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ordinary laws of possibility.
    "Khanoom, please move forward," cried a man behind us, using the respectful term for a married woman. We apologized and stepped away from the entrance. Looking back as he passed, he added with a smile, "First time? I still enjoy seeing the wonder on visitors' faces."
    Wonder was right. On the shorter sides of the square, Shah Abbas's blue-and-gold palace faced his private yellow-domed mosque, which glowed like a tiny sun. On the longer sides, the gateway to the Great Bazaar faced the entrance to the vast Friday mosque--a reminder to God-fearing merchants to be honest.
    "Power, money, and God, all in one place," remarked my mother, looking at the buildings around us.
    "And chogan," I replied, noticing the goalposts for polo at the far ends of the square, which was long enough to host a competition.
    From the top of one of the Friday mosque's minarets, the muezzin began the call to prayer, piercing the air with his sweet nasal voice. "Allah-hu-Akbar--God is great!" he cried, his voice drifting above us.
    As we walked into the square, I noticed that most of the buildings were tiled in the purest colors of sun and sky. The dome of the Friday mosque looked all turquoise from afar, but up closer I could see it was enlivened with swirling vines in yellow and white. Garlands of white and turquoise blossomed on the dome of the Shah's lemon-colored mosque. The arched gateways to the mosques sprouted a profusion of tiled white flowers that looked like stars sparkling in the blue of twilight. Every surface of every building glittered with ornament. It was as if a master goldsmith had selected the most flawless turquoise, the rarest of blue sapphires, the brightest yellow topaz, and the purest of diamonds, and arranged them into an infinity of shimmering patterns that radiated color and light.
    "I have never seen anything so wonderful," I said to my mother, forgetting for a moment the sadness that had brought us here.
    My mother hadn't forgotten. "It's all too big," she replied, gesturing at the wide square, and I understood that she missed our tiny village, where she knew everyone she saw.
    The square was full of people. Young boys zoomed around us, balancing cups of hot, dark liquid, yelling, "Coffee!" "Coffee!" which I had never tasted but which smelled as rich as a meal. Two jugglers performed a swift exchange of balls, begging the audience to be generous with their coins. Hawkers stopped us a dozen times, asking us to examine cloth, kohl, and even the tusk of an elephant, an enormous animal from India with legendary powers of memory.
    After a few minutes of walking, we reached the Shah's palace. Compared with the Friday mosque, it seemed modest. It was only a few stories high, and it was protected by a pair of thick, carved wooden doors, eight brass cannon, and a row of guards armed with swords. My mother approached one of the guards and asked how we could find Gostaham the carpet maker.
    "What is your business with him?" asked the guard with a frown.
    "He told us to seek him out," said my mother. The guard smiled scornfully at the sound of her long village vowels.
    "He invited you?"
    "He is part of my husband's family."
    The guard looked as if he doubted her word. "Gostaham is a master in the Shah's carpet-making workshop, which is behind the palace," he said. "I will tell him you are here."
    "We are the dust beneath your feet," said my mother, and we went back into the square to wait. Nearby, there was a bazaar of metal beaters, and we watched the smiths pound the shapes of birds and animals into teapots, cups, and spoons.
    Before long, the guard found us and led us to meet Gostaham, who was waiting near the palace door. I was surprised by how little he and my father resembled each other. It was true that they were only half brothers, but while my father had been tall with features cut as cleanly as if with a knife, Gostaham was short and as round as a potato, with drooping eyes, a nose curved like a