Old Hands, part 16

I was not any kind of a shopper—that was one of the real bonds between me and Amy Levine. She had met many American women during her early weeks in Spain, but all of them seemed to be on a mission to shop for and acquire as much Spanish merchandise as they could. Amy and I preferred to spend our time at museums or walking in the city.

But Mike was on a mission to buy Oriental rugs. I had mentioned years before that sometime in the future I’d like to replace our dhurrie rugs (which seemed like the kind of thing young people had) with Oriental rugs (which seemed like the kind of thing grownups had). Mike had heard that you could get a good deal on Oriental rugs in Spain, so he started shopping—something he loved to do.

At first he tried to get me to go along with him, but taking me shopping was like dragging around a whiny four-year-old. It was hot, I was bored, I didn’t want to be there. There weren’t many rugs that were big enough for us, because Spanish room sizes were smaller than the rooms in our house in Connecticut. And the majority of rugs had a bright red background, which I hated. “Look, why don’t you go around and find what you like, narrow it down, and I’ll come and look at your choices,” I said. He was happy with that idea.

After a few weeks he gave me a list of stores to visit and items to view. On the list was a large, fancy shop on Serrano, near my art history class, so I walked over after class one day. Though I wasn’t crazy about any of his selections, I did see a rug hanging on the wall that I thought was beautiful, so we agreed to go back to the store together.

An elegant Frenchwoman waited on us when we returned. “You like the rug on the wall?” she said. “You really must see it on the floor. Let me take it down for you.”

“No, no,” I said nervously, not wanting to be pushed into buying. “That’s okay. We can see it from here.”

“Oh, but to have the real experience of the rug, you must see it on the floor.”

“No, that’s all right,” Mike said.

“Please, let me take it down for you,” she persisted.

“No, thanks,” I started, but before I could finish I heard the ripping sound of Velcro and then the loud thump of the rug hitting the floor. It was done.

We looked closely at the rug, with its beautiful wine-colored background, its fine weave, the many colors of its design, and the unusual shine of white silk mixed in with the wool. “The very finest work from Iran,” the saleslady said proudly.

“Iran?” Mike said. “We’re American. We can’t take home a rug from Iran. There’s an embargo against importing Iranian goods.”

“Did I say Iran?” the lady countered smoothly. “I meant India. It’s from India.” Quickly we began to understand that it was from wherever we wanted it to be from, and besides that, she would make up a bill of sale that had any price we wanted on it, in case we wished to minimize the duty we’d have to pay. She wanted to make the sale.

“Let us think about it,” Mike said, remembering our miserable rug purchase in Marrakesh. With great intestinal fortitude we got ourselves out of the shop, but we kept thinking about the rug.

It was actually a month later that I saw the rug again. Mike had bought it and hidden it in the basement shower until my birthday. He and the kids took me downstairs to surprise me. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you bought it!” I screamed, knowing the price as I did.

“I knew you loved it, and I love it, too,” Mike said. I still love that rug every time I look at it.