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falcon's beak, and a large gray beard. He greeted us kindly and welcomed us to Isfahan. Beaming at me, he grabbed my two hands between his. "Well, then!" he exclaimed. "So you're Isma'il's child. You've got his walnut color and his straight black hair, and I would know those tiny, perfect hands anywhere!"
    He made a show of examining my hands, which made me laugh, and compared them with his own. They were very small for a man and, like mine, narrow with long fingers.
    "The family resemblance is obvious," he said. "Do you make rugs?"
    "Of course," said my mother. "She's the best knotter in our village." And she told him the story of how we had sold my turquoise rug while it was still on my loom.
    "May the hand of Ali always be with you!" said Gostaham, looking impressed.
    He asked my mother for news of home. As we followed him out of the square, she began telling him about my father. The words poured out of her as if they had been bottled up for too long, and she told the story of his death with so much feeling, it brought tears to his eyes.
    We left the Image of the World through a narrow gateway and walked for a few minutes through a district called Four Gardens to get to Gostaham's home. The district was divided into pleasure parks, which were barren now that it was winter. A cedar tree marked the beginning of Gostaham's street. From the outside, all the houses looked like fortresses. They were situated behind tall, thick walls that protected the inhabitants from prying eyes.
    Gostaham led us through thick wooden gates, and we stood for a moment looking at the outside of his home. It was so large we didn't know where to go at first. Gostaham entered a narrow corridor, walked up a few steps, and led us into the birooni, or outside rooms, where he entertained male guests. His Great Room had long glass windows depicting two green swans drinking blue water from either side of a fountain. Carved white plaster flowers and vines adorned the ceiling and the walls. Ruby-colored carpets, made with the tightest knots I had ever seen, supported thick cushions in warm crimson tones. Even on this cold winter day, the room seemed to radiate warmth.
    Gostaham lifted the windows, which opened all the way to the ground, and we stepped out into the large courtyard. It had a pool of water shaded by two poplars. I thought of the single tree in my village, a large cypress. For one family to have its own shade and greenery seemed to me the greatest of luxuries.
    We met Gordiyeh, Gostaham's wife, in the courtyard. She was an ample woman, with large round hips and heavy breasts, who advanced slowly to kiss us on both cheeks. One of her servants had just boiled water, and I watched him make tea out of previously used leaves. It was strange that a household this grand would use its leaves twice. The tea was as tasteless as water, but we thanked Gordiyeh and said, "May your hands never ache."
    "How old are you?" she asked me.
    "Fifteen."
    "Ah! Then you'll have to meet Naheed. She's fifteen, too, and is the daughter of a woman who lives nearby."
    She turned to my mother. "Naheed comes from a very good family. I have always hoped that they might commission a carpet from us, but they haven't yet."
    I wondered why she hoped to sell more carpets, since to my eyes she already had everything a family could want. But before I could ask any questions, Gordiyeh suggested that we must be tired, and led us through the courtyard to a tiny room squeezed between the kitchen storerooms and the latrine. There was nothing in it but two bedrolls, blankets, and cushions.
    "My apologies that the room is so unworthy of your presence," Gordiyeh said, "but all the others are occupied."
    My mother struggled to keep the dismay from her face. The walls were dingy, and the floor was streaked with dust. Gostaham's house was a palace compared to our little village home, but the tiny room we were to share was more humble.
    "Not at all," replied my mother politely, "your generosity