others to be flying as they drink out of blossoms.
"This is a gol-bolboul, a flower-nightingale pattern. It is signed. Can you read our letters? It comes from the workshop of the famous Esfahani family Sirafian."
"How old is the carpet?"
"No more than fifty years and an excellent example of the huge advance of Esfahani craftsmen during the Pahlevi Era. In the past few centuries only a few master weavers have signed their work. So no one could step on their names. Besides, they thought their works were unique and could be recognized without signatures." "May I touch the carpet?"
"Yes, of course, madam." It is so unbelievably finely woven and with such perfection that it seems more like a divine gift than a man-made product. In the face of this art, a sense of embarrassment grows in me. I cannot take my hands off the material, but I have to close my eyes so that I am not overwhelmed. The expert names more names of great master weavers and shows me their fantastic work. Mansouri and Mohtasham I can remember, and I find out that some masters add flaws on purpose: "Some pious weavers observed the Islamic teaching that only God is perfect. In each of their carpets they added small imperfections like an off-colored petal to show their respect for Islam. But such flaws are very hard to find."
I am fascinated and thankful for this introduction into a world foreign to me before. After tea together we say good-bye and agree to meet again in Hamburg. As we walk out the door, Kurosh looks at me expectantly.

Kurosh looks at me expectantly.
"Thank you, my friend, may your hands never ache and weave many carpets." He tries not to burst out laughing and pinches me discreetly in the side.
"No, really, I mean it. Thank you very much for bringing me here. I will never forget it."
We look each other so deeply in the eyes that we almost bump into a woman. She is holding up a small silk carpet and offering it for sale. Kurosh collects himself quickly, leaving only a happy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he explains, "She is a village woman trying to get some business going."
She is holding her chador in her teeth so that her hands are free for the carpet. The image on her little rug comes from the old Persian ballads of Hafez or Khayyam. It shows an unveiled woman with long, black hair falling abundantly over her naked shoulders. The red mouth and the big eyes are full of passion. She is only missing a glass of wine in her hand to make the sin perfect. I would just love to take a picture of the weaver and her work, but again the thought constrains me that I would trespass on her personal sphere.
Kurosh practically pushes me, "Later you'll regret it. Look at her. Totally veiled with this half-naked woman in front of her. She won't mind."
I talk to her about her village, the long bus trip into town and the carpet's material and motif. Unfortunately it is not my taste, but it seems to be very much in fashion right now, for un-Islamic is in.