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Desert Rose
KONYA, DECEMBER 1247
Bursting into tears, she kept begging me to help, her face swollen, her chest heaving harder and
faster, until I finally told her I would lend a hand. Even as I comforted her, deep inside I knew it
was hopeless, I knew I should never have yielded to her demands. Still, I wonder how could I not
have seen this tragedy coming? Torn with guilt, I keep asking myself again and again, how could
I have been so naïve and not seen that things would take such a terrible turn?
But the day she came to me crying for help, there was no way I could turn her down.
“Teach me, please,” she begged me, her hands demurely folded in her lap, like the good girl she
was raised to be. Hers was a voice that no longer had a reason to hope yet was hopeful all the
same.
What harm could there be in this? I thought as my heart lurched in compassion. It was her
husband she wanted to seduce, for God’s sake. Not a stranger! She had only one motive: love.
How could this lead to anything incorrect? Her passion might be too strong, but it was halal,
wasn’t it? A halal passion!
Something inside me sensed a trap, but since it was God who set it, I saw no harm in walking
right in. This is how I decided to help Kimya, this village girl whose only notion of beauty was
applying henna to her hands.
I taught her how to make herself more attractive and good-looking. She was an avid student,
eager to learn. I showed her how to take long perfumed baths, soften her skin with scented oils
and ointments, and apply masks of milk and honey. I gave her amber beads to braid in her hair so
that her head would have a sweet, lasting smell. Lavender, chamomile, rosemary, thyme, lily,
marjoram, and olive oil—I told her how to apply each and which incenses to burn at night. Then
I showed her how to whiten her teeth, paint her nails and toes with henna, apply kohl on her eyes
and eyebrows, redden her lips and cheeks, how to make her hair look lush and silky and her
breasts bigger and rounder. Together we went to a store in the bazaar I knew too well from the
past. There we bought her silk robes and silk undergarments, the likes of which she had never
seen or touched before.
Then I taught her how to dance in front of a man, how to use this body God had given her. After
two weeks of preparation, she was ready.
That afternoon I prepared Kimya for Shams of Tabriz, the way a shepherd prepares a sacrificial
lamb. First she took a warm bath, scrubbing her skin with soapy cloths and anointing her hair
with oils. Then I helped her to get dressed in clothes that a woman could wear only for her
husband, and even for him only once or twice in a lifetime. I had chosen a cherry-colored sheath
and a pink robe gilded with hyacinths, of the sort that would reveal the shape of her breasts.
Lastly we applied lots and lots of paint on her face. With a string of pearls across her forehead
added as a final touch, she looked so pretty that I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
When we were done, Kimya didn’t look like an inexperienced, timid girl anymore, but a woman
burning with love and passion. A woman ready to make a bold move for the man she loved and,
if necessary, to pay a price. As I stood inspecting her, I remembered the verse of Joseph and
Zuleikha in the Holy Qur’an.
Just like Kimya, Zuleikha, too, had been consumed by a desire for a man who did not respond to
her overtures. When the ladies in the city had maliciously gossiped about her, Zuleikha had
invited them all to a banquet. She gave each of them a knife: and she said (to Joseph), “Come out
before them.” When they saw him, they did extol him, and (in their amazement) cut their hands:
they said, “God preserve us! No mortal is this! This is none other than a noble angel.”
Who could blame Zuleikha for desiring Joseph so much?
“How do I look?” Kimya asked anxiously before she put on her veil, ready to step out the door
and onto the street.
“You look exquisite,” I said. “Your husband will not only make love to you tonight, he’ll come
back tomorrow asking for more.”
Kimya blushed so hard her cheeks turned rosy red. I laughed, and after a brief pause she joined
me, her laughter warming me like sunshine.
I meant what I’d said, as I felt confident that she would be able to attract Shams, the way a
flower rich with nectar attracts a bee. And yet when our eyes met just before she opened the
door, I saw that a trace of doubt had crept into her gaze. Suddenly I had a bad feeling in the pit of
my stomach, almost a premonition that something terrible was going to happen.
But I didn’t stop her. I should have known better. I should have seen it coming. For as long as I
live, I will never forgive myself.
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