Scent of Butterflies (12 page)

We have grown to trust each other, my owl and I. Her lingering gaze follows me from wherever she happens to be: perched on top of the atrium, on one of the granite benches in the sunken courtyard, on the lip of the reflecting pool, swooping down nearby while I tame a creeping jasmine around the gazebo, or recently barking behind as I enter the eucalyptus grove to check on the newly arriving Monarchs.

I stroke her plumes that in sunlight are the russet shades of autumn leaves, caress the silky parting in the middle of her breast and the slightly damp feathers of her warm belly. Snippets of my developing history take shape in the mirror of my owl's eyes, where my grandmother's image is reflected. I see her plant her footstool nearby. She is here to help me reconstruct memories, to locate the time and place Aziz and Butterfly's affair began.

Mamabozorg must have been aware of the betrayal the day she had summoned us to tea in her rose garden. She must have known that the plague of whores had struck her own beloved granddaughter.

That day, five years before, my father, Butterfly, and I sat on a wrought-iron bench opposite a table of Italian stone set with rice cookies and narrow-waisted teacups with filigreed holders. Baba wore a double-breasted, pin-striped three-piece suit and wide burgundy bow tie. With his slicked-back hair and clutching a pair of leather gloves, he resembled a displaced prince among Mamabozorg's roses and Persian jasmines, his backdrop a turquoise-tiled pool. I liked my grandmother's garden, enjoyed engaging in conversations amid the magnificent setting of rare hybrid roses flown in from Holland.

Butterfly sat erect at the edge of her seat, the scent of her perfume heightened by perspiration. She never felt at ease in my grandmother's company. I did not blame her.

Mamabozorg was a formidable presence. Although illiterate, she ruled her family with wisdom and a sharp tongue. She had opinions on every matter, and nothing could stop her from voicing them in an emphatic manner.

Her indispensable footstool tucked under her arm, she emerged under the marble arches of the veranda and stepped down the stairs, approaching through an arbor of jasmines. Her Owl of Reason sailed overhead, casting its shadow like a protective
chador
. Despite her short stature and her weight that made it difficult for her to walk, she dressed in the latest European fashions and the most expensive Parisian fabrics. No matter the color or style of her dresses and shawls, year after year, and for as long as I can remember, the same chain of amber beads lay coiled on her generous breasts, her blue-gray curls twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and her nails painted the shade of onion peel.

She set her footstool among the rose bushes, shifting it slightly farther back to better observe us all with a sweep of her sharp eyes. Translucent powder collected in her well-seamed face, proof of a life spent more in her garden than inside her mansion. She paused to catch her breath, then signaled for the servants to serve tea steeped with cardamom and sprigs of mint. The owl settled on her lap. Another pair of eyes to scrutinize us.

Mamabozorg clasped her hands around her bird and appraised Baba and me for what felt like an unbearably long time. She dismissed Butterfly as if she was not worthy of much consideration. It was a brilliant autumn day, the previous day's rain marks still visible on surrounding bushes and trees. I wondered about the unexpected chill in the air. Why was there no sign of the nightingales? Even the normally inebriating scent of roses was muted.

Without bothering to welcome us in her usually warm manner, Mamabozorg abruptly addressed my father. “Son, the situation is dire. Tragic! We are losing our young and old to a plague of temptation. Look around you! Whores are thriving like water hyacinths in the polluted waters of our society. These women breed contagious diseases. Suffocate everything in their path. Green plague! That's what they are. Do something.”

It was a well-known fact that after the Iran-Iraq war many women who had lost their husbands to war were forced into prostitution to support their families. Even today, in 1999, prostitution remains widespread, not only in the southern new city and the red light district, but also in affluent northern areas of the capital, where late in the evenings,
chador
-clad women by roadsides tempt with an expert opening and closing of the veil that reveals naked bodies. On that day in my grandmother's garden, six years had passed since the war ended, yet the government did not show any interest in improving the situation.

Baba slapped his gloves against his palm. The threatening thump of leather against skin. “What exactly do you expect me to do, Madar? It's hard enough to keep my own family in line, let alone change the world. Unless
you
have a brilliant solution.”

“But
you
are the one with all the brilliant solutions, son.”

“Please do not
taarof
, Madar,” my father replied. “Anyway, what exactly is all this fuss about?”

True to her Persian heritage, Mamabozorg had begun with
taarof
, the ritual of sitting on ceremony, being polite and seemingly sincere, but concealing her true intentions. “Now that you ask, son, I'll tell you.”

A passing plane overhead muffled all sound. We glanced up. Mamabozorg shuddered, pressing her eyes shut. She must have evoked the memory of Reza Shah and Iran during World War II. No matter how often the political situation of the time was explained, she never came to terms with the decision of the allies to drive her beloved king out of his homeland. She touched a finger to her lips as if to tame and soften the impact of her next words.

“Tell me, son. Tell me why you changed your will. It is very
mashkook
to me. Quite suspicious. Didn't you do more than enough for her?” An amethyst ring flashed on the forefinger Mamabozorg directed at Butterfly, who seemed to shrink in her skin.

I held back a gasp of surprise. A trickle of cold sweat carved a path down my spine. Here, at last, was the reason we were summoned, the reason my mother was not included in this meeting. Why would Baba change his will in Butterfly's favor? He was a kind man and certainly generous, that much I knew, but this was a remarkable act, especially in the face of Madar's disapproval.

My father sat there, seething, uneasy that Butterfly and I, thirty-two-year-old married women, were present while Mamabozorg scolded him as if he were a naughty teenager.

Butterfly did not move from the edge of her seat, her knuckles white as death from gripping the stone tabletop. She appeared small and frail, as if a slight breeze might snuff her out. I longed to console her. But Mamabozorg would allow nothing to temper the gravity of the moment.

Baba knotted his eyebrows and pressed his steel-gray eyes shut, as if to squeeze an offensive idea out of his brain. “I have my own reasons, Madar, among them my promise to Butterfly's dying mother. And if you have to know, I will
not
allow excessive wealth to warp my wife and daughter's moral compass, especially when I'm not around to rein them in.”

“Nonsense!” Mamabozorg lashed out, startling the owl into a flutter on her lap. “Your wife and daughter are not horses to be reined in, and since when have you become such an extraordinary
asbsavar
horseman?”

Baba removed the cushion from under himself and tossed it aside on the bench. “Madar
jan
, my family is
my
responsibility, not yours.”

Mamabozorg's voice turned soft. “Yes, my son, of course. In that case let me remind you that
cheraghi
keh
beh
khaneh
halal
ast
beh
masjed
haram
ast
.” She stroked her owl's underbelly as she reminded her son that he needed to take care of his own before showing charity to others.

Baba stood up, brushed imaginary dust from his trousers, and announced that Mamabozorg had the right to do whatever she chose with her own wealth, as he had the right to dispense with his own as he saw fit. If, in the process, he kept his promise to a dear friend, so be it. He planted a kiss on his mother's forehead and then motioned to Butterfly and me to take our leave with him.

I held on to the chair handles and attempted to pull myself up. But my legs had turned to sawdust and I couldn't move. How could Baba encourage my independence, yet attempt to control me by withholding his money?

“Sit down, Soraya,” Mamabozorg ordered. “I'm not done with you.”

My heart reacted, giving up a beat, slapping against my chest. What now? What had I done?

Sunlight filtered through Mamabozorg's hair, turning each to silver filament. She drew a great breath, and her eyes acquired that faraway look of being embroiled in her own thoughts.

My father turned his back to us and, with Butterfly in tow, marched under the arbor and climbed the steps onto the veranda. His stiff gait and retreating back conveyed the enormity of his anger. Butterfly glanced back at me with pleading eyes and then smoothed down her skirt with nervous urgency as the two of them disappeared into the house.

A breeze from the Alborz Mountains ruffled the gray curls at the nape of Mamabozorg's neck. A pulse beat at the corner of her mouth. Demanding complete silence, she clapped to startle away a group of chattering pigeons that had appeared to peck on leftover cookie crumbs. The owl flapped its wings against her belly. She nuzzled its feathers and it let out a low bark, puffed up, and settled back. She cupped the bird's head in her palm. Was she attempting to calm the bird or to communicate with it in the ancient language of silence?

“Listen to me, Soraya,” she said at last. “I am leaving everything I have to you.”

“Oh! No, Mamabozorg,” I cried out in shock. “What's wrong? Are you sick?”

“Don't interrupt, Soraya! Have I taught you nothing? Patience! Bite your tongue for a second. I'll explain. You have always been like the daughter I wanted but never had. The independent woman I aspired to become but never entirely succeeded. Yes, I know. Becoming the Shah's jeweler was not a small feat, but my dream was to become a doctor. Not an ordinary medical doctor. I wanted to mend souls. They're called therapists these days.

“I wanted to help abused women who conceal their pain in their hearts and their bruises under
chadors
, especially women traumatized by the illegal abortions those cursed backwater charlatans perform every day.” She tapped on her heart. “It still hurts here after all these years. I was only a child when I lost my mother to one of those botched abortions.”

I pushed back my chair and stood, my shadow rising with me, moving ahead to embrace her. “I didn't know any of this.”

“Sit, my dear. There's so much about me you don't know. Did you know how deeply I loved your grandfather? No. I never talk about that either. Nor do I like to talk about that black year of gloom after he died. I was young and hopeless and ready to end my own life. But the angel of death had more pressing matters to attend to. So, I picked myself up and dusted my grief off. I survived a lot of ups and downs. Yes, I did. And God blessed me with a good life. But I'm old and tired now and have one last wish, Soraya. I want you to break this chain of oppression. I want you to fulfill the dream I wasn't allowed.”

I slowly settle back in my seat. “Please, Mamabozorg, stop saying these things. You're scaring me. Are you sure you're well?”

“Yes, my child, I am well if one can call this well.” She waved her arm up and down her short frame. “My body still acts like an eighteen-year-old, although I can't say the same for my spirit. Anyhow, I want you to open an account in
yengeh
donya
, somewhere civilized and far from here, Soraya. I'll wire-transfer everything into your account. And, Soraya, not a word to your father or husband. Promise.”

I was stunned not only at the enormity of her decision, which would make me an even wealthier woman, but also at the repercussions she would face when my father would inevitably discover that she had refused to leave her fortune to him, her only son. Although Baba had told Mamabozorg she had the right to dispense with her wealth as she saw fit, he surely did not expect
this
. “I don't need your money, Mamabozorg. And, anyway, you'll live many, many more years.”

“Don't argue with me, Soraya. Do this for me.”

“Mamabozorg,” I whispered, afraid the servants might be eavesdropping. “Let me share this honor with Baba and Aziz.”

“Don't let me down,” she sighed. “
Eltemas
mikonam
, I beg of you. No one must know, not even after I am dead and long gone. I want this account to be in your name alone. Be realistic, will you? No sentimental ‘we' and ‘us' and ‘husband and wife must share everything.' Aziz and your father are good men. Yes, they are. They are also strong men, smart men. And like all such men, they are manipulative and controlling.”

I tucked a strand of her thinning hair behind her ear and pressed my lips to her temple to inhale the lavender scent of her skin. “But they are family…It would be a betrayal.”

“Grow up, Soraya!” Mamabozorg cried out, throwing her arms up and sending her owl into a flurry of protesting growls. “Loyalty is not about blurting out everything that's on the tip of your tongue. Didn't you hear me? Don't give your man the
aslaheh
ammunition he will use against you.”

“I love and respect you, Mamabozorg, but I can't accept your gift. I don't know how to keep secrets from Aziz, or even Baba…”

“Listen, you stubborn girl. Now that you force me, I'll tell you that I decided to do this recently after I had a nightmare. Didn't want you to worry, nor tell your father, who doesn't believe in dreams. I dreamt that my family was lost in a desert, surrounded by a network of endless, dark paths, the earth shaking violently under our feet and about to swallow us all up.