We enter a large room that absorbs our voices pleasantly and is filled with only dim daylight. On the wall there are carpets with pictures, and there is a stack of beautiful pieces on the floor. The dealer must be very wealthy, but his age brings his dignity and calm to the fore. Not a hint of the arrogance can be felt that I've encountered with young, wealthy Esfahanis. I become conscious of my complete ignorance in the area of carpets, and I regret it deeply. This seems to be the Garden of Eden of carpets, and this worthy man the gardener, himself.
"What kind of carpets do you like?" he asks me, lighting up the room with perfectly adjusted lamps. What can I say? How can I find the right words?
"More calm with fewer patterns or with abstract motifs. Flowers and vines seem old-fashioned to me," I answer and at the same moment feel extremely stupid."Look here, madam. This is a Bakhtiari carpet that may seem incoherent, but a closer look will show that the choice of pattern and the order of colors and forms says a great deal."
He points to a Bakhtiari garden carpet from Chahar-Mahal, but I cannot grasp the reasoning behind the severe square fields.
"We Iranians love gardens above all things. Our land is very dry, as you have seen, and irrigation is complicated and elaborate. So the pride of every homeowner is the garden and its fertility. The Bakhtiari are nomads without permanent homes or gardens. With these carpets they express their wishes. The border represent

wishes. The border represent the walls around a Persian garden. Look at the blue edges of the fields. Those are the irrigation canals. In the fields are weeping willows, cypresses, pomegranate trees and roses. Up here you see various animals, sometimes even fishes and perhaps even a house. Do you understand now?"
Before my eyes, the bountiful abundance of a fertile garden unfolded.
"Yes, I think so. It has something to do with deep desire, right?"
Almost tenderly, he strokes the blue, grid-like canals that create the main field in the carpet. I think of the Bakhtiari and their endlessly long march in spring and autumn and of the weaving looms, taken apart and packed on donkeys, of the women who sometimes give birth along the way. The huge trek with thousands of sheep cannot wait for them, so they have to hurry their births and follow the others later.
"I got this garden carpet from a tribe that had lost three donkeys in a terrible storm and desperately needed money. Normally they would not have given up this exceptionally fine piece of art. I will never resell it. I promised the women to treat it well."
"And what about this hanging carpet?"
"This is one of my favorites. It is a priceless piece of art and craftsmanship."
The carpet is covered with flowers and birds, seeming at times to be sitting in the branches of a rose bush and at others to be flying as they drink out of blossoms