Scent of Butterflies (14 page)

Noruz, the Iranian New Year, is a time of joy and celebration, a time when the advent of the spring equinox and extended daylight triumphs over darkness. Not so for me and my busy mind, which continues to birth endless memories that throb in my head like a persistent headache.

Still innocent then, I recall with a sweet aftertaste the last Noruz I spent with my parents. The ornate tables were laden with the customary seven foods symbolizing spring, rebirth, fertility, joy, and prosperity. Goldfish swam in crystal bowls set on the Limoges cabinet in the dining room. The aroma of freshly baked
sangak
flat bread and the perfume of rosewater pasties and hyacinth swirled around the house. Whitefish spiced with mint and coriander sizzled in ovens, and rice with aromatic herbs steamed in copper pots. Boiled lamb, stuffed with dried fruit and nuts, lay on polished silver trays ready for garnish.

Wearing a gray, pin-striped suit and a Sulka cravat, his hair slicked back with brilliantine, Baba looked younger than his fifty-seven years. He strolled around his domain with an absent look in his wise eyes, rearranging objects that did not need rearranging, a vase of roses a centimeter toward the center of the coffee table, a bowl of fruit slightly to the right, the glasses in neat rows on a silver tray. With the passing years and a certain mellowing of character, he demonstrated an added fondness for his home and the stability it represented.

We gathered in the salon after dinner to watch
Casablanca
on video acquired through the black market. Foreign films were forbidden due to unacceptable subject matter or because the actors were not dressed in proper Islamic attire. The drapes were drawn in fear of the Morality Police jumping over the gate to check through the windows in case anyone was watching satellite television or videos or drank alcohol. That Noruz, years after the revolution, the Islamic government had become more lenient, and Baba was prepared to offer any intruding police a cup of tea before handing him a thick wad of cash kept under lock for such purposes.

Half an hour past midnight, a frantic call from Hamid startled us. Butterfly had left the house in a state. Hamid had discovered an empty bottle of Valium at her bedside. He was driving around the city looking for her. Could we search a different part of town?

Aziz and I rushed out to drive around the streets of Tehran. Why, I asked myself, why would she do such a thing? My mind whirled as I summoned events of the past weeks and months in an effort to locate the catalyst. Suddenly there it was, clear as a raindrop.

The day before, after eighteen years of marriage, doctors had informed Butterfly that they had exhausted all possibilities and that although both she and Hamid were healthy, for some inexplicable reason Butterfly's egg rejected her husband's sperm.

We found her not far from her house, barefoot and in her nightgown, braid undone, disheveled hair tumbling to her waist. Aziz tossed his coat over her shoulders and carried her to the car, mumbling that he didn't want the Morality Police to find her in that condition. We called Hamid with the news before driving to the emergency department of Tehran Clinic on Avenue Mirza Shirazi, Avenue Shah Abbas before the revolution.

Hamid explained to a thick-lipped, ruddy-faced nurse that the bottle of Valium was nearly full in the morning when he left for work. “I remember well. There were at least thirty in there, if not more.”

Silent and scared as a fenced colt, Butterfly did not resist the nurse as she wheeled her into the operating room to pump her stomach.

Invaded by a myriad of medicinal smells, I curled up on a dilapidated sofa in the waiting room. Aziz sat next to me, a cigarette idle between his lips. Hamid stood in a corner, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at his shoes as if the answer to his wife's strange behavior was reflected there. An ugly clock with noisy hands announced the lingering minutes.

I began an earnest negotiation with God, offered my solemn promise to become a better Jew if He saved Butterfly. Promised to stop pursuing astrology or any other divination forbidden in Judaism, pledged to ask our rabbi to sacrifice chickens and disperse them to the poor. I reprimanded myself for my lack of compassion. Butterfly was different from me, after all. She was desperate for a child. To relinquish hope of motherhood must have been devastating. I should have been more understanding and present.

The doctor entered the waiting room. Sweat glistened on his oily forehead. Behind his glasses, giant, incriminating eyes inspected each of us. “Husband?”

The offensive clank of the clock announced three in the morning.

He took time to glare at Hamid before barking: “Clear! Absolutely clean. Nothing in her stomach. Not a trace of Valium or any other drug. Take her home!”

“Are you certain?” Hamid asked. “I don't understand.”

“I do!” The doctor's myopic eyes continued to dissect Hamid, the neon lights reflecting garishly in his thick lenses. “I see it all the time. Simple boredom, disease of the spoiled
taghouti
royalists! We're too busy with the sick and dying to tend to…” He made a sweeping motion with his thick-fingered hand as if to encompass the entire rotten world out there, then turned on his heel and marched out.

Aziz led Hamid out the door. “Shower her with love and attention, my friend. Nothing that a nice gift and a bunch of roses won't fix.”

We drove Butterfly home, washed her face, and gave her a sherbet of rosewater and diced apples. While Hamid tucked her in, I searched the medicine cabinet in their bathroom. I was amazed at the many different pills and syrups for insomnia and anxiety I emptied into the wastebasket.

“Why?” I asked the moment I was alone with her.

“Not now, Soraya. I can't talk now. I'll tell you everything tomorrow.”

The next day, her house was steamy with the aroma of
gole-gav-zaban
, passion flower tea. She poured two cups of the dark, calming tea and offered me juicy balls of watermelon she dug out one by one from the bloody heart of the melon.

“Why, Parvaneh, why in God's name?”

She stirred sugar in my tea. Beads of perspiration glistened on her upper lip. Butterfly did not sweat easily. “I lost him, Soraya, lost him for good.”

“Hamid?”

“No!”

I stared at her in disbelief, fighting to keep curiosity at bay, as well as an ominous feeling that I'd better run away from this place my friend was inviting me into, away from this other place of intimacy that would burden us for the rest of our lives.

She hugged me, her fingers leaving pockmarks on my flesh. “I am in love. Please, Soraya, don't scold. Try to understand. I need you. Can't do this alone.”

I grappled to identify the moral boundaries between friends, tried to make sense of this woman, so different from the friend I believed I knew so well. “I thought you loved Hamid.”

“I do. Very much.”

“Then why? I don't understand.”

“It's different…I don't know how to explain. Maybe I'm in love with two men. Or in love with how he makes me feel. I don't know. Am I crazy? Sometimes I think so. Maybe the nuptial kerchief and all that stuff with Aunt Tala made me crazy. But, you know what, Soraya?
He
doesn't think that. He thinks I'm very special.”

“Who is he?”

She took a quick sip of scalding tea, wincing with the pain of her burned mouth. “I can't tell. Not even you.”

“Don't be ridiculous! Why can't you? Is he handsome? Rich? How old is he?”

It was a sunny morning. The light filtering through the window turned her cheeks bright. “I didn't think to ask,” she replied.

I fell silent to digest the emergence of this unexpected crack in our friendship as well as to grapple with a horde of clashing emotions: confusion, anger, compassion, the constant sense of responsibility I still carried. I did not want to frighten her away because this other Butterfly fascinated me, her obsession with this man, her courage or impudence that seemed to bubble out of nowhere like a just-awakened volcano.

Adultery for women could result in exile from family and society—or even from life by imprisonment, lashing, or stoning. At best, Hamid would surely divorce her if he found out. Then, she would have nowhere to turn but to the misery of her mad father and cruel aunt.

Despite the ordeal she had endured at the hospital the night before, Butterfly's eyes suddenly turned to shiny marbles. “Don't blame me, Soraya. I don't understand it myself, but everything is different with him. Even something as simple as going to the Grand Bazaar. Everything looked different, the path of hard-packed earth hardened by years of traffic, the octagonal hole in the vaulted ceiling, even the bolts of material, the spices, and the jewelry looked different.

“He is very wise, you know. He said that Iran is a heterogeneous country of numerous ethnic groups, religions, languages, and regions that are diverse and interesting like me. Isn't this a wonderful thing to say? He didn't even hold my hand. I asked if I'd done something wrong. He just glanced at his watch and said it was late, as if the devil was at his heels. I didn't hear from him again.”

“You acted like a child. A full bottle of Valium could have killed you.” And then, still ignorant of certain betrayals that can shatter your heart and leave nothing but ruin in their wake, I held her hand and told her that no one was worth dying for.

She pressed two fingers to her lips and glanced around, then sashayed toward the door on high-heeled sandals. She checked behind the door before locking it. She raised wide, pleading eyes that reminded me of the day she had begged me to help her poison a bully in school. “Swear! Right now, Soraya. Swear to never, ever repeat this. I lied. Flushed the pills down the toilet. I want him to think I'll kill myself if he leaves me.”

“But how will he know?” I asked.

She cupped her small left breast in her palm, a nervous habit she had acquired in her adolescent years when her budding breasts concealed a much frailer heart. “Trust me. He will.”

I, who consider myself an authority in recognizing the first whiffs of an ominous smell long before it blooms into a full-fledged stench, failed to detect the odor of deceit. I, who consider myself an expert in smelling the undercurrent of every emotion, had Butterfly's Chanel No. 5 top notes of orris and ylang-ylang so embedded in my nose that I did not recognize her base notes of cat piss and rotten eggs.

An hour has elapsed, or maybe two, since I began sitting at my desk in the library, surrounded by framed butterflies and a variety of moths flaunting themselves in provocative poses—a Sphinx balanced on her wings with her underbelly exposed to temptation, the stiff legs of a Peacock suggestively splayed, and the wings of a Red Admiral stiff as double erections. The stale odor of olive soap and nicotine wafts from the lacquered box where the letters Aziz mailed to me at a rented post office box remain sealed and unread. I push the box away, select a sheet of paper, smooth it on the desk, and prepare to compose a string of lies:

Happy Noruz, my love, and happy anniversary. Sorry I missed your calls. I'm often out on shoots. Photographing Los Angeles is fascinating, and an altogether different style has emerged in my work. Can't wait to finish my assignment and return to you. The house I've rented is lovely, especially its garden, my only safe harbor away from you. I miss you terribly, my love. Every cell aches for you.

I select the deepest red lipstick I can find among my makeup and paint my mouth scarlet, then press my slightly parted lips to the paper.

I unlock the glass door of the cabinet that holds different types of butterflies—the Red Admiral, the orange tip, the Camberwell beauty, also known as the mourning cloak butterfly, and the strangest of them all: the Sphinx, or death's-head hawk moth. This one is a shameless thief that raids beehives for honey and gets away with it because it's able to mimic the smell of bees. It lets out an irritating squeak when bothered and its belly flashes red with rage.

I reach out for this one and then change my mind. Careful not to cause damage, I pinch the skewered Peacock butterfly off the center of the black satin wall. It is the very first butterfly I caught in my net. It has four incriminating eyes on its wings. Its similarity to Butterfly is unquestionable, the spine rigid with desire, eager legs splayed like a whore.

I lay the carcass inside the folded letter and slide it into the envelope. Then, I pick up my pen and write:

Wish Butterfly and Hamid a happy Noruz. Extend an invitation to Butterfly on my behalf to visit me here. I'll make sure to show her a good time. Give her this token of my love.

I lick the flap shut and wipe my tongue clean with the back of my hand.

The library clock strikes twelve midnight, reverberating throughout the house to announce that five hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-nine seconds have elapsed since the arrival of Noruz, the Persian New Year.

Mamabozorg Emerald, too, must be alone tonight in these first hours of the New Year. I am certain now that there was more to my grandmother's self-exile than what Baba had conjectured. Her feisty spirit would not be snuffed out by revolutions, wars, or the loss of a dictatorial Shah. She must have known about Aziz and Butterfly. Her story of the elephant and the mosquito was meant to alert me to their betrayal.

Who is the mosquito? Aziz or Butterfly? Who is the elephant?

***

Mansour has set
haft-seen
, the seven S's on the table in the salon for the New Year ritual.
Samanu
, sweet wheat pudding for sweetness;
sonbol
, hyacinth for beauty;
seer
, garlic for health;
senjed
, dried fruit of the lotus tree for love;
serkeh
, vinegar for patience;
seebeh
sorkh
, red apple for health.

Soft spears of
sabzeh
, sprouts for rebirth and fertility, bristle against my palm. My uterus closes into a protesting fist. I press a hand against my stomach until the contractions subside. I could have been back home now. We could have celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary.

Sekeh
, fake gold coins for wealth, are spread on the tablecloth; Lit candles, symbols of fire and happiness, illuminate the chickpea, almond, and rice cookies Mansour purchased from Persian markets in Westwood. I turn away from the image of my pale complexion, feverish eyes, and pinched lips, reflected in the mirror that presumably represents the sky and honesty.

My wedding bands have become loose. On my ring finger, twelve one-carat marquis
bleu-blanc
diamonds set in platinum; on my thumb, Aziz's simple gold band, testimony to a love gone sour. I am not ready to part with them yet. Neither will I wear them forever like a yoke.

My empty stomach heaves and revolts against the cloying sweetness of a sugar-coated almond I drop in my mouth. I bite on a chickpea cookie. My insides turn at the sticky paste that coats my tongue and the roof of my mouth. This is not what I crave tonight. I crave the fulfilling, smoky taste of Madar's lamb kebab skewered with onion, green peppers, and eggplant. I crave tender lamb shank in
ghormeh
sabzi
herb stew and a fulfilling slice of roast to top it off.

—You crave me,
Jounam
, you're lonely—

How would you feel, Aziz, if I told you that it is possible for me to be alone without you but not lonely? Perhaps your arrogance would not permit such a possibility. Perhaps the fault is mine for pampering you rotten, for being a fool and subscribing to blind trust. In any case, the night is young and you will not like the way it will unfold.

I yank the embroidered tablecloth off the
haft-seen
table. Apples and garlic, vinegar and pudding, gold coins and pots of hyacinth tumble over each other and crash to the floor. That's more like it! All of these symbolize nothing but ruin. Candles slide to the edge of the table. An angry shove and they topple down, dragging their flames behind them like blazing tails. Hungry flames feed on woolen threads of the carpet, stroke, and lick the lacquered leg of the table. How quickly and purposefully they devour what does not belong to them. I lift my leg and grind the sole of my shoe into the greedy flames, grab the tablecloth, and whip the flames back into life.

Mansour appears at the door and rushes to snatch the pitcher of water from the table. Stone-faced and in silence, he pours the water over the flames until they die. How quickly rage can consume, leaving nothing in its wake but ash and wisps of pungent smoke. He falls to his knees and begins to clear the mess, shards of crystal and china, strewn flowerpots and potting soil, apples and cookies, and pieces of singed cloth curled into itself.

“Don't bother,” I tell him. “Bring the car. We are going out.”

He faces me with bewildered eyes and murmurs, “
Saleh
no
mobarak, Khanom
.”

“Happy New Year to you, too, Mansour. Any news from your family?”

“They called,
Khanom
. They wish you a year of health and prosperity, as well.”

“
Insha'Allah
, God willing, next year is going to be different. Drive me to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, please. Here! Drop this letter in a mailbox on the way.”

I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes as we drive south through dark streets toward Wilshire Boulevard. I have become sensitive to all sounds, even Mansour's breathing, and I think he knows this because when he eases the car to the curb and stops to drop my letter with Butterfly's gift into a mailbox, he shuts the door behind him quietly and with great care.

The night is shrouded in vapors, the sky the color of tar. The constant hum of traffic can be heard from the freeway, and the wind transports the faint scent of possibilities.

Thoughts whirl in my head as I march past a red-cheeked doorman and straight into the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. I should have been alerted to Butterfly's betrayal the Noruz she pretended to kill herself with sleeping pills. I should have known Aziz was her lover. Why else would she keep his name a secret from me, her close friend?

I nearly run to the hotel's house phone as if I am being driven by invisible forces. “Mr. Mirharouni's room,” I tell the operator, expecting—and even hoping—not to find the
mullah
in his room tonight. Why would he want to be alone in a hotel room these first hours of Noruz?

“
Befarmaieed
.” His sleepy voice rattles me as if I am the one who has been awakened into the dark reality of night.

I take a second to compose myself, muster a steady tone. “This is Soraya. From the plane. I'm downstairs.”

Without a moment's hesitation, not a second to summon forth past information, he says, “Don't go anywhere, sister. Give me ten minutes.”

A man appears in the lobby and walks toward me with powerful strides, his Italian loafers making brisk, nimble slaps on marble. I lace my fingers behind and blink a few times. This cannot be the
mullah
I met in the plane. He is sporting a charcoal-gray suit, silk cravat, and gold cufflinks studded with diamonds. His every approaching step ushers in a sense of purpose, a virile intensity. Shorn of his religious garb and his turban,
Mullah
Mirharouni is very attractive. He exudes a sense of power and charm.

He faces me, a step away, so close his knees might touch mine. There's a naughty twinkle in his eyes as he cups my hand between his palms and raises it to his mouth. The light kiss planted on the back of my hand lingers like a sweet aftertaste. My cheeks are on fire, mottled with shame. His gaze slithers up my legs, scuffing my hips, ripping my white T-shirt open to lick one breast, then the other.

I yank myself back to my reality. “I'm hungry,” I announce, sidestepping formality. “I want dinner first.”

My attention-demanding high heels punctuating the marble underfoot, I enter the restaurant and seat myself unceremoniously at one of the many empty tables. I will my breathing to normalize, my flushed cheeks and cantering heart to settle.

He rests his powerful hands on the back of the chair on the opposite side of the table. A turquoise ring encircles his right pinkie. The thought occurs to me that Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini would have worn a ring, but not turquoise. His would be a large agate one, etched with Arabic letters. And he would have approved and even encouraged his followers to sport such a ring. The prophet Mohammad was known for being well-dressed and for his love of perfumes, which Islam endorses.

The lights from the chandelier fail to penetrate the plane of
Mullah
Mirharouni's eyes, which are smeared with a butter-like layer of lust. “You have been in my thoughts. Your mesmerizing corn-silk hair and graceful tallness.”

I offer him a smile and gesture toward the chair.

He accepts with a low bow and a dramatic sweep of one hand.

I reach across the table and slap the back of his hand. “Bad boy, where's your Islamic cloak? If your brothers back home knew, they'd punish you.”

“Don't you like me like this,
azizam
my dear?”

I lower my eyes and caress the embroidered emblem on my T-shirt, fondling my breast as Butterfly did when she flirted. As much as my show of coyness is revolting to me, it seems to please and excite the
mullah
. An unexpected surge of laughter begins to bubble in my chest. I fumble for my napkin and raise it to my mouth, mimicking one of those horrible, in-the-chest feminine sneezes that could blow one up if one were truly holding a sneeze back. I rest my elbows on the table and lean toward the
mullah
and whisper, “Suit,
gabaa
, pajamas, I don't care what you wear,
agha
, as long as you prove to be a man.”

He plucks at one starched sleeve cuff, then the other. “It is settled then. Shall we order?”

“I'll have a rare filet mignon.” Yes, I want a nice juicy piece of meat to dig my molars into.

I imagine Madar glancing down with disgust and sighing, “Look at you, Soraya, eating a piece of live cow! All because you are angry with your husband. Didn't I tell you this is life! Men betray women. There's nothing you can do.”

No, Madar, you are wrong! There's a lot I can do. I am not powerless! You will see. And right now, with a wild, almost savage edge to my hunger, I crave rare, bloody meat and that's what I will have.

The
mullah
's pupils widen like a leopard's. His breath rattles. Cigarette lungs. Smoke-ash breath. He gestures toward a waiter and tells him in a heavy guttural accent that: “Mademoiselle desires a very, very uncooked filet mignon.”

The waiter apologizes, informing us that the kitchen is closed, but room service is available around the clock. The
mullah
settles that problem by pressing two hundred dollars into the waiter's hand.

The fibrous meat, when it arrives, is satisfying, the oily french fries hard on my system. How long since I've had real food, lost weight, starved myself inside a cocoon woven of bitter yarns? Would I, like a butterfly, emerge without difficulty out of my chrysalis? Or like a moth need to exert great effort to break through my cocoon? I bite into another piece of raw steak, chew on it, grind the fiber into pulp, hold the bloody juice in my mouth.

No! I am not a feeble moth.

I sigh contentedly and settle back in my seat. I glance at him and wink. “I'm happy now. Ready to share something rich and sweet.”

He unbuttons his collar, loosens his tie, smiles at me, and says: “Yes, of course! We will share something rich and sweet upstairs. I can arrange for that.” His hand moves toward me on the table and squeezes my hand. He gestures for the bill. Fumbles in his coat pocket for his wallet.

“No, not yet,” I say, casting my eyes down flirtatiously. “What I mean is…well…what I want is dessert first.”

“Yes, of course, very smart to think ahead. Sugar fuels the body, gives extra energy.” He snaps his fingers and calls out to the waiter, “Mademoiselle desires something very, very sugary.”

The waiter returns with a dessert tray for me to choose from. I burrow a forefinger into the tiramisu and lick a dollop of cream off my finger. “I want this.” I swivel two fingers in the crème brulée. “This, too.” I bend close to the pear tart and sniff the pulpy smell of over-ripe fruit, a relentless, tangy scent I don't like. “And two, no, three of these.” I take my time to carefully arrange the plates on the table.