Rebekah accepted the arm presented to her as he led her through the corridor, now as dark as her heart. Years ago, her mother had chosen the Devil over Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God. Today, for her daughter’s sake, she had aspired to select Ebrahim over devils that populated the world. They had both lost.

At the door, she thrust the pouch at the merchant. “Thank you, sweetlove, I don’t accept charity.”

7

When Heshmat the Matchmaker sent word to Rebekah that she had received her message and that she had an appropriate suitor for Gold Dust, Rebekah removed the sprig of mint from behind her ear and sniffed. Once again, she felt a pang of guilt for her profession, which would always scare young men like Ebrahim away from her daughter. Nevertheless, word from Heshmat was welcome. She dealt with affluent and respected members of the Jewish Quarter. For the last few years, on every occasion, Rebekah had gifted Heshmat a stretch of silk, muslin, or lace, hoping to secure a grand match for her daughter.

Rebekah aired the mattresses and cushions, unplugged the hole at the bottom of the small estakhr in her backyard, scrubbed out the slosh, and filled the pool with fresh water. She searched her bundle and chose colorful fabrics to decorate the corners of the cushions that leaned against the walls. The matchmaker would want to see if Gold Dust was versed in domestic chores, among the most important the trimming of herbs, radishes, and spring onions. Rebekah taught Gold Dust to identify and wash cilantro, coriander, and mint. Rebekah poured tea in narrow-waisted glasses and set them on a tray for Gold Dust to practice carrying back and forth without spilling a drop.

Gold Dust watched her mother’s swinging walk, improved her own by flipping her hair back seductively, then announced, “I don’t need a matchmaker. I’ll marry Soleiman!”

Rebekah snatched the tray from her. “What in the Devil’s name are you babbling? Did you leave home without my permission? Soleiman is an illiterate acrobat with no future but skipping around like a clown and begging for pennies.”

“He’s better than the men who visit you,” Gold Dust replied, stroking her breasts like Rebekah, and wondering why her mother had started slapping the cushions.

“Take your hands off yourself,” Rebekah ordered, “and forget the dark creatures who come to me. These brutes lack insight into their feelings. They pay for love, hoping to purge their infirmities with sex.” Her cheeks flaming, she spat at the door from where her clients came and went, the same men from whom she learned to fight, surrender, and survive. She was becoming a warrior of life.

Melancholy notes rose from Gold Dust’s bones.