. All the while, I have to write out her inane correspondence, complete her innumerable errands, help her choose her outfits and otherwise follow her around. Do you know how much of my day involves standing against a wall, playing at being invisible?’

‘I could not possibly; I am not a eunuch after all. My day is not remotely similar.’

She had been standing over him, jabbing the air with her finger. At his words, she dropped her hand and sat down with a guilty sigh. ‘Of course. I know your experience is the same.’ She could not bring herself to voice her real complaint.

‘It could be worse, Jamīla. We could be domestics.’

‘We are Abyssinian,’ Jamīla snapped. ‘We would never be domestics.’

‘Al-ḥamdulillāh for slave hierarchies.’

Jamīla rolled her eyes. ‘It is not enough.’

Abimelech shrugged.

‘I know–’ she paused and smiled. ‘Might I suggest this is your fault?’

‘How so?’

‘You gave me that book! Mulla Sadra’s—’

‘—Transcendent Theosophy? I have been searching for that. I thought I might teach it to Nosrat Mirza—’

‘I keep re-reading it. I wish I had unlimited time to ponder such questions, about essentialism and existentialism. I know, I know, it is impossible, but it seems absurd that this – the petty squabbling and scheming of the harem – should be my only alternative.’ 22

There was a long silence.

‘It is not enough, Abimelech. I feel enraged every day. These lives of ours…do they not strike you as strange? You are not truly surprised by the words I spoke to Prince Nosrat. I know you. You are not satisfied with this life. Would you read Mulla Sadra if you were? You cannot cast your thoughts aside.’ She leaned closer. ‘I do not simply want out. I want…more. Our minds are not mere basins for our memories. The questions of who we are, where we come from, why we live like this, why one society can sell another – I am tormented by them…’

Abimelech sighed. ‘I do not know what to tell you.’

Jamīla stared at him, her face a mask. Then she rose without speaking and headed for the door.

‘You are upset with me.’

Jamīla shook her head. ‘No, Abimelech. I have to go to the bāzār. I have errands to run.’

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No.’

‘Please.’

‘Goodbye, Abimelech,’ Jamīla said, but she stood at the door.

Abimelech smiled. ‘Let me come with you.’

‘Why?’

He rose from the bed and followed her. Stopping in front of her, he took her hand. ‘I will tell you what you want to know.’

Jamīla looked down at her hand, encased in both of his. She looked back at him, her face doubtful. ‘I know you, Abimelech.’

‘I will. I promise.’

23

4

Tehran’s grand bāzār was not the most beautiful Jamīla had seen, but parts of it came close. Unlike most that were purely markets, the bāzār in Tehran was a city within a city. Domed buildings were connected to large labyrinth passageways that folded out onto courtyards, docks and open streets. Mosques and schools were not far from bath houses and guest houses. Bakers, apothecaries and confectioners were found throughout; tailors, shoemakers and craftsmen were generally together. The bāzār was a world apart from the harem in Golestan Palace. In the palace, every word was courteous, every action preceded by a bow. Here, words spun fast and loose, questions roared from full-throated men. For Jamīla, it was brilliant but dismal, the long-tunnelled galleries humming with the footfall of the forlorn.

In summer months, on sticky days, she came here to escape. The blast of cool air that greeted her would feel like a reprieve. In winters, when she entered, the smells assailed her first. They were unusual aromas: a slew of mismatched spices from competing sellers together would make her head spin. The recurring blend, she grew to discern, was a burst of sumac and saffron. The tart lemony sharpness of the sumac combined with the honey vanilla of the saffron was often followed by wafts of tobacco smoke, that she could see curling through the air.

Despite the vastness of the place, it felt as familiar as it did complex. Jamīla knew which corridors sold Chehra’s favourite spices and where to get writing paper for Nosrat. He never asked her for it and had access to more luxuriant options, but 24his response to her first, impulsive gesture told her that he liked being cared for – he liked the pretence that they were young lovers. Thus Jamīla, despite her ambivalence, indulged his little dream and got him cheap trinkets from the bāzār whenever she could.

Jamīla walked in silence beside Abimelech, waiting for him to begin. As they entered the bāzār he all but disappeared, turning once to slip her a silent smile before snaking through the heaving hoards, sweeping through the clamour of shouting traders. Finally, he stopped in a quieter corridor and waited for her to catch up. He was smiling, standing still, as she panted in front of him. He began to speak, but the smell of pomegranates from a nearby stall caught her attention. Her favourite thing to do when running Chehra’s errands in the bāzār was to stop in an unfamiliar passageway and buy pomegranates for herself. Jamīla liked the sensation of being slightly lost, and in a world of unending routine, she craved the occasional surprise. She lived for those moments when she bit into the pomegranate and found it unexpectedly sweet or soft. It was not supposed to be either and you were supposed to peel them first, but Jamīla did not care. The best ones were firm and tasted more sharp than sweet, but she relished the unexpected, even when it was unpleasant.

‘Does anything take your fancy?’

‘Yes, but I shall get it.’ Jamīla leaned towards the elderly greenseller and then paused as she spotted fresh âlbâloo. She gestured to them and then helped herself.

Abimelech’s brows were raised. ‘You are not using money Chehra Khaanoum gave you.’

Jamīla looked at him, chomping the shiny fruit with relish.

‘Jamīla! I imagine she did not expect you would spend it on 25sour cherries.’

Jamīla continued chewing, her eyes closed now, a blissful smile stretching across her face.

‘Jamīla, I am being serious.’ His voice rose an octave. ‘Is this something you do often?’

Swallowing, she reached out and paid for another handful, popping one into her mouth at once. Abimelech twitched as he watched her. ‘It is bothersome, is it not?’

‘What?’

‘Requesting answers…receiving silence.’

Her eyes were still closed, but she could hear his dry laughter. ‘Jamīla, you child.’ He stepped closer to her and dropped his voice. ‘I did not feel comfortable speaking at the palace. You wanted to know if I shared your frustrations. I do not. I was surprised to hear you speak to the prince as you did. All humans will be forgotten eventually, even if slaves shall be forgotten first.’

Jamīla stared at him in horror – his cool placid smile, his innocent blinking eyes. ‘You lie!’ The words burst out before she could stop them. ‘You-you…’

Abimelech watched her, disdain flickering across his face. ‘It appears that you lie, Jamīla – either to Chehra or me. You are stealing money from your mistress, are you not? I shall see you back at the palace.’ He turned away.

Jamīla felt helpless. ‘It is Nosrat!’ she called after him, but she was seething as well. He stopped, turned around, but did not speak.

His silence was swallowed by the sounds of the busy bāzār. The greenseller, brandishing a fistful of pomegranates at a nearby customer, knocked several items out of their place. Fruits ran forward; propelled by his enthusiasm, they tumbled into each other before splitting on the ground. The greenseller cursed and rose to tidy the mess. Abimelech and Jamīla stared together at 26the fleeing fruit for a wordless moment.

Abimelech spoke. ‘Nosrat Mirza gives you money? You are paid by a Qājār?’

‘You lied to me. Of all the things to lie about – because of some fruit?’

‘Jamīla, you looked to be stealing from your mistress. You were being open about it. Slaves are killed for less.’ Abimelech frowned. ‘You could have been seen and reported. Both of us would have been killed. Do you not realise that we are familiar faces? We serve in the palace. We are all watched.’

‘Of course, I know this. But you…you patronise and belittle me. I am not a child.’

‘You are young, Jamīla.’ At the corners of his mouth she spied the glimmer of a smile. ‘Your earnestness is proof of your youth.’

Jamīla couldn’t look at him. She breathed a tentative sigh.

‘Let us not forget your errands.’

They left the food halls behind and entered a timcheh, one of many courtyards spread throughout the bāzār, where merchants sold luxury fabrics and works of art in a courtyard surrounded by jewellers and goldsmiths. Here, proud eunuchs and female slaves wandered with authority, scrutinising goods, shopping on behalf of noble or royal masters. The hall itself was huge. Turquoise tiles illuminated the domes, small lattice windows peered serenely from above. Jamīla had always loved it here. As she walked alongside Abimelech, however, the air felt taut.

He did not speak until they headed back to the palace. He reached forward, took her parcels from her and encased her hand in his. She closed her eyes. His palm was supple, smooth and warm. Larger than hers, it felt softer too. Their gait was in unison, but he felt remote and she shivered in the morning frost.

‘I was not honest.’ 27

She continued to walk without looking at him.

He tried again. ‘This life chafes at me too. But, Jamīla…I do not wish to be remembered this way. There is no value in this life. None to be found, nothing to carve or create. Do I want to be remembered as a slave of the Qājārs? I said you were young. I meant it. You believe in hope, in opportunity, in the future. There are things I can do here, that allow me to keep going, differences I can make in the court. But those questions you speak of…they cannot be answered here, not by us, not in this place. There is no meaning to be found here, not the kind you desire, the sooner you learn that…’

Jamīla stopped walking. ‘What are these things in court that you hope to do?’

‘I…’ He sighed. ‘Those goals seem elusive now. I suspected Prince Nosrat would be granted an official role in the Shāh’s government. As his former teacher, I would remain as his chamberlain, run his household and advise him on politics. This is not an uncommon trajectory; other eunuchs have pursued similar paths. They worked for a shāh or a prince and they were able to retire; some retired wealthy.’

‘It sounds wise,’ she admitted, wrestling to keep the envy from her voice.

‘You would not be happier, Jamīla, with more acquisitions. You have this income from the prince, do you not? Has it abated your frustrations?’

Jamīla sighed. ‘Would you be happier in this…chamberlain role under Nosrat?’

Abimelech’s voice was so quiet Jamīla had to strain to hear. ‘I cannot even recall what happiness feels like. I would not be bored. I could still read. I could be useful. But this life holds no meaning for me, Jamīla. With the exception of reading and 28perhaps the company of a few…friends, I can think of little that keeps me here.’

‘Here? As in…alive?’

Abimelech did not reply.

Jamīla hesitated. In a brighter tone, she asked, ‘But…what of this role?’

‘Nosrat is uninterested in joining his father’s government.’

She stopped walking altogether and turned to face him. ‘What will he do instead?’

‘I shall tell you. But before I go further,’ Abimelech began looking around, ‘you have to promise secrecy.’

‘Of course. Who would I tell?’

Abimelech paused, momentarily silenced. Then he said, ‘I know you, Jamīla. You are earnest, opinionated – this cannot resurface in a discussion with Nosrat.’

‘It shan’t.’

‘You cannot use it to curry favour with the chief eunuch.’

‘I would never.’

‘You cannot use it to gain an advantage in the harem.’

‘I understand.’ Jamīla spoke through gritted teeth.

‘You cannot use it if you are enraged by Nosrat.’

‘Abimelech, I am not the shameless gossip you expect. Tell me.’

He looked at her, frowning. ‘If this becomes public, I will lose everything.’

‘I promise, Abimelech. Now…?’

‘Nosrat Mirza wants to move to Paris.’

‘What?’

‘I may have to accompany him.’

‘To…you could not mean the city in Fr–?’

‘Yes. In France.’ Abimelech’s voice was clipped.

‘Will you?’ Jamīla’s mind was racing. 29

‘Nosrat is too undisciplined to realise such a plan. It remains a fanciful dream.’

‘What is it like?’

‘The city?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dirty, I am told. Not as beautiful as Tehran.’

Jamīla shrugged. ‘I meant the religion. France is a Christian country, is it not? It shan’t have Islamic laws.’

Abimelech began to laugh. ‘No, Jamīla. They—’

‘Do they have laws on slavery at all?’

She watched the humour slip from his face. ‘I…I…Well, no. No.’

‘You would choose to enter a city in Europe as Nosrat’s property, without even slavery laws to protect you? Suppose there is a disagreement. You shall be in a foreign country, without a patron, without even the law to keep you safe.’ Jamīla let a satisfactory sneer seep into her tone. ‘You cannot actually indulge this fantasy.’

Abimelech was not looking at her. ‘We are unlikely to actually get there. Nosrat is just obsessed with Europe. He is irritable and wants to leave. I suspect we will start by travelling through Persia. Even then, we will likely only end up in Isfahan.’

‘Ah.’

‘I thought you might join us.’

There was a long silence. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you,’ Abimelech replied, and they both broke into smiles.

30

5

Jamīla smelt the strain of rotting blood orange whenever she entered Chehra Khaanoum’s room. Chehra loved blood oranges and would eat half of one every night. She left them everywhere: on cushions, bureaus, mantelpieces.

When Jamīla had first begun in Chehra’s household, she was summoned one late afternoon. As the door groaned open under her hand, a waft of over-sweetened fruit swam out to greet her. It was rich, layered; the tang of putrid orange sank into her skin. Instinct overwhelmed her and she rushed across the floor, her feet fighting through the stiff carpet. Her hands sank into the curtains, catching herself in them as she sought to push them aside. She finally jerked a window open, staring aghast at Chehra, who continued to sleep, fruit rotting by her side. Forgetting their plans, Chehra had not risen for another hour. Jamīla, too timid to rouse her, hovered on a cushion, submerged in the stench of fetid fruit as it slowly swirled towards the open window and flittered out.