Scent of Butterflies (3 page)

This process the
mullah
is suggesting, of my becoming his
sigheh
, his temporary wife, is an easy procedure. A short prayer will legally join us as man and wife, removing religious barriers. Free him for sex. Once done with me, he will repeat “divorce” three times and the union will be annulled as if it had not occurred in the first place. Nothing to it! A respected Ayatollah recently endorsed temporary marriages based on the assumption that men are in need of “physical comfort” and the strained, post-war economy made marriage expensive.

A series of expressions scurry across his face, all of them appealing, each a testament to his desire for me.

Imagine! Just imagine Aziz's Soraya agreeing to become the temporary wife of a
mullah
she happened to meet on a plane ride to America.

I observe him with critical eyes, his carefully trimmed hair exposed below his turban at the nape of the neck and his crisp, white shirt under his religious garb. The well-shaped beard is masculine and his voice melodious. I attempt to clear my lungs of the assault of smells—licorice and cologne mingled with longing and deprivation. I could pinch my nostrils shut and tolerate him in order to relish the sound of Aziz's tormented voice.

—How could you,
Jounam
! How in the world could you—

I reach out and squeeze the
mullah
's hand, lay it flat and willing on my palm. I am mesmerized by the long fingers, the nail beds square, the back of the hand fleshy, the nervous yet decisive gestures, a reminder of Ayatollah Khomeini's condemnatory wave that dismissed the Shah, ushering in an era of chaos, not only in Iran but eventually in my private life. I raise the hand and press it to my lips, feel its dry warmth, the pulse at the tip of each finger.

—How could you,
Jounam
! How in the world could you—

Of course I can. Why not? I can and I will offer myself to this
mullah
, a man who embodies everything Aziz despises.

The hostesses are chatting behind the curtain; most of the passengers are asleep. Someone behind us has been writing for hours, his pen scratching, scratching like nails on sandpaper. My palm rests on my camera, an expensive piece of equipment my husband gave me as a gift, perhaps to assuage his guilt, or to keep me busy as he frolicked about.

I snap the case open and lift the camera, explain to the
mullah
that I am a photographer and would be honored to add his photograph to my private archives. It does not take him long to nod his permission.

Click!

I who have never, ever photographed a man other than my husband in that tender light reserved for lovers will now train myself to apply that same approach to snapshots of other men. I will become a collector of memories. Create an album, a compilation of photographs of men who will fall prey to my camera. I do not know what the stars have in store for me. What I know is that revenge must be extracted with calculated patience and complete emotional detachment.

The
mullah
retrieves a leather-bound notebook from his pocket. With an enamel, gold-tipped fountain pen, in elaborate royal-blue calligraphy, he inscribes his name—Mirharouni—and the phone number of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, tears the page off, and hands it to me.

I fold the paper into a neat square and tuck it in my purse.

Beyond the window of my penthouse suite at the Peninsula Hotel, past the palms and the high-rises, smog furls in the air and the sky is the color of grief. Crows screech in treetops. Church bells ring somewhere in the distance. Nature is agitated.

I have been in Los Angeles for two days, walking the streets, observing, studying this place that I must call home one day. I miss Tehran. The languid afternoons, the late-night revelries, but especially Mamabozorg's wise words dispensed with juicy pomegranate seeds, dried berries, and cardamom-scented tea bags she purchased for me in the bazaar, aware I can't tolerate dark tea.

If you are ever forced to leave your country, she advised me the day Ayatollah Khomeini set foot in Iran, go to a place where the sky is the same color as Tehran's. Young and naïve then, I had taken her words literally and had laughed out loud, reminding her that the skies are the same color everywhere. How wrong I was. This horizon is foreign and forbidding. It is not mine.

Americans, too, might not accept me. Despite the passage of two decades, how could they forget the hostage crisis, the burning of their flag, the shouts of “Death to the Great Satan” as their people were led, blindfolded, around the walled compound of the American Embassy, their humiliating images projected on television screens around the world?

Not many people walk the streets of Beverly Hills, and the few who do seem to be in a hurry. Commuters eat, drink, apply makeup in their cars. Joggers, speed walkers, and exercise fanatics behind health-club windows flaunt abnormally toned muscles. What function do these well-fed, well-exercised bodies have if they do not slow down to enjoy themselves, allow themselves to be admired? The neutral, sexless smells of perfumes and deodorants prevail in streets, restaurants, elevators. I miss the scents of excitement, fear, and arousal that permeated my past life.

Men's sensuality seems dulled here, their listless gazes turned inward. Aziz kissed with open eyes.

—Feel me with your mouth and your eyes,
Jounam
—

Does Parvaneh, that insect of a butterfly, lick the tips of your lashes, too, Aziz? Does she dream of your sleepy eyes that mirror the full range of your emotions—sadness, joy, and, above all, desire. Eyes that don't shed tears. Not the day we were married. Not the night you heard the news that your mother—still young—had died when her car veered out of control and toppled off the winding Chaloos Road. Not even that day in the doctor's office when you were convinced you'd never become a father.

Is Aziz attracted to her yearning to become a mother, the erotic longing she carries in full view? He must have succumbed to the softness in her womb, taken in by her seeming vulnerability, her seductive innocence. Is she as timid in private as she pretends to be in public? No! The Parvaneh I've known as my best friend must be very different from the woman he holds in his arms.

When did he first make love to her?

Despite my efforts to avoid the most painful question of all, it lingers like stale sin. Does Aziz have sex with her or make love to her? How could he bring himself to kiss her on the mouth, taste her saliva, the humid warmth he had searched for under my tongue? Our kisses, Aziz and mine, were wildly intimate. No one else, I assumed, would ever come to decode the language of our kisses.

I fooled myself into believing that I would welcome honest answers to my endless questions. But the last couple of days, in transient periods of clarity, I've come to realize that even if I had brought myself to ask, he would have been wise to lie. The truth is devastating.

I adjust the camera strap against my shoulder and lock the door of the suite behind me, cross the hotel hallway—an expanse of varying shades of persimmon—and take the elevator down to the bar. I have some time before I meet a real estate agent the concierge recommended. I grapple with a sense of excitement and dread at having to build a new life in unfamiliar territory—purchasing a house in a foreign land—a conclusive act, so final. Mamabozorg Emerald believed that no well-respected family would think of leasing—pay in cash, receive the goods in return, yours to own, forever.

—Forever mine,
Jounam
, and don't you ever forget!—

The hotel bar is bathed in the smoke and odor of cigars, greed, and burning cedar in the fireplace. A man in yellow spandex pants, better worn on the beach, occupies a stool by the bar; another man, lost in some other world, sits back in a leather chair, concern or sadness lining his handsomely tanned face. A young man smiles at me from a corner, a finger drumming on his temple as if to restructure his thoughts. The sight of a couple, clicking highballs of a chocolate-colored drink, overwhelms me with renewed grief and regret.

—
Besalamati, Jounam
, to your health, my life—

I raise the viewfinder to my eyes and take in the exceptional quiet in a place that bustles in the evenings with all types of men—American, Middle Eastern, European, and Iranian. I photograph the Cimmerian beauty of the mahogany walls, the anemic charm of the sconces, and the muted steps of servers who have been trained to beam at customers for no particular reason.

I pan my camera on the two men and ask if they would mind me taking a couple of pictures. Their lips part in smiles of approval. One man leans sideways in a charming pose against the bar; the other straightens his silk tie, then runs long fingers through his full hair. “What's the photo for, beautiful?”

“To make my husband jealous.” My laughter sounds false, loud, and unconvincing to me, but not to the men, who reward me with conspiratorial, flirtatious poses.

“Then go ahead, beautiful, take as many as you want. Nothing's sexier than a healthy dose of jealousy.”

The expected, magical reaction is occurring—actors at the beck and call of their tall, blond director and her camera. I snap a wide-angle shot as an overture, and then zoom in on their hungry-eyed and lust-flushed faces.

With the
click, click
of my camera, a pleasant echo in my chest, the discord in my head begins to unwind as I take one picture after another. “Thank you, gentlemen,” I purr. Their bodies relax and mold back into the supple luxury of leather chairs. “A few more and I'll be on my way.”

Click!

The flash of a row of keen teeth, a palm smoothing hair shiny with brilliantine, the spark of a pair of hazel-green eyes.

Click!

I press the rewind button and leave the bar in time for my appointment.

A broad-chested, elegantly dressed man is waiting in the foyer next to the mahogany table, by the flower arrangement, a burst of vulgar colors. An urge to rearrange and simplify his backdrop takes hold of me, the ever-nagging desire to honor aesthetical decorum.

He walks toward me and extends his hand. “Soraya?”

“Mrs. Aziz,” I correct as my fingers get lost in his strong grip.

“Mrs. Aziz. Steve Rivers, Bel Air Real Estate.” His stare lingers on the diamond studs on my earlobes and the amber necklace, my lifeline to Mamabozorg.

I take in his peppermint breath, glance at his broad chest and fair complexion. Good genes these American men have. Iranian men are rarely so tall, so blue-eyed, so utterly gullible, I've been told, and now believe, as he releases my hand as if letting go of embers. An Iranian man would have squeezed and held my hand, sized, undressed, and licked me with a gaze that spoke of a million possibilities.

“I lined up three exceptional properties for you,” Mr. Rivers says.

“Which one has the most land?”

“One is fifteen acres. It's one of the largest properties in Bel Air. It's been on the market for three days and comes furnished.”

“I'll see this one first.”

He points to my Nikon camera. “A photographer, Mrs. Aziz?”

I remove the camera from its case, my glance sliding over his face and down his body, the sharp crease of his pants, the high gloss of his Gucci shoes. “A photographer, yes,” I reply, but only of men, I want to add, but decide against it.

—Leave the camera behind,
Jounam
—Aziz would suggest when we were on our way for a stroll up the Tajrish overpass around the Shemiran Mountains—I want your undivided attention—

He will never know now that he always had that. Will never know that the camera was his best ally, that if ever a minute particle of my attention wandered off course, the viewfinder would attract and bring it back into focus like a magnet.

“May I take your picture, Mr. Rivers?”

“Of course.” A smile lights up his pale eyes. He straightens his back, relaxes his knees, leans on the table.

I check him through the viewfinder. The masculine outline of his body is beautiful. I zoom in on the angles of his features—the indentation below his cheekbones, his strong mouth, the curve of his chin—and frame him within the window of my awareness as the zoom lens draws him into intimate proximity. My brain shuts off the surrounding humdrum and my senses converge into the center of my retina. The possibilities are endless for me, a foreigner in a hotel at the edge of the world. I could invite him up to my suite, douse the flames, calm this unbearable turmoil, and no one would need to find out…except Aziz.

For my purpose, an Iranian man will serve better, of course. Aziz's Soree in the arms of a man who shares the same geography, culture, and language. That might prove difficult in America. But I am a patient and stubborn woman.

Steve Rivers holds open the front door of the passenger seat of his black Mercedes Benz, and to his visible surprise, I announce that I prefer to sit in the back.

As we drive along Wilshire Boulevard, the thought occurs to me that I have traded the familiar, lawless, traffic-choked streets of Tehran for the orderly lanes and stop signs of America. Look right, then left. The pedestrian has the right of way—always. A fresh set of aches settles in my bones. I was familiar with the system back home. Learned to bribe the authorities, found ways to sidestep the law, even create my own rules in the limited boundaries of the Jewish community I occupied. Who will I become here? Will this country force me into blind compliance?

The traffic light on the corner of Westwood turns red. I observe Iranians among the pedestrians. I know their looks, expressions, mannerisms, even the way they walk, in deep thought and with their hands clasped behind their backs. Some were prominent in Iran, forced to abandon the products of decades of hard work, hand their mansions and great fortunes over to the Islamic Republic, uproot themselves, and become paupers of Westwood. Others, who did not have a dime or a title to their names back home, have become moguls of Beverly Hills, stuffed their houses with gilded antiques and colorful carpets, and still, at every opportunity, lament an unfair revolution that dealt them a bad hand.

“You are exceptionally tall for an Arab woman,” Mr. Rivers says, shattering the positive image I had drawn of him.

“Iranians are not Arab, Mr. Rivers!”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Aziz. Didn't mean to offend you. Imagine experiencing a revolution. That's something!”

Certain that if I raise my camera, I'll capture this man's stupidity, I don't bother telling him that it would behoove him to pray to whatever God he believes in to never experience a revolution.

Up Sunset Boulevard and through the Bel Air east gate, mansions are wrapped in drowsy silence and the air is melancholy with ocean scents. The lush seascape of Ramsar, north of Tehran, comes alive like the deep cherry and azure shades of an Isfahan carpet. The lazy warmth of the Caspian Sea, the steaming peaks of its mountains, the seductive humidity under the jungle canopies.

Idle summers with Aziz.

Family trips with my friend, Parvaneh.