"That is a palm frond, and next to it is a bent palm frond. Legend says that the prophet Mohammed once had to walk across a place without shade in searing heat and sat down exhausted under a palm tree. It recognized him and bowed down in respect."
"Nice story. But what does the little palm frond in the big one mean?"
"This motif we call Madar-e Bache, Mother of the Child. It is supposed to show a pregnant woman with her child."
"I've never heard that before," said Kurosh.
"You never asked. Each motif has a meaning. Some are so old, though, that no one can remember what they used to mean any more. I have some wooden stamps that are over one hundred and fifty years old, and they still work very well."

It is a sunny morning, and we are to meet at ten o'clock at the main gate of the bazaar. How familiar these meetings now feel to me. Kurosh always seems to have time for me, and I do not spend very many hours without him either. Alone, the nights are filled with his absence. I can already see him far off gesticulating as he talks to the toy salesman who has set up his roving stand here with its plastic flutes, balloons and sweets.
"Good morning. How are you two?" I greet the young men.
"Good morning. How are you?" answers Kurosh and adds, whispering, "I dreamed of you last night."

"Where shall we go? What do you want to show me?"
"It's a surprise, Azizam, dear friend."
Kurosh leads me through the confusing aisles of the carpet bazaar. Finally we go up a flight of stairs, and before us are galleries with more carpet stores, workshops and merchants' offices. We have a view, as from a balcony, of a gigantic room filled with thousands of carpets. A sea of blossoming vines, medallions, decorative borders and complex structures in glowing or staid colors unfurls before our eyes. How many hands have staked the millions of knots to create this sight? How many weary backs have bent over the dazzling patterns? A narrow passage leads to the tiny rooms of the carpet menders. With their handwork and skill damaged pieces are perfectly restored. A young man greets Kurosh and waves us in. He is sitting on the floor, and in his lap is a large carpet with burn marks.
"It is here that I learned to restore carpets," says Kurosh, and I am impressed by this great art. We go through another room into a small office. Men are sitting there drinking tea. I can hardly believe my eyes when I see a map of the Hamburg subway system on the wall.
"My family has had a carpet warehouse in the Hamburg warehouse district for decades," an older fellow explains then greets me in German. He appears elegant and refined and asks me to follow him.
"He is one of the most well-versed carpet experts and a collector of especially valuable pieces," Kurosh whispers.