Eternal Masterpiece

A Short Story

A pictorial Kirman carpet, Southeast Persia, circa 1870

There is a man named Osmar who owns a quaint rug shop on the east side of town. It sits between a nickel-only laundromat, and a “speedy” bail bonds hut with a neon sign that glows in sputtered gold. Osmar’s shop is called Divine Emporium. I’ve always thought that he was the one who deserved that golden sign to light up each word in a halo. Instead, “Divine Emporium” is written in flat letters on a tarp banner that dangles in front of the entrance.

In my youth, my mother was indecisive. We would frequent his shop at least once, sometimes twice a week. Osmar was a patient man and kindly allowed my mother to browse and let her palm drag along the bristles of cotton and wool. The inside of the shop was host to hundreds upon hundreds of stacked rugs. The bottom of the stacks were dusty with age, some having never seen daylight in over ten years. It smelled strongly of incense, which at first seemed assaulting, but we got used to it over the hours until it was welcomed.   

I was barely old enough to babble and not yet enrolled in school. With all my free time, I sat on the stacks and watched as Osmar described the patterns and shapes to my mother. He told her where each rug came from, when it was shipped to him, or about when he first laid eyes on it at an auction or market. 

He had rugs from all over the world. Peru, Angola, Bangladesh, Turkey, Vermont, Tibet. I would sometimes lay completely flat and stretch my stubby limbs to see if I could reach each corner of the rug beneath me. From the back closet, he would sometimes pull out a big wooden stick to prop up a pile and fish out a rug from the middle. He’d hold it up like a proud catch and use the stick to point out its curves. 

It was easy to get lost in those swirling patterns. One rainy day I was bored and antsy. I threatened to spill my sippy-cup contents and stomp around in the rage only an emperor or toddler could muster. He led me over to a rug he’d laid out on the floor for my mother’s viewing. He told me that each rug in the world is a work of art. 

“You just have to look for the story,” he said. He directed me to look at the woven shapes.

In the viridescent expanse, I saw a jungle. I got on all fours to trace the lines where great oaks met fields of blushing poppies. Osmar told me each rug was handmade and I pictured hunched backs planting seeds within the yarn strings as they were spun and layered. I saw calloused hands mixing ingredients in a cauldron, then spilling its contents to create verdant plains and rushing creatures. I pet a swirl of spotted wool, a leopard yawning in a patch of sun. Its pink tongue stretched wide and long and got tangled amongst the roots that danced along the hills. 

Hours passed with dizzying images. I thought of my own handmade creatures of Play-Doh that sat on my windowsill at home. I thought of all the lopsided cakes I’d decorated with handfuls of icing and glitter sprinkles. That was the first time I felt jealousy, but it quickly dissolved when another rug, another masterpiece, was placed at my feet for me to explore. 

One day my mother and I found ourselves leaving earlier than we usually lingered. She had a wrapped cylinder sticking out from the trunk of our station wagon, wedged between herself and the passenger seat, obstructing my usual view of the back of her head. She wouldn’t tell me which one she’d chosen until after the excruciatingly long drive back home. She made a show of cutting through the paper with gliding scissors and pushing the rug, so it unraveled across our floor in all its elegance. 

I slept on the rug that first night. I remember sneaking out of my bedroom when I knew everyone would be asleep and curling up between the shapes in the dark. My dreams were filled with bright suns that cast their rays onto crimson desert sands. Wells of oasis scattered amongst the dunes that held flocks of paradise birds and herds of wild deer. Nothing made sense separately, yet everything together became inseparable in the masterpiece that lay on my floor.

My mother and I have not since been back to Osmar’s shop. The rug we owned saw years of admirers as I grew up. It has since faded from the lush, humming environment, to something more serene and quiet. A deer or two still lap from the water pools, their horns sending ripples along the surface. The birds have left, but the trees still remain with their dwindling leaves. 

I am reminded, every time I walk by the rug, of all those masterpieces in the world that remain.