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Authors: Dora Levy Mossanen
Scent of Butterflies
Copyright © 2014 by Dora Levy Mossanen
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Cover design by Katie Casper
Cover images © Felicia Simion/Trevillion Images
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Levy Mossanen, Dora
Scent of butterflies : a novel / Dora Levy Mossanen.
pages cm
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Adultery--Fiction. 2. Revenge--Fiction. 3. Iran--History--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.E94S34 2014
813'.6--dc23
2013031050
This One is for
Paula, Maureen, Joan, Alexandra, and Leslie,
My
Cherished Friends and Colleagues
1999
I am a rich woman from a backward country. A Jewish woman from Iran. I carry alien genesâgreen eyes, blond hair, fair skin, and a height of five feet, nine inches, which intimidates and offends Iranians. Such audacity, they murmur among themselves, to step beyond the permitted boundaries of our women. Boundaries drawn by men, I should add, whose masculinity depends on the diamond-studded leash they've wrapped twice around their women's ankles.
I am a photographer. A collector of exotic animals. A nurturer of rare plants.
Baba is convinced that the day I called myself an artist was the same day I lost touch with the reality of our culture. A sad, sad case of squandered femininity, he would say, his eyes twinkling like the Persian jester in one of our fourteenth-century miniature paintings. “What you need, my Nightingale, are sons to keep you busy and out of trouble.”
I'm on Air France, destined for Los Angeles. Fleeing Aziz, my husband of twenty years, the man I married when I was fifteen. The only lover I've ever known. He believes that I will return to him. I will not. Why? Because I can't resist his drunken eyes, velvet words, and persuasive hands that know where to press softly and where to stroke hard, where to linger and where to slither away, where to cup and hold and warm.
And I won't return because I can't free myself from Parvaneh.
A turbaned
akhound
mullah
shrouded in religious garb slips into the aisle seat next to me and, without as much as an acknowledging nod, removes the Koran tucked under his arm, touches the cover to his lips, and rests it gently on his lap.
I shift uneasily in my seat, farther away from him, a visceral reaction, I suppose, since I'm still properly sheathed by my stifling
roopoosh
, the dull brown, mandatory overcoat, not very different from the
aba
loose-sleeved garment he wears. I could have discarded the
roopoosh
in Paris, where I was no longer bound by the laws and regulations I left behind, and where I quickly trashed my thick, opaque stockings. I don't need to pretend any longer, to be who that society expects me to be. But a habit of twenty years can be as stubborn as a handful of bloodthirsty leeches.
The unfairness of it all, being forced to endure the company of a
mullah
for the next twelve hours, I silently complain. Then slowly, like a sneaky worm making its way into my head, the thought occurs to me that perhaps it's not that bad, after all. A
mullah
sitting next to me might yield endless opportunities.
He must be in his midfifties, the outline of his body muscular and solid under an ash-gray cloak, with Italian loafers polished to a high shine and a crisply folded black turban. Dark, well-clipped beard and mustache, arrogant nostrils and high forehead project a patrician air.
This same
mullah
was segregated from women on Iran Air on his way from Tehran to Paris, where we stopped to change planes. Now, he finds himself a desire's breath away from me. An exciting thought nudges my heart into life. How will he react if I slide up my sleeve and brush a bare wrist across his neck, on the lower-right corner where his turban has slipped up, or rest my head on his shoulder and pretend to wake up with a start?
Oops! Pardon me, an unfortunate accident.
What if I remove the scarf from my hair, lift up the
roopoosh
that covers my legs, and reveal my bare ankles?
I slip my hand down the collar of my
roopoosh
and trace the sharp angles of the Star of David dangling from the necklace Mamabozorg gave me. Will the pendant offend the
mullah
? Will he quarrel with Allah for seating him next to a Jewish woman who has the audacity to ignore the Islamic rules of
hejab
, or will he welcome my boldness?
Aziz's love-words explode behind my temples.
âMuslim men dream of fucking Jewish women,
Jounam
â
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, stroking the chain around my neck. My grandmother's memories are sheltered in the translucent kernel of every amber bead.
I should have discovered the affair earlier. Yes, I should have, even if they had been discreet, Parvaneh and Aziz. Small mistakes were committed. Parvaneh accepting a sip from Aziz's tea; he, placing the most tender piece of kebab on her plate. She, going dizzy-eyed over his jokes; he, offering her a drag from his cigarette, or stealing an extra minute to comb his hair just right when we were on our way to meet the two of them, Parvaneh and her husband.
No, these intimacies did not alert me. I did not want to know. It takes courage to peel off the winding sheets of denial, to observe with wide open eyes, endure the consequences, the pain. Aziz is my lover, my friend, the lens through which my world comes into sharp focus.
The essence of licorice and mint wafts from the
mullah
's breath. The smell of home, of my country, and of the
mullahs
, now the privileged elite. They empty our pockets, loot the deposed Shah's palaces, export our antiques and heirlooms, and purchase first-class tickets to America to drown themselves in the same excesses they condemn back home. They have replaced the Pahlavi dynasty, which robbed the country, too, but with style and aplomb.
Twenty years ago, in 1979, at the outset of the revolution, and for some years after that, we, the so-called “aristocracy,” believedâand, more than anything, hopedâthat the Islamic Republic of Iran was the temporary madness of religious fanatics who would not and could not last. Iranians, we rationalized, at least those of us who had the courage to discuss matters among ourselves, were too modern, too educated, too Westernized to bow down to fundamentalists.
We were wrong. Their twenty-year-old roots have burrowed deep. They're here to stay.
The
mullah
's forearm brushes against mine as he turns a page. “
Bebakhshid, khahar
, forgive me, sister,” he murmurs under his breath without raising his head from his book.
I shift closer to the window and look out. Clusters of smoky clouds congregate and enclose the plane. It does not feel like the advent of Noruz, New Year, and the spring solstice, an intoxicating season in Tehran, when cherry blossoms are in full bloom and their scent of ripe fruit and bitter almonds permeates the mountain air. Up here, the cabin smells of cheap wine and restless discontent.
Soon, far from Aziz, I'll settle in America, where men are not allowed four legal wives and as many temporary wives as they desire, and where women are not stoned for committing adultery. America holds memories of previous visits with Aziz: our honeymoon, when we bathed in Lake Tahoe while it shimmered like woven diamonds, bike-rode on my thirtieth birthday on the bone-warming shores of the Pacific, and welcomed Hawaiian sunsets as grand as our desire for each other.
And more than one trip to visit fertility specialists. One strange treatment after another was suggestedâbaking-soda douches to promote an alkaline environment, temperature reading to establish the exact hour of ovulation, leg-lifting and twisting into yogic knots after sex so not one precious sperm was left unaccounted for. The verdict of one especially ignorant doctor was that we should consider adoption, since nothing could be done. Nothing at all! My white blood cells, he announced in a conspiratorial, I-know-it-all tone, produced antibodies, some type of aggressive protein that neutralized my husband's sperm.
Despite everything I went through and put Aziz through, despite all the invasive tests I endured, the truth is that I have been on the pill since our wedding night. From the moment Aziz proposed, I decided not to become pregnant. The thought of sharing him with anyone, even our child, is unbearable. The sight of him holding someone else against his chest, whispering endearments in another earâ¦the prospect of a rival is unacceptable. So I concealed the pills in a small paper pouch I stapled to the back of a painting of a jester in the Ghajar dynasty court. And made sure never to miss a dose. Not even once.
When I lied to Aziz, telling him that the magazine I freelance for is sending me to America on a photographic mission, he said:
âI hate to let you go, but you have my blessing if you promise to be a good girl,
Jounam
â
Jounam
, his life. How dare he call me that, I wanted to cry out. How dare he expect me to be “good” when he has been so very bad? But I kept my mouth shut and forced a meek smile because I wanted him to sign the legal documents that would permit me, his wife, to leave my country.
Madar likes Aziz. His name rolls like sweet candy in her mouth when she tells me, as if I don't already know, that the literal meaning of his name is “beloved,” and that everything he's done for me proves him worthy of that name. Blowing a strand of well-coiffed hair away from her melancholy eyes, she declared that few men would tolerate the freedom he allows me, let alone permit a wife to travel on her own to America, which as far as Madar is concerned is the end of the world.
Baba, too, finds Aziz remarkable, but for a different reasonâfor his seemingly monogamous nature and for his unequivocal loyalty to his wife.
“Either he's impotent,” Baba chuckled, twisting the tips of his peppered mustache, “or like me, he knows how to
kamarband
ra
seft
konad
.”
Yes, Aziz did keep his pants tightly buckled, I suppose. Until Parvaneh.
Aziz believes I'm ignorant of his infidelity. I had been until thirteen days and five hours ago when suspicion turned to certainty, when the cozy walls of matrimony cracked open, and I was forced to acknowledge the stench of betrayal.
The first thing I did that late afternoonâNo! The second, after I rushed like a possessed creature to my motherâwas to pay a visit to Settareh Shenas, a celebrated Isfahani astrologer.
Sitting cross-legged on a carpet in his herb garden by the side of a small pool, he aimed his bovine stare at me, demanding the exact date and time of my birth. The callused thumb he pointed my way seemed to stamp me with his seal of disapproval.
“You were born in the Year of the Tiger! Under the stubborn sign of Taurus, a time when the stars were in conflict with the moon and the rings of Jupiter tightened their grip around the giant planet. Comply,
Khanom
madame, comply!” he finally pronounced, “If you had bowed to your man's needs in the first place, he would not have looked elsewhere for satisfaction. Control your dark side,
Khanom
! Give him what he wants or you will face the fires of
jahanam
.”
I turned on my heel to leave, but not before I gave the astrologer a piece of my mind, told him it was useless to threaten me with the fires of hell, since I was already burning in them.
Even as awareness continues to slice through me, I know with painful certainty that divorceâa clean, final breakâtotal freedomâis not an option. I cringe at the prospect of a group of narrow-minded
mullahs
congregating in a dreary room to decide that Aziz's infidelity is not a valid enough reason for me to “destroy” my marriage. But even if I file for divorce and my request is granted, I won't be able to tolerate the life in Iran imposed on a
zaneh
talagh
gerefteh
divorcée, who would be looked upon as a whore for the sin of living alone or appearing in public with a male companion.
And the last thing I need is to return to my parents' home and to Baba's overpowering affection. Even now, sitting in the plane next to the
mullah
, I clearly see my father, his steel-gray eyes piercing, his mustache quivering, his hands clasped behind his back as if to support the slim, tall body he carries with the arrogance of a king.
I can hear his low, persuasive growl that can lure a snake out of its hole: “Divorce! What exactly do you mean, Soraya? If you intend to disgrace us all, then by all means go ahead. Otherwise, listen to your father. Go home to your family, instead of hauling cameras around town and squatting down like a porter
hamal
to snap pictures of friend and foe. And never mention divorce again! Neither to me nor to your mother, whose poor heart won't withstand such shame.”
In America, I'll claim my own life and come to terms with the enormity of love and guilt I feel toward my father. Learn to carry the burden of his words: “My Nightingale, crown of my head. Ah! The ingratitude of stiff-necked children.”
I'll take time away from Madar, who continues to punish Baba by hiding her emotions under a carapace of lethal silence. One day I might discover why she rebelled with such violent finality and what compelled her to bury the vivacious woman she once was.
I sense the
mullah
's breath on my neckâwarm, fast, and deepâsense his evaluating stare. I feel a spark of excitement. In silence and without budging in my seat, I turn and aim my questioning gaze toward him. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. A shadow of a fleeting smile parts his lips.
As if my image is projected on his book, he looks down and murmurs into its well-thumbed pages, “
Salam
,
khahar
. Hello, sister.”
“Soraya,” I correct him. “My name is Soraya.”
I owe my name to Madar. Concealing her triumphant smile behind her palm, she would recount her fights with Baba, who vehemently opposed the name. No one in their right mind, he declared, would name their daughter after a cluster of stars. “Name her Sarah, Rebecca, or Rachel, after our matriarchs!”
Madar, calm and unwavering, rested her condescending, pampered fingers on Baba's and instructed him in a gentle voice to stop bristling like a frightened porcupine or his simmering blood would damage his heart.
“Soraya,” she had assured him, symbolized mystery and being out-of-reach, which would serve his daughter well in the future. And to add to the name's allure, the Shah's beautiful second wife was named Soraya, so that was that.