Scent of Butterflies (16 page)

It was hot in the smoke-filled restaurant on Vali Asre Street at the foot of the Alborz Mountains. Once extending onto the sidewalk and under the shade of ancient sycamores, the restaurant had retreated behind tinted glass doors after the Revolution. Now, years later, the
pasdaran
had become less strict and couples were allowed to share a table if they wore proper Islamic attire. Some women opted to discard the
chador
in favor of the
manteau,
opaque stockings, and kerchiefs. Still, we carried our marriage documents in case the
pasdaran
raided the restaurant. I wore mascara and a touch of blush, tossed a shawl about my shoulders, my defiance against senseless insults and demands to conform.

Copper trays were set on the table around which Aziz and I, Hamid and Butterfly, and Madar and Baba sat. Butterfly heaped our plates with saffron rice laced with slivers of almond and pistachio, eggplant stew, and crispy rice
tahdig
, selected for each, according to our tastes. Veal shank for Madar,
polo
rice with more nuts for Baba, an extra serving of roasted eggplant for me.

I was aware of Butterfly's every glance, every small move. Only a few days ago, she'd demonstrated exceptional courage, or stupidity, by pretending to commit suicide. I wanted to know for whom she was ready to die. Her gaze momentarily fell on a musician dressed in a colorful vest and billowing pants who sat cross-legged on a platform playing classical Persian music on his sitar. I dismissed that possibility. The musician was too young and dull for her taste.

I uncrossed my legs and held out my plate to facilitate Butterfly's reach as she offered me some crunchy rice. My high heel caught another high heel. I held my foot in midair. Butterfly's leg was not where it was supposed to be. Pretending to search for my purse, I raised the tablecloth and peered underneath. Her legs were primly crossed at the ankles. Hamid's patent leather shoes tapped a silent tune on the floor. Mother's legs were concealed under her
crepe
de
chine
skirt. Father's hands rested on his thighs. The sharp crease of Aziz's meticulously pressed gabardine pants grazed brown crocodile shoes. He placed his hand on my knee. It was cold.

I should have been alerted. But I was not. A seed of suspicion might have planted itself in my subconscious. Perhaps that was the reason I felt sudden anger at Butterfly for withholding the identity of her lover from me. I let out a cry of pain and pulled out a handkerchief from Aziz's coat pocket. I wiped imaginary perspiration off my forehead and then, as if at my wit's end, I jumped up, startling everyone to their feet. “Let's go! This headache is killing me.”

“That was abrupt,” Aziz said when we were in our car.

“I had a sudden urge to make love to you.”

“My beautiful liar!” he replied, his fingers climbing my thigh, lowering the waistband of my stockings, and sliding under my lace panties to the spot he knew well.

***

Aziz stood at the threshold of our house the next day, his face concealed behind six-dozen baccarat roses that gave off the rancid stench of suspicion.

“What are you hiding?” I asked.

“My passion,” he replied, ambling to the bathroom.

I sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched him loosen his tie with a single flip of his hand, slide the loop over his head, and toss the tie in my lap. He unzipped his pants with one fluid movement, revealing the outline of his bulging penis. He squeezed me to his chest, bit my shoulder, sucked my lips.

I drank his scent of sex and afternoon sweat, and another lingering smell, not quite his.

I should have recognized Butterfly's perfume, the top notes of ylang-ylang and neroli of her Chanel No. 5, perhaps even the base notes of sandalwood and vetiver. I did not. The instant I was alone, I picked up the phone and called her. I, who had always mentored and protected Butterfly, sought her advice now.

The chauffeur drove through the traffic of Avenue Vali Asre that snaked north toward the chain of the Alborz Mountains. I cursed the slow minutes, the honking, the madness in the streets, but most of all my own impatience. The snow-capped summit of the mythic Damavand volcano scintillated under the sun. It is an active volcano, emitting sulfur and volcanic heat. Yet, history does not record any eruption. What did that mean to us, the inhabitants of Tehran, who lived at the foot of this awesome volcano? Constant vigilance, I mused, the importance of being on our guard. Always! The potential for an eruption is constant.

“I smell another woman on Aziz,” I blurted out the instant I stepped into Butterfly's house.

She hooked her arm in mine. “Come, let's have some tea.” She led me to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of steaming chamomile tea, and dropped a tea bag in my cup. Leaning her arm on the table, she rested her chin on her fist, directing questioning eyes at me. “Are you sure?”

“A woman knows.”

“A wife is the last to know, they say.”

“He smells of sex and fear.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Come now, Soraya! How can you smell fear?”

“It's not funny, Parvaneh. I really do.”

She released my hand. “You're probably imagining things. Anyway, he's too smart to come home smelling of a woman.”

Butterfly was right. Aziz was a meticulous planner, never missed anything, never forgot anything. He would surely have asked his mistress not to wear perfume.

“Is it possible for a man to love two women and have great sex with both?”

She bit her lip. Rested her hand on mine. “I don't know about men, Soraya, but it can happen to a woman.”

“Of course, you'd know!” I snapped at her. “And you won't even tell me his name.”

I should have noticed the blooming blush on her cheeks, her slight shifting away to minimize her scent of perfume. I should have wondered why, soon after, she changed her perfume. But I did not.

The day I left for America, weighted by the awareness of his betrayal, I asked Aziz whether it was possible for a man to betray the woman he loves.

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Why ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Well!” He chuckled. “
Mullahs
say men need more than one woman. That might be true for them. Me, I'm more than fine with my one lady!” Then, as if that was the eleventh commandment, he rubbed his palms, signaling the end of the discussion, lifted me off the ground, and sat me on his lap.

“Keep your eyes open,
Jounam
, and give me your tongue.”

Even then, despite the bitter awareness poisoning my mind, my body softened in his embrace. I gave him my tongue, and he cradled it in his mouth one last time and sucked the tip like a relished delicacy.

Startled awake, I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. Why this sense of premonition? Nothing extraordinary has taken place since yesterday when I mailed a letter to Aziz. More time in the grove that's coming back to life, more butterflies collected, more photographs developed.

A strange and exciting foul smell wafts into my bedroom, a seductive blend of dead flowers and mildew. I jump out of bed and run out into the foyer.

The smell is stronger. My heart palpitates. Perspiration coats my upper lip. I dash into the kitchen, snatch a pair of shears, wet a dishcloth, and press it against my nose to keep the sultry vapors at bay. But, my olfactory cells having been seduced, I toss the towel aside.

The Amorphophallus must have come into bloom.

Plants and animals that share the same space with me react to changes in my life. The rhinoceros iguana of Haiti died because it couldn't bear the air of duplicity between Aziz and me. Sensing the depth of our joy, the red-eyed Madagascar frog, purchased on our honeymoon, croaked merrily and incessantly each night as we prepared for bed. A black-necked, fangless cobra got in the habit of crawling out of its box, its clammy body giving off the odor of dank moss as it slipped into our bed, stretching and twisting to interrupt our lovemaking. A pair of quetzals shipped from Guatemala flourished in our garden, carved a nest in an ancient tree trunk, and took turns incubating. The day I discovered Aziz and Butterfly in bed, the birds took flight, abandoning their eggs to the elements.

And now, the Amorphophallus titanum, having sensed the depth of my despair that thrust me into the arms of a
mullah
, is offering me the gift of its bloom.

Perched on top of the atrium, my Owl of Reason welcomes me with a staccato of barks. I wave and nod and make kissing noises, then gesture and clap loudly, hoping she'll fly off to hunt, or simply leave and conceal herself in the monkey tree, anywhere else but here. I don't want her around while I conduct my experiment. But true to her stubborn character, she pins her gaze on me and begins to claw at the glass panels.

“Do what you want, boss,” I say, turning away and entering the atrium.

I gasp at the sight I face.

The massive leaf that once tightly hugged the towering stem of the Amorphophallus has slackened its grip and unfurled to form a tiered skirt of violet ruffles that curls like a giant fluttering wing around a trumpet-like flower of vibrant shades of lilac, hyacinth, and lavender. The heart of the flower is comprised of thousands of small blooms of livid purple that pulsate and ripple to attract pollinators. They smell like aroused flesh and the breath of dreaming animals.

I pluck out a bloom, releasing a stronger stew of scents—rotting meat, crustacean, and water urchin.

Beyond the glass dome, my owl lets out a chorus of strange hoots. I nod my understanding, acknowledge that I, too, am surprised at the splendid transformation and at the power of these pungent smells.

The flower shudders in complaint as I yank out another tiny bloom—a livid, mature purple from the outer tier—hold it up, and study it closely. The bloom reveals a few of the distinguishing features of poisonous flowers. It is covered with fine hairs and purplish black spurs. The pod is filled with tiny seeds. The odor of bitter almond is an added confirmation of my initial inference. A joyous spasm tugs at my heart. I pretend I don't hear my owl's cries. I don't want her to behold my joy, don't want her to guess what's passing through my mind.

Poisons have a way of lurking in unexpected places.

Flowers of the belladonna and opium poppy are both beautiful and lethal, yet have healing powers if ingested in small amounts. The foul-smelling ragworth is a poisonous plant that hosts striped caterpillars, but also heals mouth ulcers and joint pain. A few drops of valerian are a stimulant and an aphrodisiac, but in large doses, cause madness and aversion to lovemaking. Ancient cultures believed that love-in-a-mist, a self-seeding plant, cured baldness if applied to the head, but would dry the brain if rubbed vigorously.

My hand is cold and slightly shaking. It is not too late to walk out and double-lock the door behind me. Never look back. But where will that leave me?

I cautiously lick the edge of the Amorphophallus bloom to try to gauge the required dosage to bring about a quick and, preferably, painful end. A sap, neither sweet nor bitter, but somewhat salty and with a tart hint of capers coats my tongue. Nothing that can't be masked with rose petals, some strong honey, and a pod of cardamom. I bite off a small piece, a preliminary experiment, certainly not enough to cause me substantial harm, hold it in my mouth until nothing remains but pulp, which I spit out.

With a flurry of fluttering, my owl enters the atrium, zooms past my shoulder, and swoops down to land on the lip of the Corpse Flower's giant pot. I scratch her under the wing, poke her underbelly, try to pry her powerful claws open and send her off, but to no avail. Her cutting stare continues to probe me, her low, insistent hoots echoing around the atrium.

“Shoo! I just tasted a tiny bit. What's the big fuss? Go! I've had enough of you for today. Come back tomorrow. All right, you stubborn bird, you win! Stay here if you want.”

I leave the atrium and slam the door shut behind me.

I drink half a glass of milk to flush some of the Corpse Flower out of my system, in case it proves highly poisonous. It would be disappointing if the plant I love, pamper, and feed ends up being nothing but a useless ornament. A twist at the pit of my stomach makes me pay attention, a slight pinch of nausea, but nothing alarming. I sip from a bottle of mineral water and glance at the clock. I will take note of any change in my heartbeat, taste in my mouth, temperature of my skin, or size of my pupils. It is exciting, this experiment, using my body as a laboratory, my veins as testing tubes to calculate how long it will take for the poison to take effect, after which I shall calculate the needed dosage of powdered Amorphophallus to create a most potent, fast-acting brew.

It is not so difficult to find out how poisonous plants react in our body. That information is accessible in books. I looked it up first in the comprehensive library in my house and then in the Beverly Hills Library. But how does one measure the damage that loss inflicts on one's body? My blood was laced with poison the night before I left for America.

I made love to Aziz that night. Loved him with my entire body, my head bursting with wine and grief. On the hardwood floor, facing our king-size bed, he folded me in his arms and murmured in my ear in his honey voice that seeped into my gut and turned me into pulp.

—Let's try again, Soree. Let's try to make babies. I'll come to America. We'll visit another doctor. Medicine is in constant change. New cures come up. I want your child, Soree—

He held me, consoled me, wiped my violent tears away, tears formed by the words I kept inside.

—Don't lose hope, Soree—

I, who had managed to convince myself for twenty years that a third addition would only disrupt our tight union, that a child would rob me of the precious time I spent with Aziz, found myself outmaneuvered by Butterfly.

—Don't be sad,
Jounam
. Come closer—

Our gazes snagged, tangled, and knotted. My nipples hardened.

—Give me your tongue,
Jounam
—

His manipulative tongue searched for mine, entering my greedy mouth, drinking my saliva. His betrayal did not alter his taste. Neither did my awareness that even as our saliva mingled, it was she whom he desired.

He lifted me in his arms and carried me to our bed that had so recently held the two of them. Or was it the three of us? Did he carry me in his head that afternoon?

He cupped my breasts, teased my nipples, his hand igniting sweet currents in my poisonous veins.

His gaze slid down my body, his fingers tracing each vertebra, hesitating at the lower curve.

—On my life,
Jounam
, you've the sexiest back in Iran—

His resourceful touch and seductive lies continued to thaw me, even as my mind raged against my treacherous body. I cuddled his erection, wondered whether he was aroused by me or the promise of a future fuck with her, whether he would penetrate me or remain loyal to her, even on this my last night in Iran.

His breath like pepper, his touch urgent, he parted my legs and eased himself on me.

My uterus clamped into a tight fist. I locked my thighs. “I've my period.”

—Since when do you care,
Jounam
?—

Since the day you fucked my friend, in my house, on our bed, in front of my photographs, I wanted to scream. “I've terrible cramps,” I whispered.

He rolled to his side, lifted himself on his elbow, and ran his fingers through my hair.

—I can't bear seeing you in pain, Soree—

I tasted red wine and longing in his mouth, and betrayal and deception on his tongue. I turned away and molded my buttocks into the crook of his body.

We fitted like two halves of a jagged bowl.

***

I force another gulp of water down my throat. Curse the loud clock with its lazy hands. Is it just five minutes since I left the atrium? I press my head to the lacquered box that holds Aziz's unopened letters. Oh! God! I am lonely in America. I want Aziz.

The latest letter on top of the pile feels heavier, gives off a cloying smell. I drop the unopened envelope back in the box. Bad omens better remain sealed. I stare at it, lift it again, and weigh it on my palm. The same address, the same handwriting, the same stamps, yet a different smell. She is back to wearing Chanel No. 5. Aziz was with her when he wrote this letter.

Two sheets tumble out of the envelope. One in Aziz's handwriting, one in Butterfly's. The nerve! The audacity! I should read Aziz's letter first; hear his guttural, love-soaked voice; wallow in his “I miss you” and “I want you” and “Come back soon”; drink in the nicotine and olive soap scent of his hands that knew how to press on a nerve, stroke the length of a vertebra, trace expectant lips, then dismiss and abandon with a single wave.

A Monarch flutters through the window and lands on Butterfly's letter. It is early spring and Monarchs drunk on sunshine have abandoned the eucalyptus grove to warm themselves in the garden. Their invasion has painted my world many shades of orange. They feed on leaves and petals, blooms and host plants; drink from mud puddles and wet gravel; suck leftover fluids from the carcasses of insects. But above all, they are locked in a frenzy of mating. I've observed them with interest, timed them, marveled at their vigor, these frail creatures. It is a sight to behold, their courtship, the males pursuing females in the air, the females flirting to no end, the successful males luring the females down to earth to lock them in their grip for as long as it takes to impregnate them.

With a whisk of my hand, I shoo away the Monarch.

I unfold Butterfly's letter and read it first.

She framed the dried butterfly I sent her and keeps it at her bedside. She wants to know if I caught the Peacock butterfly myself. How sweet of me to dry it especially for her. She wants to know when my assignment will end. She misses me. Thanks me for inviting her to visit America. Of course she will come. When would be a good time?

Never, my friend. Never.

I remove Aziz's letter from the box and unfold it. I should tuck the letter back in the envelope and drop it in the box with the others. I should go out into the garden and visit with my owl. I should not allow Aziz to influence me. Not today that my blood is beginning to simmer with poison, yet I'm riveted to his confident handwriting, the places where the tip of his fountain pen ripped the paper. I shut my eyes to hold and hug the image of his hand inscribing the bold letters. What message do they contain?

My lovely Soree Jounam,

Come home! I'm lonely, the house empty, and Tehran dead without you. Why are you so seldom at home? Who's this Mansour who makes excuses for you? Since when has your work become so important that you would stay away on our twentieth anniversary? I'm jealous, Jounam. I need my woman. You better call or I swear on my mother's soul, I'll come to fetch you myself.

I gave that frightful, dried butterfly to your friend. I don't understand why in the world you'd mail a dead insect to anyone, unless you're up to one of your Soraya tricks. Anyway, she asked me to mail her letter with mine.

I wipe beads of sweat off my forehead. I am exhausted and queasy, and my throat is dry. I force some more mineral water down my throat. Fifteen minutes since I tasted the Corpse Flower. I feel the onset of nausea and churning cramps in my stomach, but I am lucid. Able to concentrate on the progression of symptoms I am experiencing.

I count my pulse. A doctor is not necessary. Given time and lots of liquids, the body will purge itself of small amounts of toxins.

I compute—an exact mathematical equation—how fast I'm losing strength. How often I visit the bathroom. Dry mouth, nausea, exhaustion, dilated pupils. Symptoms set in after fourteen minutes. How long will it take for the poison to taint my blood? I am on the brink of a momentous discovery.

Will determine the required dosage to cause—
Oh!
Excruciating pain in my lower abdomen! A door slams. Footsteps in the attic. An army of discordant sounds drum in my head. Chimes reverberate somewhere. In my chest? The beat of “The Blue Danube.” Lit candles stink stronger than Corpse Flowers.

Twenty-five minutes pass. They fucked to my waltz, to candles, and they—I am convulsing. Must call for help. The intercom. It's too far. The phone! Where is the phone? Where's Oni—Mansour? Crawl to the foyer. Cool marble. Ah! Cool. Breathe. Breathe. Don't faint. Delight. The Corpse Flower is fast. Lethal.