She did not mind visiting the Jewish Quarter. Some lingering memories were sweet: the Ancient Zoroastrian, who called her “Tinkling Child” and whose prophesy of jewels and passion and intrigue had come true. The baths where the more affluent women sat on large silver trays that protected them from the bath slush, and whose children, as a show of respect, poured rinsing water over their heads. The large watermelons that crackled when cut open by butcher knives, the sherbets of rosewater and grated apples, the large bath glasses sweating steam.

She sprang back at a hand, clutching her robe.

“One dinar, Khanom?”

The beggar was no older than five. Flies covered his head, feasting on the open sores. His bony legs wobbled under the strain of his bloated stomach. Gold Dust searched her empty pockets. She glanced at her mother, angry with herself for not taking charge of her life. She could have filled her pockets with gold and distributed it among the needy. But like the spoiled sultana she had become, she, once again, depended on her mother, who planted a coin in the beggar’s hand.

Women washing clothing, pots and pans, and bathing small children occupied the joubs, streams of water at both sides of the alleys. A boy urinated in the same water in which fruits were washed. They moved south, farther from the baths, closer to hovels and shanties with tin sheets for roofs and flaps of cloth for doors. The air was biting, the stench of manure unbearable. Stray dogs trailed at their feet. Gold Dust did not remember these scenes.

The smell of putrid ice flowers assaulted her with bitter memories. Her mother’s nights, the moans, the tar-colored men. The acidic smell of Heshmat the Matchmaker’s armpits that lingered in the house long after she was gone. The scent of rosewater she sprayed on her mother to wash off the stink of manure. The cry of whore. “Madar, I’ll ask the Shah to buy you a house. You won’t have to live here anymore.”

“I’m bound to remain here by forces you’ll never understand. Look around, Gold, these are my people and that will never change.”

Slapping flies away and sidestepping rodents, they skirted the pit. Gold Dust wondered how people could live with this stench. Her mother must be walking her through the worst parts of the Quarter to scare her away. Where did Soleiman live? A man who composed such lofty poetry could not endure this filth.

Rebekah pointed at a broken door on the opposite side of the mound of garbage. “Soleiman’s home.”