Scent of Butterflies (21 page)

“But you
must
have something stronger.” Sarcasm drips like stale honey from his voice. “Two shots of vodka, perhaps, to complete your get-up.”

“You don't approve,” she asks, a new defiance in her dark eyes.

“It doesn't matter,” I snap, regretting my lack of diplomacy and control. The elastic band of my luck is stretched to the limit. Another tug and it will snap. This is the worst time to raise suspicions, now that in the last forty-eight hours, I've successfully navigated my way through the explosive shores of our tangled relationship.

I pucker my lips and send an apologetic air kiss toward Butterfly. “Wine it is, then, for you. A martini, straight up, for me.”

Butterfly runs her fingers through her hair, arranges one leg alongside the other, and adjusts a bra strap that slips down her shoulder, appearing to enjoy the luxury of who she has become in this country. She raises her wineglass and clicks it against mine. A shared smile passes between the two of us, before her wandering eyes, those globes of adoration, flicker away to rest on Aziz in an instant of unintended recklessness that she quickly harnesses. She redirects her gaze around the room, resting here and there and nowhere in particular.

The temperature in the room is rising, a certain heat caused by the promise of what the night might bring—forbidden passions, excitement, and endless expectations.

She turns to me and mouths “handsome,” arching an eyebrow and gesturing toward the entrance to the bar.

The clink of goblets and flutes and the notes of the piano cease. A muted commotion somewhere behind. A chill creeps into the room. The throbbing of my heart beneath the thin fabric of my blouse.

Mullah
Mirharouni stands at the threshold.

He has abandoned his religious robe and turban. He wears a dark suit and white shirt left open at the collar. His face shows signs of a newly grown beard. In preparation for his return home, perhaps. His gaze swivels around the room. A glint of recognition flashes across his lizard eyes, followed by a cunning smile he quickly stifles.

A
sheitoun
devil takes sudden hold of me, and as if I am alone and the
mullah
a welcome and expected guest, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired a few days ago between the two of us upstairs in this very hotel, and as if I had not changed my mind at the last minute and left him high and dry in the throes of sexual arousal, I rise from my chair and wave, inviting him to join me.

A moment of hesitation. He buttons his jacket.

Warning bolts flash in my thrashing heart. This will not end well, not at all. But it is too late.

With quick, confident strides he is crossing the room toward us.

“Who the hell is he?” Aziz hisses under his breath.

“
Salam, azizam
my dear,” the
mullah
greets in Farsi with a voice as slippery as an eel.

I settle back into the comfort of my chair. “
Mullah
Mirharouni. Aziz, my husband. And this is Parvaneh, my good friend who I talked about. I met
Mullah
Mirharouni on the plane.”

Aziz narrows his eyes at me. “Already Westoxified?” he grunts under his breath.

Butterfly tries unsuccessfully to gather her curls and twist them in back, hug her bare arms, and conceal them under the table all at once. She sinks deeper into her seat. A
mullah
in a bar in America is not what she had signed up for.

Mullah
Mirharouni occupies the chair next to her. He extends his hand, but the traumatized Butterfly, having so recently shed her defenses, her many layers of camouflage, keeps her clasped hands under the table.

His outstretched hand, left unshaken, lingers for an instant in midair before Aziz grabs it. “So you met my wife on the plane,
Mullah
Mirharouni!”

“I had the supreme honor,
agha
.”

“Enjoyed her company?”

My cheeks scalding embers, I brace myself, torn between hoping for a truth that will hurt deeply, yet terrified of the irreparable damage.

The
mullah
tugs at one sleeve, then another, as if trying to pull the answer out. “Allah be great,
agha
. A servant of God is not worthy of such company.”

I hold my breath. The ritual of Iranian double-layered
taarof
and sitting on ceremony sounds sincere on the surface but conceals a truth none of us will like. I wait with morbid curiosity to hear what type of company I happen to be that the
mullah
considers himself unworthy of—a Jew, an infidel, a woman, or simply a tease?

“Such company?” Aziz taunts. “Enlighten me please.”

“I congratulate you,
agha
. Your devoted wife hardly looked up from her book. That she remembers my name is a mystery.”

Aziz drinks half his glass. He knows his wife better than to believe this.

Having delivered his lies, the
mullah
turns away from me, shifts his chair closer to Butterfly, snaps two fingers, and orders a double shot of vodka straight up. The clamor in my head prevents me from hearing what he is telling her. Color mottles her cheeks and rises all the way to her hairline. Please God, flirt, be yourself, Butterfly. Reveal your true colors.

The
mullah
tosses his head back and gulps down his vodka with the ease of someone who has spent a great deal of time in bars. Tiny beads of moisture appear on the bridge of his nose. He aims his glance at Butterfly's hands under the table. “
Rahat
bashid
.” He encourages her to be comfortable.

Aziz shifts in his seat, muscles tense against the insult, a lion bracing for the kill.

Butterfly casts her gaze down. She tweaks and smooths a crease at the edge of the tablecloth. Her hands creep up and rest in her lap.

The room is foul with roiling emotions.

Aziz's voice is loud and harsh. “My dear
agha
, please correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't the Koran forbid alcoholic drinks?”

“Ah! Yes, of course,” the
mullah
replies. “You are absolutely right. Alcohol is forbidden, especially to a man of God. But we are all human and in need of diversion now and then.” He aims a conspiratorial wink at Aziz. “I'm sure you understand.”

“No!” Aziz replies. “I don't.”

“Perhaps you do not want to,” the
mullah
retorts. “That, too, is a human trait.”

But I do understand. So does Aziz, I'm certain, even if he pretends otherwise, unaware that the
mullah
knows about his affair with Butterfly. Sweat trickles down my armpits at the kindled memories of having shared such intimacies with a stranger on the plane on my way to America.

Did the confession afford me some level of catharsis? Did it help me unburden? I'm not certain. What I know is that the
mullah
's calm reaction that day, which I recollect with chilling vividness, and his matter-of-fact pronouncement—“It happens more often than you think, sister”—was an explosive fuse that sent me hurtling deeper down the path I am on.

The
mullah
raises Butterfly's glass and hands it to her. She touches her lips to the rim of the glass and puckers her face. I observe her closely, the slight lift of one eyebrow, the subtle flare of her nostrils reacting to the smell of alcohol, the hesitant grip of her fingers as she raises the glass and takes a dainty sip. She puts the glass back on the table. She seems fascinated by a man of God who, in the span of fifteen minutes, has shattered every image she has had of
mullahs
. Never before has she found herself in such close proximity to a
mullah
, let alone in a bar, and with one who drinks the forbidden alcohol as if it were rosewater sherbet.

I latch my gaze on her, willing her to redirect her attention toward me. And she does. The two of us are masters in the art of silent communication. I wink, smile, nod my encouragement, raise my glass to her health and to what the night might have in store. I shut my eyes, throw my head back, and sip my drink, hot and burning like an insult. I am here, my friend, behind you all the way. Don't you worry your pretty little head. Expose your hidden self, the woman who puts the red-district whores to shame.

She raises her glass, dips a finger in the wine and licks it, takes a sip, then another and another.

The
mullah
hands his credit card to the waiter and orders another round of drinks for the table.

Aziz calls the waiter back and, without uttering a word, takes the
mullah
's credit card and hands the waiter his own. He plants the credit card in front of him. “I'll take care of my own.”

This drink Butterfly accepts with less resistance. A smile of adulation brightens her eyes as she exchanges pleasantries with the
mullah
. They laugh. Such effortless laughter, so full of shared understanding and tinted with wine and vodka and anticipation. Please God, let them walk out together. Right now. Right here. Right in front of Aziz.

And soon enough, as if Aziz and I are part of the furniture, the
mullah
's forefinger taps the back of Butterfly's hand, a playful, flirtatious gesture. I send her another encouraging wink and a discreet lift of my glass. She seeks his gaze with the intimacy of potential lovers, and, yes, she will rise on her drunken feet and leave with him. She certainly will. I breathe again, a breath so deep and fresh and full of hope that I can't remember the last time I enjoyed one.

Aziz throws his napkin on the table and abruptly rises to his feet. He growls under his breath that he has had enough of this charade between a Jewish woman and a Muslim stranger.

I smell his base note of jealousy in its raw and primitive state, devastating and explosive, smell Butterfly's top notes, black honey and brown sugar, sweet and cloying and more than a touch dirty, as she follows us out of the bar.

I flip the electrical switch on, and a harsh light saturates my studio and glares off the row of photographs suspended from a wire. My throat tightens at the sight of my forgotten album, abandoned like a bloody stain on the counter. The thought occurs to me to step back out and shut the door behind me, tell Aziz and Butterfly that this is not the right time. Then when
is
the right time, if not now, I wonder, opening the door wide and inviting them in.

I reach out for the album and hand it to Aziz. “I couldn't wait to show you my photographs. Result of my hard work here. Hope you like it as much as I do.”

Butterfly approaches the opposite counter. She steps back with a start. I hear the sudden intake of her breath at the display of Aziz's ravaged photographs spread on the counter. Her face turns the shade of bleached bone as she grips the edge of the table to steady herself. Last night's encounter with
Mullah
Mirharouni has left its mark, and she is back to understated makeup—a touch of blush and mascara—a long-sleeved pantsuit, and a foulard tied around her neck. Perhaps my plan backfired and she has raised her guard even higher.

Aziz has opened my album and, oblivious to his surroundings, is turning the pages, absorbed in the collections of my photographs, studying the image of every handsome man, American and Iranian, in one or another suggestive pose, every lusting gaze fixed on the photographer. Will he understand how the act of hunting, collecting, and trapping men in snapshots—bullets aimed at his heart, which might have become immune to such threats—has kept me sane?

I watch him run the pads of two fingers around the edges of a photograph and pray that if the Lord exists somewhere up there or down here, He will have the photos serve their purpose. Don't let it be too late, Lord. Don't let me lose my husband to the curse of indifference.

Aziz's lips acquire the pinched look I know well, and for an instant I am so delighted he still cares that I am about to hug and assure him that although he can't have Butterfly, I am here to stay.

And then he slaps the album shut and pushes it away. “Rubbish! You are a better photographer than this, Soraya.”

Never has he uttered my name as if it's an annoying insect he can't wait to flick away. I don't like it. I expected jealousy and devastation, not such indifference, accompanied by a gesture of his hand that dismisses and erases me all at once. I struggle to keep my emotions from playing on my face. I don't want him to see my enormous disappointment at this final discovery. Here I am, after endlessly casting my net here and there, yet now that the butterfly is at last caught, it's not the one I expected.

I stroke his cheek with the tip of one finger. “You are angry, Aziz. Why?”

“Not at all,
Jounam
. I just don't understand why you'd waste your time on these silly photographs.”

A flood of answers renders me momentarily speechless. I can tell him the truth, of course, tell him that I am doing this because I want to hurt him, ruin his heart and face, and make him weak and undesirable. But he is neither of these now. On the contrary. He is more desirable in the way he seems to distance himself from me as he turns away to study the enlarged photograph of himself. He scrutinizes it with a furrowed brow and a frosty gaze.

He shoves aside print tongs and dishes on the counter. With one fast motion, he unsnaps the print from the film clip and drops it face up on the counter. He bends to examine his massacred image—the acidic eyes, turmeric complexion, inflated lips, and dagger-hair painted with coloring brush. He traces the image of one of his ears, outlined with black, wide-tipped marker. I have often imagined the joy of watching the expressions of pain and anger duel on his face, the dredged-up cesspool of emotions. But that is not what I see. Plastered on his face is nothing but a look of disappointment.

“Do you like it?” I ask him.

He tosses the photograph away like a worthless piece of trash and stares at me as though I've gone mad like the Majnoun lover of Persian fairy tales.

“It's an experiment,” I feel the need to explain. “An exaggeration to make a point.”

The corners of his lips crinkle in a bitter smile. “Really? And what point is that, if I may ask?”

“To show what happens when you don't censor yourself. You create art that solicits all type of reactions. But judging from yours, I've failed.”

“I'm not sure how to react anymore. Your art. This place. Last night. I didn't believe that slimy
mullah
for a second, Soraya. I know you better than this. You'd never sit in a plane for twelve hours without striking up a conversation with someone next to you.”

“Please, please,” Butterfly implores. “Don't fight over last night or a stupid
mullah
. It's all my fault. I shouldn't drink so much when alcohol affects me like that. Can we just stop this and get out of here?”

“We are not fighting,” I silence her. “This is between me and my husband.”

Regressing to her childhood habit, Butterfly cups her left breast in her hand, weighing a guilt-heavy heart.

In the artificial light of the studio, Aziz's pupils have widened and darkened like a cunning animal, this man who knew me well once but does not know what to make of the woman he created. I want him to be afraid for us, afraid for all the years cloaked in secrecy, for the stink of deception that tons of attar can't wash off. In the menacing silence, I count three drips from the faucet. The house creaks and moans, attempting to settle around us.

Aziz sits on the stool by the sink, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and glares at the photograph.

Wanted alive and competent to stand trial.

“Well,
Jounam
, here I am! Alive and competent to stand trial. What am I on trial for?”

Sour odors saturate the studio. Mine, Butterfly's, and Aziz's, whose eyes have turned darker and harder than onyx. He slaps the print facedown on the counter. “Well, it doesn't seem like you're prepared for trial, Soraya, so pack your bags. I'm taking you home. No! No more excuses! I'm sick of them.”

Butterfly grabs the print and waves it in the air like a shameful banner. “Burn it, Soraya! Burn it now!”

“Take your hands off my picture!” I pounce toward her and seize her by the shoulders, shaking her like a lifeless rag doll.

Aziz jumps up from the stool. “Enough! What's gotten into you, Soraya? Leave her alone.”

Something stirs in my guts. Fear? No! I don't often experience fear. But I recognize a nagging sense that Aziz is tugging at the remaining threads that hold the torn pieces of our relationship together and is slowly and persistently unraveling the entire fabric.

Suddenly I feel like a dumb
ahmagh
clueless donkey. My husband is deeply in love. But not with me. He is in love with
her
. He did not make this trip, all the way to America, to take me back home. He is here because he can't bear being away from
her
, not even for the ten days she came to America.

No, I will not come undone and disappear. I might have lost my aura of mystery to you, but I've held on to the power of my secrets. I have a surprise for you, Aziz. None of us are going back home. I will cause you grief. Deep, devastating grief. Once Butterfly is gone, with no trace of foul play in the autopsy, I will not abandon you, Aziz, but be here to nurse you back to health as a good wife must. Watch over you while you suffer, damaged by shame and remorse and loss with no one to turn to but your faithful wife.

I hold my breath in until I can't bear the pressure in my lungs, exhale slowly and deliberately before facing the two of them, already huddled at the threshold, ready to flee, ready to leave me behind in my studio with nothing but my memories sealed in films and locked in black plastic cylinders lined up on the top shelf, abandon me to the stench of processing solutions, developing chemicals, stop bath, and failure.

I summon my sweetest voice and say, “I'm really sorry, Aziz. I shouldn't have done that to your lovely face. You, too, Parvaneh. Forgive me, will you? Let me make it up to you both. Go freshen up. I'll serve you delicious tea in my garden.”