I am indebted to John Rechy, brilliant author, mentor, teacher, and friend, whose invaluable insight and guidance were indispensable to Harem.

Alev Lytle Croutier’s beautiful book, Harem: The World Behind the Veil, supplied important historical facts that stirred me to write about the fascinating world of harems.

I owe much more than thanks to my writer angels, Paula Schtrum, Joan Goldsmith, Alex Kivowitz, and Maureen Connel, whose comments while reading and rereading Harem were critical, and Ann Rowe Seaman, whose perceptive observations and belief in Rebekah and the rest of the cast kept my spirits and my pen flying.

My gratitude to Dr. James Ragan, head of the Master of Professional Writing Program at the University of Southern California, for his endless encouragement and wise guidance.

A million thanks to Mark Gompertz, Trish Todd, Chris Lloreda, and Marcia Burch, for their enthusiastic support and outstanding expertise. I am infinitely grateful to my remarkable publishing team: Debbie Model, Laurie Cotuamaccio, Brad Foltz, Francine Kass, Kim Palladino, and Erin Saunders for their invaluable contributions.

I am grateful to my parents, Sion and Parvin Levy, and to my sisters and brothers, who were always there even when I could not be.

Leila Michaela—my blessing—arrived when I needed her most. Thank you.

I have been inspired by the protective spirits of my grandparents, Doctor Habib Levy, who left me with a wealth of stories and wrote many more of his own, Zoleika Levy, who provided voice to my most beloved characters, and by Heshmat and Abraham Shenassa’s benevolent shadows.

Words cannot describe my gratitude for the unconditional support and encouragement of my husband and daughters. Thank you, Nader, Carolyn, and Negin.

I owe special appreciation to my agent, Loretta Barrett, and to my editor extraordinaire, Marcela Landres, whose courage, enthusiastic guidance, and astute remarks were essential.

Harem

1

Rebekah of the violet eyes heard a voice that would haunt her the rest of her life.

“I know she’s only ten. I’ll be patient.”

She hugged her doll and tossed on her pallet. The heat, the flies, and the soothing words of the strange man in the next room interrupted her sleep. Visitors were rare in her home. Her widowed mother left at dawn to wash other people’s laundry. In the evenings, Rebekah learned from her mother to bake pistachio cookies and crispy rice, to differentiate between aromatic herbs, and to flatter the man who would one day take care of her.

Rebekah pressed her ear to the makeshift wall.

Her mother’s cough shattered the silence.

As if the cough had originated from her own lungs, Rebekah clutched her chest.

“She’s the prettiest girl in Persia. I’m saving her for a rich husband.”

Suspended between wakefulness and sleep, Rebekah heard the man’s melodious persistence, promises of china dolls and lace skirts, chickpea candies and saffron halva, fantasies peculiar to her dreams.