“Can’t you see these men’s dark skins?” her mother cried out. “Their hair is tar-black. Their eyes opaque. The evil in their heart taints their whole being. Keep away from them. I accept their money to save you from a life like mine. Now dress up and don’t enter the room unless I call you to serve tea. The matchmaker will be here soon.” Rebekah felt helpless in the face of her own child. Helpless in her endless effort to house prostitution and integrity under one roof. Helpless against the discrepancy of her own beliefs. She did not have faith in marriage, yet struggled to marry her daughter off. Was a barren spinster’s life preferable to a wife’s?

Gold Dust’s bones lost their harmony. Confusion replaced sadness. Why was her mother angry when all she, Gold Dust, desired was Soleiman, who was different from the men her mother despised? In the only other room that was not locked in the house, Gold Dust lifted a piece of shabby cloth nailed from the ceiling to divide the place. Although her mother forbade her to enter this area, too, she often sneaked in because she was fascinated by her mother’s pallet. An incense burner on a stool smoked idly. Colorful jars and vials caught moth-filled rays that, through a hole in the ceiling, poured in sunlight, flies, mosquitoes, and rain. She inhaled the oil scents of almond, coconut, and sesame—perfumes of rosewater, attar of jasmine, and essence of ice flowers. Ice flowers with golden, waxy petals that clung to sturdy leafless stems. Memories surfaced. Her insides surged.

Mysterious shadows wrestled and grappled, became one, then tore apart when she peered from behind the partitions into this dim cubicle. Awake a good part of the night, she tried to block her ears against the sad moans, groans, angry cries, screeching snores. And, at times, her mother’s curses. Did they hurt her? Alarmed, she had once lifted the divider. Red as a pomegranate, her mother had sprung up, her hair flying, a specter cowering behind her. She had slapped Gold Dust in the face.

The rest of the night, Gold Dust grappled with her bones, struggling to suffocate her music, to plug the sad notes by shutting her eyes and imagining cotton replacing her marrow, the echo audible only to her. She would lie awake, images populating the screen of her mind. Her mother would come to her once the last man left. She would cuddle her in her secure warmth and render life to stories with extravagant gestures. She would recount the attributes of warriors who triumphed in wars because they had gained knowledge of the mysteries of life. She had favorites, such as David, a poor shepherd who hurled stones from a sling with such force and accuracy that he felled the giant Goliath and himself became king. Gold Dust thought that one day Soleiman would become king, too.