In The Palace of Flowers

Victoria Princewill

• Publisher: CASSAVA REPUBLIC
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781911115762
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Letteratura generale

Sex and friendship, ambition and political intrigue, secrets and betrayal will set the fate of the two slaves— Jam?la and Abimelech—in this ground-breaking debut novel.

In the Palace of Flowers recreates the opulent Persian royal court of the Qajars at the end of the nineteenth century. This is a precarious time of growing public dissent, foreign interference from the Russians and British, and the problem of an aging ruler and his unsuitable heir. It tells the story from the unique perspective of two Abyssinian slaves: Jamila, a concubine, and Abimelech, a eunuch.

Torn away from their families, they now serve at the whims of the royal family, only too aware of their own insignificance in the eyes of their masters. Abimelech and Jamila's quest to take control over their lives and find meaning leads to them navigating the dangerous politics of the royal court and to the radicals that lie beyond its walls.

Richly textured and elegantly written, at its heart In The Palace of Flowers is a novel about the fear of being forgotten.

3

1

We shall be forgotten, Jamīla realised, watching the funeral rites with empty eyes.

She usually enjoyed the funerals. The slaves heard the tragedies first; gossip slid through walls and under doors. Distress seeped into antechambers: the news, like the life itself, unspooled quickly. In the first house where she had served, Jamīla would rise early to hear the recitation of the Qur’an from the roof. Back then, the older slaves would turn a blind eye whilst she darted into an empty bedroom to peer through a window, scanning the roofs of the houses nearby to see where the imam was reciting from. He would stand on the roof that housed the deceased, the sound of his announcement a bell to her mind. She had always enjoyed the sobriety. A life had been lost, and that weight meant something. Precisely what, she remained unsure of.

It was January; almost the end of the year. Death seemed fitting, as an end to a cycle. Still, Jamīla did not want to be there but whilst women were forbidden from the service, any Abyssinian slave who had served him had to be present. And so Jamīla stood amongst them, at the back of the mosque. He had been one of the noblemen free to enter the harem, a physician for the Shāh and his wives. Jamīla, recalling his slithery presence, suspected the slaves’ attendance was required to bolster the numbers.

The imam’s monotone never wavered. Jamīla was bored. She stared up at the curved dome of the mosque’s ceiling: thousands of minuscule sapphire tiles adorned it. Mingled with dazzling glass, the tiles dripped from the walls. She sought to count them, but, glancing around, saw hers was the only upturned face. She 4stared at the floor. She traced a silk embroidered shoe over the marble, wishing she could stand on the slivers of exposed stone. She looked up. Every slave in the mosque faced forward; there was nary a shuffle nor a sigh. She lowered her shoulders and lifted her chin, trying to practise solemnity. The faces of the nobles were haggard and drawn. The prince – her prince – her old playmate behind closed doors in the harem quarters, who used to sneak smiles at her through crowds – he too was facing forward, his expression indistinguishable from the rest. For a moment, she wondered how he might behave at her funeral.

But, of course, she would not have one. Not long ago, a slave had died. He was thrown into an unmarked spot in one of the gardens where a glut of bodies lay. Jamīla could not help but see them in her mind, jumbled together: anonymous, rotting, mute. Nobody was notified. Wherever his birth family was, they remained ignorant – filled with faint hope, perhaps or muted despair.

With the ceremony completed, the slaves headed back to Golestan Palace at a brisk pace. The snow had arrived late this year, and it was tentative at first; the falling flakes appeared to falter, so much she barely felt them as they trembled onto her cheek. She brushed her face as she walked, the velvety crunch beneath her floral mules a world away from the soft clouds wrapped snugly around a gable of one of the palace roofs. Jamīla had lived there for only four years, yet without question she felt it was home. The sprawling complex of gorgeous buildings formed a medley of colours as indigo arabesque tiles, stone carvings in flaxen gold and emerald muqarnas, undimmed by winter’s first frost, captured the eye. Returning here would always give her pause, even as men sighed, stooped over, brows studded with sweat, working on the Shāh’s latest renovation. But it was not 5hers, any more than it was theirs, and as she tramped through the geometric gardens, shivering under her thin čhādor in the crisp evening air, she felt a sudden thrill at the realisation. On darker days, she had called herself fortunate. She would linger by the precision-cut flowerbeds. This is your home. She would repeat the words until the pain of her bruises began to fade. This is your home. Now she felt foolish. Was this her home? Did it matter? The earth is the earth is the earth, as her mother liked to say. Jamīla’s lips trembled. She continued walking.

 

Jamīla was the last slave to return to the harem from the mosque, and as she hurried through the passageway to her mistress’s apartment, she began to feel a touch of unease. The harem was large, built to house and entertain over 80 wives and concubines, with communal entertaining spaces, like the royal coffeehouse and the royal theatre. The wives all had private residences, most in adjoining interior courtyards, and one had to cross the length of the harem, past the various pantries, salons, and harem offices to get to them. Jamīla’s mistress, Chehra Khaanoum, like many of the newer poorer and younger wives, had an apartment even further out, far from the communal spaces. As such, Jamīla was always late getting to her, regardless of her intentions or how she tried to be on time. Chehra used to be more forgiving, but in recent months, her patience had worn thin. There was always something that gave Chehra reason to complain. Jamīla would often hear Chehra’s plaintive cries as she snapped at Gul, the most senior slave in her retinue, over the size of her room. When Jamīla first arrived, it was Gul who told her that the wives were housed according to their status. They all lived in grand apartments, plush rooms with high ceilings and gilded furniture, adjacent to the main harem. Chehra’s five rooms, though 6a squeeze for her slaves, were more than sufficient to Jamīla.

As she pushed open the door to the apartment, she bumped into Gul standing on the other side. ‘Jamīla!’ she said, sighing and rolling her eyes.

‘I am here!’ Jamīla was looking past Gul.

‘She is in her room,’ Gul said, a laugh in her voice. A robust slave, whose wrinkled smiles revealed a warmer woman than her frame would assume, she ran Chehra Khaanoum’s household with benign efficiency. She had little patience for Jamīla’s tardiness but thought it more prudent to mask it than openly scold her for it. ‘You should know, Jamīla, she is angry.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘Abimelech requested you.’

‘Abimelech?’ A smile spread across her face.

‘On behalf of the prince,’ Gul said. ‘Prince Nosrat summoned you.’

‘Then I must go!’ Jamīla turned back to the door.

Gul shook her head, grimacing. ‘Chehra Khaanoum insisted you stay. She became…unhappy, shall we say. She asked, “Is Jamila his concubine or my slave?”’

‘Well, if I was the prince’s concubine, perhaps I might have some rooms of my own.’

‘Be serious, Jamīla. She wants you to draft a letter to someone on the Shāh’s council.’

‘Gul, all I do is write correspondence.’

‘This is different. She would have him stop seeing you. She shall take a sudden interest in “finding Nosrat Mirza a wife”.’

 

Chehra’s door was slightly ajar; she was bathed in a chink of light, pacing the room. Jamīla knocked and pushed it open, watching as Chehra glanced at her and continued to pace at a furious, unstable speed. She was soft and plump with a 7heavy brow that was perpetually furrowed. She would insist on having her face painted on with precision every single morning, but, due to her frequent naps during the day, would have a smeared face and stained pillow by midday. Her make-up today was meticulous: cheeks burnished tulip-pink, rosebud lips shone a cherry red and the faint lines of soft hair that trickled from her nose to the top of her lips looked lightly brushed. Jamīla, noting this, with muted surprise, realised with some foreboding that Chehra Khaanoum had not had her daily rest.

‘Shahzadeh Khaanoum,’ Jamīla addressed her formally and dipped into a deep bow.

‘Are you ready to work?’ Chehra demanded in a high-pitched tone.

‘Yes, Shahzadeh Khaanoum,’ Jamīla answered, and placed herself attentively beside the desk, wondering whether Chehra might stop walking long enough to offer instructions.

‘How was the service?’ Chehra asked. Without waiting for a response, she burst out, ‘We have work here, Jamīla. You have to be here to serve me, not everybody else.’

‘Yes, Shahzadeh Khaanoum. What should—’

‘I have been invited to a dinner this evening!’

‘Shall I—’

‘I was certain that they loathed me; they strive to make me uncomfortable. They smile, but they do not speak, their politeness merely a mask…Could I have been mistaken? It was Raem, Raem Khaanoum, who invited me. Are you aware of Raem Khaanoum? She lost her son in childbirth last year, but prior to that she was the Shāh’s beloved. They say he does not call on her now. You are to assist me here and when I return. Select my attire; I still have to find…’

Jamīla watched Chehra Khaanoum with interest; even her 8burbling seemed frenetic. She had taken to drinking during the day, but she was too alert to be drunk already. Usually when Chehra overindulged, she became sloppy and maudlin. Jamīla thought perhaps she should get Gul, but before she could suggest it, Gul appeared at the door.

‘Nothing to alarm you, Shahzadeh Khaanoum,’ she said, but her face was fraught. ‘The chief eunuch is outside. Nosrat Mirza, it appears, is rather insistent. He has requested the company of Jamīla this evening. It transpires that he is…ah…unhappy with the delay…’

Jamīla stared from Chehra to Gul and back again. Her eyes widened. Chehra marched past her and out to the front door, Gul and Jamīla hurrying behind. Chehra stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. Jamīla winced as Chehra began to shout and looked to Gul. The chief eunuch sounded obsequious, his words filled with platitudes and promises. When the front door was flung open, Chehra marched past again and slammed her room door shut. The chief eunuch looked at Jamīla, trying for a smile. His lips withdrew as he spoke, baring two sets of teeth. ‘The Shāhzadeh has summoned you to his quarters in the ḵalwat. Proceed with haste.’

9

2

The first time Jamīla was sent to Prince Nosrat’s quarters, she had felt like she was meeting a stranger. Handsome as always, he looked less comfortable than usual. His large hazelnut eyes searched hers as he stood before her and whilst his gentle rounded face held glimmers of his goofy smiles of old, he was fundamentally changed. He towered over her, far taller than she remembered. His neck was thick, his shoulders broad. He looked like a man, not the boy she knew, struggling to fit in his skin. His old awkwardness pushed through, however. The air was strained and he tried to mask it with a new habit of thrusting his chest out forward whenever he was lost for words. Over the course of that evening, it happened with increasing frequency. She tried at points to play with him as they used to, but when she threw a cushion at him, he snatched it from the air, tossing it to one side, and grasped her firmly by the hand.

‘I was told they would explain.’

She stuttered and nodded.

His hand was awkward as it fluttered against her throat. ‘May I…?’

She did not know what to say. He stood over her, thrusting his chest forward again. ‘Must we?’

‘You would refuse?’ He looked embarrassed.

‘Not at all, Shaazdeh,’ she said, wondering if she could still use this familiar title. She paused, then asked, ‘Might we be friends as well?’

He sighed. ‘They did not explain.’

‘I am not sure I…understood.’

He swallowed hard. ‘It shan’t be entirely unpleasant, although, 10perhaps at first. You shall come to enjoy it, they said.’

‘Who said?’ she asked, but he did not reply.

She watched him now, turned away from her, as he struggled to undress himself. She thought about how little he had changed. She felt a swell of pity as she watched him; his movements laced with that old blend of anxiety and defiance.

It was an oppressive room, heavy with dark colours and filled with ornate furnishings. The chandelier that hung in the centre, a solid structure overlaid with gilt and crystals, was in perpetual motion. The crystals would clink at every sound: footsteps across the Mashad rug, the aggravated thrusting of Nosrat as he penetrated her in bed. Jamīla would stare at the chandelier, convinced of its impending descent. She would close her eyes and grit her teeth, the image of the chandelier plummeting to the ground, incinerating them both, a welcome distraction.

He flung the offending robe to the floor with a sigh. ‘I thought you might be tired at the service. I do not wish for you to be at odds with your mistress – I merely wanted some time…undisturbed.’ Jamīla could tell Nosrat was trying not to sound petulant. She kept her back to him as he spoke.

‘Indeed. I am grateful, Shaazdeh,’ she said, turning around. The words hung in the air.

He coughed. ‘You-you must feel free, Jamīla. I wish for you to do as you please.’

Jamīla paused and then said, in something of a rush, ‘Might Abimelech join us?’

‘Abimelech? Whatever for?’

‘Well…’ Jamīla could not think of an adequate reason. I prefer his company didn’t seem ideal. ‘He is your favourite, after all. I assumed you would not mind.’ 11

Nosrat shrugged. ‘He is three doors down.’

Jamīla paused. ‘He sleeps in your quarters, in the ḵalwat?’

‘You expect me to live there with only my father and his men, all alone?’ He paused, adding ruefully, ‘The ḵalwat is a disagreeable place. And Abimelech is my favourite. But for him, I would not return here. I miss staying with my mother, and all the women, in the harem.’ His mouth twitched as ...