The Persian Carpet | السجادة الفارسية
"A dealer comes to buy an heirloom carpet from a Tehran widow. The negotiations last longer than either expected—and cover more than price."
The Persian Carpet
السجادة الفارسية
The carpet is two hundred years old.
Tabriz silk, vegetable dyes, patterns that tell stories I barely understand. It's been in my family for generations.
Now I have to sell it.
I'm Maryam.
Fifty-one, widow, living in Tehran on a pension that shrinks every month. My husband left debts I didn't know about.
The carpet is all I have left.
The dealer arrives at noon.
His name is Dariush. Fifty-five, well-dressed, the kind of man who negotiates for a living.
"It's magnificent," he says, examining the carpet.
"I know its worth."
"Do you? Because I suspect you're underestimating."
"What do you mean?"
"This isn't just Tabriz work. It's court Tabriz. Made for a prince, probably. The dyes, the knot density..." He looks up. "I'll give you triple what you asked."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I'm honest. And because you deserve better than being cheated."
I don't know how to respond.
My experience with men has taught me to expect tricks, not generosity.
"Tea?" I offer. "To celebrate the negotiation."
"Tea would be perfect."
We drink tea.
Then more tea. Then lunch, which I somehow cook while he tells me about his life—divorced, two children grown, a business that keeps him traveling.
"You must be lonely," I say.
"I was. Until about three hours ago."
"Dariush—"
"I know. It's forward. But I haven't talked to anyone like this in years. Usually it's all business—numbers, negotiations, transactions. This is..." He pauses. "This is different."
"I'm just a widow selling her furniture."
"You're a woman who loves beauty enough to keep a court carpet in a time when you needed money. That tells me everything."
He comes back the next day.
Ostensibly to finalize paperwork. Actually to bring me pastries and more conversation.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He sets down the box. "Is this inappropriate?"
"Probably."
"Should I stop?"
"Probably."
"Are you going to ask me to?"
"...Probably not."
A week passes.
He visits every day. We talk about carpets, about Tehran, about our failed marriages and lonely nights.
"I should buy the carpet and leave," he says.
"Yes."
"I'm not going to."
"No."
"Maryam—"
"Kiss me."
He kisses me.
In my sitting room, with the priceless carpet beneath our feet. He tastes like cardamom and certainty.
"We're too old for this," I laugh.
"We're exactly the right age for this."
We end up on the carpet.
The two-hundred-year-old, court Tabriz, worth-a-fortune carpet. Silk threads beneath my back as he undresses me.
"We'll ruin it—"
"I'll pay for damage." He kisses my neck. "I'll pay for anything."
He takes his time.
Touching every part of me—the parts I've hidden, the parts I've hated, the parts that haven't been touched in years.
"Beautiful."
"I'm old—"
"You're ripe." He moves lower. "And I've always appreciated ripe things."
His mouth finds me.
I come on a Persian carpet that's older than my grandmother. Then he enters me, and I forget about age entirely.
"Ya Khoda—Dariush—"
"I know. Me too."
After, we lie tangled together.
The carpet soft beneath us, both of us breathing hard.
"I'm not buying the carpet," he says.
"What?"
"I'm not buying it. Because I'm not leaving."
"You can't just—"
"I can. I'm semi-retired. I can run my business from anywhere." He props himself up. "Maryam, I've been looking for something my whole life. I found it on your floor."
"The carpet?"
"You. The carpet is just where I found you."
He moves in.
Into my small apartment with the peeling paint and the priceless carpet. His money fixes the paint. His presence fixes the loneliness.
"People will talk," I warn him.
"Let them. I've spent my whole life caring about reputation. I'm tired."
Two years later
We're married now.
Small ceremony, just family. He gave me the carpet as a wedding gift—bought it from myself, technically.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than I've ever been."
"Even though you're lying on a museum piece?"
"Especially because I'm lying on a museum piece."
He makes love to me on the carpet regularly.
We joke that we're adding to its history. A dealer. A widow. A love story woven into the silk.
"Worth every rial," he murmurs.
"The carpet?"
"Everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For carpets that bring buyers.
For buyers who stay.
For negotiations that never end.
The End.