I come from a long line of crafty Armenian rug traders. Once in a while the ancestors beckon, and nothing appeases them except a few hours prowling around in places that sell orientals.
In a nearby tony suburb, there's a stretch along the main drag where half a dozen or so Iranian and Armenian rug merchants hawk their wares. The husband and I call it Rug Row.
My favorite, where all the rugs are prized Persians, has an inventory that must be worth a zillion bucks. You don't just wander into this store. You ring a bell and one of the swarthy, studly fellows who run the place comes to the door, gives you the cautious eye, and if you look all right, he lets you in.
This time the guy opens the door just a crack and I say, smiling, "Okay if we soak up a little beauty?"
And what beauty! What rugs! Stacks and stacks of small ones, big ones, and in-between-size ones. Runners on the floors between the stacks, rugs covering the walls. Large carpets made in the towns -- Tabriz, Isfahan, Nain -- covered in intricate swirls of vines and flowers. Smaller carpets made by villagers and nomads: geometric patterns, often whimsical in design and color. No two alike, all handwoven, all beautiful, all bespeaking the mystery of the Orient.
And not cheap. We ain't talking $29.99 a yard wall-to-wall junk here, but thousands of clams -- sometimes five, six, seven thousand for a finely woven four by six work of art.
| Decisions not easily made |
The place is not exactly teeming with people. No common trade traipsing through. No grouchy couples dragging along passles of whining kids. In fact, at first it seems we are all alone, drifting from room to room the way you do in museums, admiring the masterpieces. But as it turns out, there are two other couples here. The older couple, the parents of the younger woman, are sitting; on the floor at their feet are two nice Hamadans, "rugs of iron." The younger woman, her husband in tow, is walking around the Hamadans, studying them. You can tell by the way the salesmen are hovering that these people aren't in here just to wallow in beauty.
The younger woman says, "I'd like to see more."
Two of the men lead her to a nearby stack of carpets. While she stands at the foot of the stack, the two begin peeling back the rugs, revealing half of each one. Never one to miss an Oriental Rug Flip, I angle over, standing a little behind and off to the side, eavesdropping.
The woman looks like your average billionaire: camel-colored skirt and blazer, pale pink blouse (silk, likely), brown pumps that alone are probably worth more than everything I have in my entire wardrobe. Shoulder-length blond hair. Tanned. Impeccably groomed. A woman of some leisure. We'll call her Muffy.
The two men flip each rug, watching Muffy for her reaction. If she hesitates, one of them delivers the rap for that rug: "This is a fine piece. A fine Bakhtiari," or "A rare Heriz. Semi-antique."
At most of the rugs, Muffy shakes her head, ever so slightly. Her left arm is bent at the elbow, her hand up by her shoulder, and as she shakes her head, she gives a little limpid "move on" flick of the wrist.
And then I notice: she's sporting a rock the size of a walnut. Holy cow, these people are rolling in it! No wonder the salesmen are slathering.
Once or twice, the rug flippers glance our way, suggesting this is a very private showing and perhaps we ought to get lost. But of course, this is a swanky establishment and they've seen enough of the eccentricities of the filthy rich not to assume anything. For all they knew, we could buy and sell this woman, even if we do look like we just dragged in off the grates.
After the whole stack is peeled back, Muffy says she still likes those two on the floor over there, and she and her husband and their attendants all go back to where her parents are keeping watch over the two Hamadans.
I trail along, eager now, to see the outcome of all this rug trading, for the blood of my ancestors is rising, and the thrill of the deal is too strong to resist. My husband, a WASP who has learned to recognize and respect the crazed look in my eyes when I sense a rug deal going down, disassociates himself from me, retreating to another room till the fever abates.
Muffy and her husband turn their attention away from the two Hamadans to a couple of room-size carpets off to the side, debating which one of those will look best in their library. I circle the rugs, glance at the price tags. One says fifteen grand, the other eighteen. I slide on over to the older couple, smiling, "Are you trying to decide between these two?" I say, nodding at the Hamadans. The woman's friendly, perhaps bored. Maybe even wants to hurry things along. "My daughter is. She wants one for her foyer in Texas."
"Ah," I say. Texas! I glance at Muffy and her husband. They do look as if they might run with the Dallas crowd. So one of these exquisite jewels will end up on some cattle ranch in the outback. Emboldened now, I bend down to check out the price tags for these little numbers. Ones says $4,900, the other $4,500. "Well, either one of these would be a fine choice." Yes indeed. Muffy's mother asks me, "Which do you prefer?"
 | A rug dealer, Richie Devletian, and friends |
Muffy says, "You know, that's the one I like, too. Harry," she calls to her husband, "This one. Definitely." Then she points to the two large carpets. "Which of those do you like?"
Without missing a beat, I step over to the one on the left and say, with quiet authority, "This is a most unusual Gorevan. The colors -- why --" I shake my head, as if unable to come up with words to do the thing justice "the colors dance, don't you think? Clearly the weavers had in mind to create a bold, happy work."
Muffy nods in agreement, vigorously. She calls to her husband, "See, Harry? I told you this was the one." "You know," she says to me, sotto voce, "I have been coveting a rug like this for a long time." A strange thing to say, but no matter. You don't expect Texans to really appreciate exquisite treasures of the Orient.
Harry whips out his checkbook, and while the deal is going down, I slip away, locking eyes with one of the salesmen (Any time, pal, any time), who nods, smiling, all traces of suspicion gone. I am thinking how I would like to have those two rugs myself, and what it must be like to toss off a check for twenty thou without batting an eye.
I fetch my husband and, as we're leaving, one of the studs scurries after us. He says to me, "Is there anything we may help you with? Anything at all you'd like to see?" (Do I detect a heap o' respect in his voice?)
"Well," I say, pointing to a twenty-two thousand buck job in the window, "I do like that Keshan. We'll give it some thought. But today we are just looking."
