Scent of Butterflies (10 page)

Mansour glances at the rearview mirror as he maneuvers the car down the silent streets of Bel Air toward Sunset. He must be wondering why I would wake him at midnight and ask him to drive me to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Why I am not asleep after a hard day in the eucalyptus grove, overseeing a group of lepidopterists who took hours to study thousands of dead Monarchs, poking and prodding the earth and trees with scientific instruments.

A parade of thought, regarding the lepidopterists' final conclusion, churned in my head all night to the stubborn calls from the courtyard of the yet unseen bird. After the painstaking process of gathering scientific evidence, the lepidopterists had developed a perfunctory theory that supposedly added up to some meteorological equations about what happened to the Monarch population—changes in temperature, air pressure, moisture, and wind direction in the troposphere.

I am not convinced.

The truth is that the reality of life does not add up so neatly. As far as I am concerned, the outbreak is nature's way of rubbing the mortality of this sinful species in its own arrogant face.

At that thought, I was propelled out of bed by an uncontrollable urge to hurt Aziz, to yank him out of his sheltered cocoon of trust, naked and unsuspecting, into the painful uncertainty of suspicion.

I unzip the side pocket of my purse and fish out the folded note
Mullah
Mirharouni gave me ten days ago on the airplane on my way to America. His elegantly looped script brings his image back to life, the patrician forehead, the tidy hairline winking below his turban, his masculine voice when he offered to make me his temporary wife.

I enter the quiet lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, nearly run to the house telephone and, my words tripping over each other, ask the operator to connect me to
Mullah
Mirharouni's room. I suffer the pulse of each ring against my eardrum, damning rings that sound louder and louder. Yet. I don't drop the phone on the cradle and flee as I should, until the operator informs me that Mr. Mirharouni is not in his room and that I may leave a message if I wish. I drop the phone on its cradle and steal away as if it might come back to life and wrap its cord around my neck.

I decide to go to the bar because I can't bear the thought of returning to my cold bed. And there he is, crossing the lobby with resolute steps, head down and in deep thought. And before I have a chance to collect myself,
Mullah
Mirharouni raises his head and looks me straight in the eye. I have an inexplicable urge to fasten the top two buttons of my blouse.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn't call me.”

“No,” I reply with a shy smile.

“I'm waiting,” he says, touching a finger to my wrist before turning on his heels and marching out.

I observe his retreating back as he steps out the door and disappears from my sight. The thought occurs to me that we are not that different, this
mullah
and I, both of us up and about this late of a time, restless and searching and unable to sleep.

In the dim bar of the hotel, shadows loiter amid opulent wood paneling and tangerine lights from gilded sconces that frame belly-dancing candle flames. There's an air of apathy as if nothing is left undone past midnight, nothing left unsaid. Two men are in deep conversation, one stirring his highball with a speared olive. These potent mixtures should be forbidden. They rush the brain, destroying inhibitions and all sense of grace and decorum. Iranian men stay away from complicated drinks. They prefer them simple like their women. Scotch and soda on ice. Vodka, straight up. A snifter of cognac just neat.

I check the men for signs that they might be Iranian. No, their complexions are either darker or lighter. The jewelry of one is too flashy and his suit, despite being elegant, not of the latest fashion. I glance at a red-haired man. Scottish? Norwegian? Israeli?

A woman in her midforties perches on a bar stool. Her round eyes are emphasized by blue pencil, her yellow braided hair rolled on top of her head like an inverted cone. Fishnet stockings strangle her short legs. A prostitute, I am certain. Not so long ago, I would rather have choked on
zahreh
mar
than to step alone into a bar with such types. Yet here I am, at a most indecent hour, wearing a tight skirt and clingy blouse that would be more appropriate for a
jendeh
whore.

A middle-aged man seated by the fireplace tugs at his crisp, white cuffs and jerks his neck to the left, the right. His stare pounces on me, then slithers toward the vacant chair next to him and, with the accompaniment of a slight gesture of his pinkie, invites me over. I know that arrogant, self-serving look well. The two of us, Aziz and I, had no patience for this breed of men, who flaunt their wealth by wearing gaudy turquoise rings on their short, chubby fingers.

I want to turn around and flee, run away from this man and this bar, but more so from myself, from the woman I have become and no longer recognize, but I remain fixed in place, waiting for him to make his next move.

His joints protest as he stands and smooths his hair back with both palms. He walks straight to me and, without a second of hesitation, bows elegantly and plants a kiss on the back of my right hand. Ah! I would have expected nothing less than impeccable manners from an Iranian on the prowl. He squeezes my hand in his, and I do not pull back but step closer, towering over him. I ask him to buy me a drink as if my life depends on this one gallant act of his. He leaves the imprint of another kiss on my palm, then pulls a chair over for me.

I pass my right hand under my nose to smell the residual odor of his handshake. My heart misses a beat at the unfamiliar odors of pepper, Hennessy, and curry.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks, vowels tumbling heavily in his throat.

My stomach rumbles with disappointment at his guttural foreign accent, which I don't recognize. I don't want to waste tonight on a non-Iranian. Yet, I hear myself tell this man that I would love a glass of red wine. I say this because my thoughts are muddled with Aziz and how to hurt him, muddled with the power he continues to exert upon me, the pain he continues to inflict on me.

A waitress with capped teeth and flowing pants sets a glass of wine in front of me. The strong smell sends my empty stomach reeling.

“Are you married?” I blurt out to the man.

He removes a cigar from a gold case and, with a silver pin, punches a hole in its head. “Does it matter?”

I point to my heart. “Yes. Here.”

He squirms in his seat, the corner of his left eye twitches, and I know that I have my answer, know that the time has come for me to stand up and leave.

I set the glass of wine on the table, snap open the case of my camera, and cross the short space that separates us. I sit on his armchair and wrap my arm around his neck. I tell him that I find him quite handsome, that I was attracted to him the moment I entered the bar, that the color of his eyes remind me of the mountains around my homeland. I spew these lies because I want him relaxed, smiling, and aroused. Aziz is a perceptive man.

I signal to the waitress and ask her to step farther away so that the bottles of alcohol on the counter can be visible in the photograph, hand her the camera, and demonstrate how to take a picture.

The man's hand firmly around my waist, I put my head on his shoulder and half-close my eyes.

Click!

There will be other men. Better men. Iranian men.

I pamper the Amorphophallus, check on the temperature and humidity in the atrium, feed the plant, oil its stem, and murmur encouraging endearments. And my plant rewards me by swiveling to face me like a lover. Music and caressing have been proven to hasten the growth of plants. My conversations entice this one. I rise on my toes and stroke its stem. “I am a lonely woman in this strange land. And I'm sad. But I like you. I'll visit you every day and take care of you, if you promise to bloom for me. Will you? Are you happy here? Is the humidity right? What about the light?”

I tell the Amorphophallus that now that I've been here for eleven days, I wonder if it would have been better to remain back home, tint my hair the color of the sun, wear my most seductive
petit
robe,
my highest high heels, and dig them into Butterfly until I drew blood.

Despite our daily tête-à-tête, true to its nature, the Amorphophallus refuses to bloom. Contradictory feelings—impatient curiosity to meet the flower and lingering worry about what it might produce—churn my blood. I've been warned about the stench and am prepared for it. But why this sense of premonition, a nagging whisper that once it blooms the bud might yield some inexplicable horror to haunt me? Like rotten food that's sure to birth maggots that appear out of nowhere and refuse to die even with the strongest repellents, multiplying like the revolutionary guards who overnight invaded the streets and narrow alleys of Tehran.

They harassed us for no reason other than that they could and because they suddenly found themselves in a position of power, owing to a revolution gone wrong. They assaulted women, snipped off hair visible from edges of veils, wreaked havoc on faces with a bit of makeup, or stoned women who were accused of committing adultery.

It was 1985, fourteen years ago. The new regime surprised us by surviving for six years. If we drove a decent car, wore respectable clothing, and bore ourselves with the slightest display of feminine dignity, we became targets and vulnerable to assaults from religious zealots and their followers.

One Friday afternoon, Aziz and I were returning from a lunch of
chelo
kebab
at the hotel that had been the Hilton before the revolution and was now renamed
Esteqlal
or “Independence.” Aziz negotiated the car around the impossibly loud, chaotic traffic. A store, once named Kentucky Fried Chicken, was “Our Fried Chicken” now, the colonel metamorphosed into a turban-sporting
mullah
.

Kiosks at the edge of streets that once carried
Newsweek
,
Time
,
Cosmopolitan
, and
The
Wall
Street
Journal
now displayed magazines that instructed the populace on how to cleanse their backsides in the bathroom without defiling the right hand, which must be used only for pure activities such as eating. We reached the intersection of what had been Pahlavi Avenue, now named
Vali-ye-Asr
or “the Expected One.” Smoke, gasoline fumes, and the shimmering, dry sun made it difficult to breathe.

Aziz stepped on the brakes to allow a group of
pasdaran
revolutionary guards in dull, green uniforms to cross the street.

I pushed my hair further back under my scarf and lowered it over my brows, buttoned my
roopoosh
up to my chin, and hid my shaking hands under my thighs. A chill forced its way into the car and into my bones.

“I'm here,
Jounam
,” Aziz whispered, comforting me with the metallic click of his wedding band against mine.

A
pasdar
signaled us to stop. Took his sweet time to approach our car. He tapped the barrel of his Uzi on my window. Aziz unlocked his door to step out, but the
pasdar
ordered him to remain in the car. I took a deep breath, shifted closer to Aziz, and rolled the window down.

“Who is this?” the guard barked, his breath reeking of fried onion and annoyance.

“My husband,” I replied, aware that punishment for being found with a male stranger could be anything from harassing or flogging to being forgotten in the dreaded Evin Prison.

“Your papers,” he barked across to Aziz.

Aziz fumbled in his coat pocket.

The guard raised his Uzi, extended it into the car past my chest, and pointed the barrel at Aziz's temple.

Aziz's hand froze in his pocket. “
Ejazeh
bedid
if you permit, I'm about to produce our marriage license.”

“Son of a dog! Hurry up!” the guard, all claws and teeth, barked while avoiding eye contact with me, as a good Muslim must when facing a woman other than his wife and sister.

But I could not avert my eyes from the gun pressed to Aziz's temple. My heart flipped in my chest. Did I remember to remove the document from his suit before it was sent to the cleaners?

He held out a neatly folded yellowing paper. Concealed in the document, recorded in the elegant Farsi language, in Arabic alphabet, was our date of marriage: December 21, the winter solstice.

The guard balanced the original document on the barrel of his Uzi, then slid the cold metal against my breasts and out of the window. He flipped the document onto the palm of his other hand and unfolded it harshly, tearing it in half.

He held the two torn pieces together, took a cursory look, then screeched in a fetid, pubescent voice, the sparse hair on his chin trembling. “
Bifayedeh!
Worthless! Can't tell if the names are yours.”

With his acrid breath too close to mine, the
pasdar
took his time examining and comparing our names to the one on the driver's license Aziz presented. The man pointed at me with a long-nailed index finger, no doubt uncut to dig leftovers from between his molars. “
Your
driver's license!”

Aziz's face turned the color of fear. His smoke-filled lungs rasped. I wanted to slap the
pasdar
's oily snout. There was no driver's license to present. “I don't drive,
agha
.”

“This will not do! Not at all.
Khanom
must present some type of identification!” the guard growled, ordering me to step out of the car. Directing his Uzi toward my breasts, his gaze never meeting mine, he pressed on one breast, then the other, the icy impudence of the Uzi eye burning imprints on my nipples.

Aziz flung the car door open and sprang out. Before I had time to utter a word, he was at my side and glaring at the Uzi with a murderous gaze. A stray dog emerged unexpectedly and snarled with bared teeth at the
pasdar
, who kicked the dog, sending it yelping away. Aziz pushed the Uzi away from me and held on to the gun's barrel as if that might stop a bullet. A scream echoed behind my eardrums.

I hurriedly snapped my purse open and, fumbling inside with trembling fingers, took out a matchbox and held it out to the guard.

On our wedding night, in front of every place setting sat three party favors. A filigreed silver box containing sugared almonds. A miniature version of our wedding invitation, mounted in an enamel frame. And a matchbox with the photograph of the bride and groom on one side, and on the other in calligraphy: Aziz and Soraya's wedding, December 21, 1977.

The guard yanked the Uzi away from Aziz, then snatched the matchbox and held it at a distance. He passed his hand over the photo, leaving lewd fingerprints on the image of my face. He tossed the matchbox underfoot and crushed it with mud-caked boots. Bow-tied groom and lace-clad bride, innocently radiant and idealistically smiling, melted into the tar-warm asphalt.

I freed myself from Aziz's grip and took a step toward the
pasdar
, my shadow preceding me like a warning. “If you are man enough,
agha
, raise your head and look into my eyes! Or leave before I report you to the authorities.”

The
pasdar
doubled over with laughter, straightened up, tilted his gun on the pavement, and leaned on it, addressing his boots, “Report
me
! Who are
you
to report
me
?”

“Sister to His Honor Judge Sharifi and cousin to Chief Rostami. Does that suffice, or shall I go on?”

“Go!” he yelled into my ear. “Get out of my sight! Before I smash your arrogant little nose.”

Aziz held the door as I climbed into the car. I longed to bang the door shut, but didn't think it would be prudent to do so. The car lurched into the dusty city of Tehran, with its amalgam of high-rises and one-story buildings, modern and dilapidated, new and old, thrust next to each other, forced to tolerate each other.

“That's my Soree,” Aziz said. “But never, ever do that again. You could have gotten yourself killed. Luckily, this one must have had a dubious file he didn't want revisited.”

I wiped my forehead of fear and grabbed Aziz's hand, twirling his wedding band.

He removed and slipped it onto my thumb. “Here,
Jounam
, a piece of my heart forever yours.”