REVIEWED BY TONY BAER:

   

  WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT – The Bloody Bokhara. Dutton, hardcover, 1952. Dell #746, paperback, 1953.

   Lee Kapralian is twenty-six, second generation Armenian, WWII vet for the red white and blue, all-American in his heart, and handsome as the devil’s twin. His father is of the older generation, and doesn’t want his kids losing their culture mixing romantically with Americans.

   Lee works for his father in a Persian rug store. Persian rugs aren’t as popular as they used to be and it’s a hard way to make a living. Most folks don’t see the difference between hand woven ancient rugs and wall to wall carpeting. They both cover the floor. And carpets are cheaper and brand new.

   Life is okay enough for Lee, if steeped in tepid mediocrity, until Claire walks into the store. She’s gorgeous as Satan’s mistress and twice as dangerous.

   Claire’s got some rugs she’d like appraised. Would Lee come back to her apartment with her to check them out?

   Would I? Yeah. Uh-huh. Oh, sure. I’ll take a look at your rugs, lady. And he does. And they are beautiful, rare and fine. Like Claire. But one of the rugs has a bloodstain. A bloody bokhara (which is a type of rug : the bokhara part — not the blood; the blood washes right out like a bloated body upon the shore).

   And the bloodstain bespeaks its provenance. Like Claire.

   And does Lee like Claire! Whoa. He’s gone for her. A Gone Guy. And surprisingly, she for him. I mean — at least that’s what she tells him. And who is he to question beauty. Who gives and gives. And takes.

Lee, the ordinary, extraordinarily handsome guy, leaves his family for the girl and his father’s business for selling these bloody rugs. Giving them a good washing first. Of course. Claire asks if it’s okay if she takes a shower. Of course, Claire. Of course.

   In the end the shocker is there’s really no shocker. It kind of goes the way it should go. But it could’ve plausibly gone in many other ways. And the anticipation is the thing anyway. There’s nothing but anticipation. Fear and hope are never here. They never come. Yet we dwell on them. Til our very last breath.

   It’s a well done book, and notable for being a story of mid-century Armenian family dynamics woven into a fairly typical noir — using Persian rugs as the mcguffin to tie in the dissolution of the Armenian family, the forgetting of history, to the squandering of one’s moral fiber in pursuit of a buck and a beauty. A carpet for a rug. With just the faintest hint of red.