Scent of Butterflies (18 page)

The last six days have been a whirlwind of action. The designer, Mansour, and Oni have carried out my orders to ready the house, the courtyard, and the gardens for Butterfly's arrival tomorrow.

Amorphophallus blooms are spread out on a wooden grate in the April shade. Every half hour, I stir the buds to dry them evenly. In the interim, I visit the courtyard to check on the plant, hum to it, and fertilize it, hoping it will forgive me and come back to life. I feed my owl extra helpings of juicy meat. Spray the flowers. Water the trees. Bribe the elements, I suppose, to continue to honor their regular rhythm.

Dew-laced spider webs sparkle like filigreed shawls among the coreopsis and purple cornflowers. Breezes carry the perfume of Autumn Joy and Ever Gold in the courtyard. The front garden is an aromatic tapestry of lively colors. The northern wall has vanished under climbing jasmines. Branches of the weeping willows graze the earth in supplication. And the recently arrived Monarchs are a different breed. They are thriving in the grove and seem immune to the rise and fall of temperatures, as well as plagues and all types of diseases.

I stir the blooms with a spatula, test some for consistency, and finding them dry, pour them into a mortar and begin pounding. Images take shape, solidify, and become sharper with every sigh and rustle of the dried foliage under the weight of the pestle.

I refused to replace our bed for all twenty years of my marriage because I believed it served me well. Yet there they were, moaning and writhing on my black satin sheets, surrounded by walls crowded with my photographs, a collage of my life with Aziz among our exotic animals—in bed with the black-necked cobra stretched between us. Aziz wearing a tuxedo while feeding the rhinoceros iguana of Haiti. My face a portrait of laughter as the red-eyed Madagascar frog peeks out of my cleavage. And opposite our bed, a close-up of our lips, my most cherished photograph.

—Keep your eyes open and give me your tongue,
Jounam
—

The crescendo of the waltz might soften one day, the stench of lit candles diminish, perhaps. But never will I cease to taste Aziz's tongue in Butterfly's mouth.

I pour the fine-powdered Amorphophallus, what amounts to one cup of distillate, into the airtight jar.

***

The black stretch limousine Mansour rented for the occasion heads down Veteran Avenue toward the airport. On my right, framed by clipped, geometrically precise blocks of grass, tombstones line a graveyard. Does it matter to the dead where they are buried? Do they care about the change of seasons? Mind that the grass never rests here?

I tap on the glass partition that separates Mansour and me and ask whether the cemetery is strictly for Americans.

“It's for war veterans,
Khanom.
”

“Do Iranians have separate cemeteries in Los Angeles?”

“I don't believe so,
Khanom
. I know of two Jewish cemeteries.”

“How long till the airport?”

“About thirty-five or forty-five minutes,
Khanom
, depending on traffic.”

Once again the partition clicks shut, and Mansour and I become strangers in a country we don't understand but have, for our own different reasons, chosen as our refuge.

The limousine slides to the curb at the airport, and Mansour jumps out to open the door. I raise one high-heel-clad foot, then the other, and am grateful for the unyielding concrete underfoot because my knees are trembling, and I feel hollow inside my skin as if my bones and muscles have turned liquid.

I avoid the walking belt and take weak steps toward the designated gate. A sour-faced woman behind the desk assures me that Flight 34 is on time from New York, where Butterfly changed planes from Paris. I settle down, remove my compact from my purse, and study my face in the mirror. My makeup is in place, the dark circles under my eyes covered by concealer. Blush camouflages my pallor. My lipstick is bleeding, and for some reason, that adds to all the
harjomarj
. Small flames singe my throat, in search of a pocket of air, a breath of oxygen, the smallest whiff of fuel to explode into full-fledged rage. I pull out a handkerchief from my purse and tidy my lipstick, the cherry tint harsh against my pale complexion, as is the sharp glint of iron in my eyes.

—
Jounam
, you're up to something. The devil is in your eyes again—

I am, Aziz, I certainly am.

I pace back and forth, sit for a few minutes, and then situate myself a calculated distance from the gate, where I can easily observe Butterfly's entrance. My bladder is about to burst, but I stay put for fear of missing her uncensored expression that might reveal minute details of her past hours, most recent sexual encounter with my husband, in my bedroom, on my bed, to the waltz of the Blue Danube, to the twisting shadows of scented candles, in front of my most cherished photographs that witnessed our kisses, Aziz and mine. Until Butterfly.

Who stands at the entrance of Gate 18.

My dear, pretty butterfly, with the life span of a moth, carries herself with unprecedented pride and confidence bordering on conceit.

An orange kerchief with black polka dots falls loosely over her hair, and for an instant she is a Monarch butterfly with not four, but many protruding eyes.

“May the Evil Eye keep its distance,” I murmur under my breath, covering my mouth and pretending to spit off the looming evil.

A long-sleeved, caramel-colored coat skims Butterfly's thin ankles. Her
chador
is tossed over her shoulders like a cape. She is not wearing her
chador
the conventional way Iranian women do—to conceal her sexuality and render herself chaste and asexual—but as an accessory to heighten his erotic pleasure, the pleasure of slowly peeling one layer after another to reveal the woman underneath. Her face, although masterfully painted, appears free of makeup, and her silhouette, despite being concealed under her coat, is a fluid motion of solicitation.

“Soraya!” she cries out, drawing her
chador
snug about her, and running toward me, her high heels sending her crashing into my wide-open arms.

I break her fall. Squeeze her to my breasts. “My friend! I missed you.” And to my surprise, I have. I miss our closeness, our exchange of secrets, our past innocence, shared tears for unrequited loves, and the gossip-laced laughter of women with nothing to hide.

Butterfly holds me at arm's length. “Let me see you, Soraya. You look wonderful. America's been good to you.”

Liar, I think, as she hugs me and kisses my neck, which she can hardly reach without my bending. Frail Butterfly in Soraya's embrace. Who is the elephant, who the mosquito buzzing in the poor elephant's ear?

I press her harder against me, inhale past the smell of her scarf and
chador
to reach other aromas trapped in her hair, analyze her top and base notes with their layered nuances that trace back to her most recent hours. Her heartbeat echoes in my chest, steady and strong and oblivious. Nestled in her hair is the scent of Aziz's olive soap and tobacco. So fresh, his sperm must be swimming in her.

My throat tightens to stop the rising bile even as my arms lock around her shoulders, squeezing her in a tight grip to conceal my face from her view. My gaze travels above and beyond her head, past the benches, the information desk, and a flight attendant rushing past another forming line of passengers.

Aziz stands at the gate.

He has come to fetch me.

Thank God I trimmed my hair, painted my toes, and wore my sheer paisley dress. Thank God I'm wearing the high-heeled sandals he likes. He walks toward me with calm, measured steps. His overpowering presence obliterates the surrounding mayhem, blots out everything but his delicious appearance and the outline of his strong mouth that parts with pleasure at the sight of me. He has lost weight. His cheekbones are more pronounced, his features more chiseled. A patina of sadness renders him even more desirable.

His loose tie is slightly askew. After a day of traveling, his white shirt remains spotless and his approaching scent tempting. The hairs on his chest show through his unbuttoned shirt. I glimpse a few gray strands that were not there before. A stir of contradictory emotions! Rage. Sadness. Delight.

He opens his arms. Our tongues greet. “My Soree.
Jounam
, my life.”

My uterus contracts. Warm blood trickles down my thigh. No! My menstrual cycle is not due for another week.

A sweeping tide washes over me, and I yield to a vortex of blessed darkness.

I am lying on the sofa in my library, my head in Aziz's lap, his hand in my hair. I feel weak and hardly able to speak, the trip from the airport back home a flurry of hazy recollections. My giddy heart and confused brain fight one another.

What am I to do now? What am I to do with the album of my collection of men on the table in the drawing room and with the butterflies in the cabinet? What am I to do with the china cups and the jar of Amorphophallus tea locked behind glass cabinets in the kitchen? I had prepared for Butterfly's arrival, had an explanation for the album and my new photographic style. But Aziz is here now. And everything feels off balance and in desperate need of readjusting.

He helps me rise from his lap. I twirl my wedding bands to stop myself from falling into his arms, hanging around his neck, and pounding my fists against his chest. I want to trace the outline of his lips that seem drawn by chocolate, stroke his lashes, seize his nicotine-stained fingers, and bury my face in his scent of smoke and olive soap.

I want to take him by the hand and lead him out, splash his face with cold water, help him freshen up and change into comfortable clothing, because I can't bear to witness the fatigue shadowing his lovely eyes. Instead, I sit on the couch in my library with all the books and the grandfather clock that chimes “The Blue Danube” and gaze at him like a stunned
ashegh
lover. “Where is Butterfly?”

“I don't know,” he replies absentmindedly. “I got you a gift for our anniversary.” He unfurls a silver ribbon from around a box and tears off the gray wrapping, revealing a case with an embossed emblem of the House of Buccellati.

A pearl pin in the shape of a phoenix lounges on a bed of satin. A precious jewel I admired years ago, when Gianmaria Buccellati invited us to a private tour of his atelier, recounting how he first visualized a pearl as the body of a phoenix, its feathers yellow, orange, and green diamonds.

I own golden pearls from Burma, black and green pearls from Tahiti, white South Sea pearls from Australia, and bracelets made of the rarest of conch pearl. But this extraordinary piece of jewelry is more precious than anything I've ever owned.

Aziz fastens the phoenix brooch to my sweater. His touch is soft, and his tender smile transforms him into the innocent husband I once knew. “Our first anniversary away from each other. Let's make sure it doesn't happen again.”

A hundred and thirty-six carats of the most rare and magnificent gems in the world are attached to my sweater, and I only have eyes for him.

“Come,
Jounam
, come tell me why you didn't answer my phone calls.” He utters this without a trace of accusation.

“Of course, I called, Aziz. I called many times. But sometimes it's difficult to get through.”

“Yes, the authorities are increasingly censoring calls. Especially from America.” He shifts slightly away, scrutinizing me with his sharp gaze. “You lost weight, you know. Interesting, how missing our love affects us in strange ways.”

My husband's words and their subtle nuances roll under my tongue. I can't tell whether he is joking or serious, whether he is referring to my love for him or his for Butterfly.

I put my head on his shoulder, stroke the phoenix like a nice, grateful wife. Why such an expensive gift? To stir the ashes of our love? To solder the irreparable shreds of what was?
Baksheesh
, I suppose, absolution money. I want to plant a hundred kisses on his treacherous eyes, then yank them out of their sockets and hand them back to him in his Buccellati gift box.

“My Soree,
Jounam
, call me selfish if you want, but it was lovely of you to faint in my arms. See why you need me? To catch you.”

He touches my lips with the tip of two fingers, and I want to stroke the fingers that are embers thawing the chill in my bones. Instead, I reach out for the bell and summon Oni.

Tray in hand, she slithers into the library, soft-footed and apologetic. Her suspicious, tight-lidded eyes observe our houseguest, an unprecedented event. She bows twice to Aziz before putting the silver tray with gold-rimmed porcelain cups and a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, next to a vase of English lavender buds that resemble violet bumblebees. Their scent is supposed to mask bad odors and repel insects, but Butterfly steps into the library, her
chador
wrapped around her as if to conceal her shame in its folds.

“I love your place, Soraya. Did
you
name it Paradise of Butterflies?”

“Yes, it had a different name.”

Butterfly's face lights with gratitude. “Thank you, my friend.”

“No, no need to thank me. It's the least I could do for you.”

Oni holds out a box of assorted tea bags for Butterfly to choose from.

“How negligent of me!” she exclaims as she flops down on the sofa. “I should've brought tea leaves. You must miss Persian tea.”

I miss more than Persian tea. I miss Mamabozorg's guidance that was full of compassion and wisdom. I miss Madar's devotion that I once considered stifling, but that was displayed in the most affectionate ways. I miss my garden with the resplendent family of quetzals, the Mandarin duck, and my psychedelic, proud-necked iguanas. I even miss the absurd television shows that conceal faces of male singers behind painted flowers in fear of arousing women.

And I never thought that one day I'd miss the
pasdaran
Morality Police, who could be bribed now with a few
toumans
and subtle flirtation to disregard a touch of lipstick and a dash of mascara. I miss Baba who loved, hardened, and protected me the best way he knew. And I miss Parvaneh, my former friend and confidant, the woman who mirrored my triumphs and faults.

But above all, I miss my husband, Aziz. Deeply miss what she stole from me. “Yes, Parvaneh, I miss Persian tea. What would you like? Orange spice tea? Mint? Apple cinnamon? Try champagne rose, my favorite.”

“Morning Thunder, please.”

An expression of subdued amusement dances in Aziz's eyes. “Morning Thunder? I'll have that, too. Will keep me wide awake and at my wife's service!”

Did I hear Butterfly stifle a sigh?

Aziz turns to her and cocks an eyebrow in the seemingly discreet language of traitors.

Oni tiptoes on her slippers. She glances at me with exaggerated wrinkling of her eyes as if to warn me of impending doom.

“Thank you, Oni. Prepare supper for our guests.”

She bends her knees and lowers her head, her leather soles swish-swishing out the door and across the corridor to the asylum of the kitchen.

The moment Oni is out of earshot, Butterfly asks, “
Laleh
? Is she mute?”

“No,” I reply. “The shock of her husband's infidelity,
zabanash
ra
dozdideh
stole her tongue and made her speechless.”

Butterfly casts her eyes down. “Poor woman. But how do you know? Does she sometimes talk?”

“No, but she has that pinched, betrayed look.”

Aziz begins to say something and then changes his mind.

An awkward moment of silence lingers, until I come to my senses and stifle the urge to speed the process of shaming and hurting. Patience, Soraya, do not deviate from your plan! “Come, let me give you a tour of the house.” I want them to see where I live, what my life has come to. I want Aziz to see what I have become in his absence. Want him to acknowledge our loss.

The chandelier in the drawing room splashes everything with lethargic hues—the gray walls, pale-colored settee, angular armchairs, and hard, cold granite table. This morning's airport chill is giving way to a warm evening, and through the French windows, a heavy fog is descending upon the gardens. The bong of the grandfather clock gives me a jolt.

“Not your taste,” Aziz says. “This house. The décor, the furniture. Everything.”

“It's expected, isn't it,” I reply with a smile, not certain whether he is being judgmental or surprised.

“Expected?”

“For my taste to change when I am out of your sight.”

“Perhaps,
Jounam
. But it won't happen again! I won't let you out of my sight again.”

Every muscle strains to keep the smile on my face.

Cup of hot tea in hand, Butterfly settles down in one of the black, wooden chairs around the table.

My red album, 1999 stamped in gold on its spine, lies on the table like a bloody centerpiece.

She sips tea, slides the album toward her, and lifts the cover.

I approach from behind and slap the album shut. This is not for her. This special gift, the men enshrined between the covers of my album, is for my husband.

I cross the hall and walk straight to my studio. Place the album on the counter with my photographic paraphernalia, close the door behind me, and drop the key in my pocket.

Butterfly stares at me with surprise. “What do you have in that album, Soraya? Since when do you keep secrets from me?”

“No secret. Just a special surprise.”

“For me?”

“And Aziz. Be patient, darling, it's worth it. Come, I want to show you my beautiful butterflies.”

“These butterflies on the walls,” Aziz exclaims, with a sweeping gesture of two hands that encompass the entire room. “It's so morbid.”

I take him by the hand and lead him to the display cabinet. The glare from the chandelier makes it hard to see inside. He cups his hands around his eyes to take a better look through the glass panel.

“Aren't they beautiful, Aziz?”

His voice is low in my ear. “Ugly,
Jounam
, and useless.”

“Don't say that!” I hiss back. “My best friend's name is Butterfly.”

He throws his arms up. “So don't stick pins in them.”

“I didn't. Told you the owner of the house is a lepidopterist.”

“Yes, you certainly did.” Then without warning, he plants a kiss on the back of my hand. Like old times when we couldn't keep our lips from touching. But the words he murmurs into my cold palm send a shiver across my spine. “You have changed, Soraya. And I don't like it one bit.”

I want to say that I don't like what happened to us, either, to my husband, to our lives. Instead, slyness creeps into me, the desire to know more, know every sickening detail, so I ask, “How have I changed, Aziz? Tell me.”

“Look around you,
Jounam
. This isn't you. And why in the world do you need such a large house in the first place? Why aren't you at the Peninsula? Something's up with you.”

Butterfly buzzes behind us like an annoying mosquito. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Telling my Soree she's full of surprises.” Aziz circles my waist and draws me closer to his lingering scent that never fails to rattle and unmoor me.

“She certainly is,” Butterfly says, “
Yadeteh
, remember, when you dyed your hair red because a stupid professor said redheaded Jews are descendants of King Solomon and lack a common-sense gene?”

I burst out laughing at the memory. “I can't even remember the fool's name. Remember when Baba threatened Aunt Tala?”

“
Khodaya
! How can I forget? She fed me so well after that. I became plumper than a lame goose.”

“The things we did. I can't believe I pulled down your bathing suit in…”

Butterfly gestures with a finger to her lips. “Not in front of Aziz.”

“Come on, Parvaneh, tell. Was it in the
hamam
? No, no, in our pool on our twelfth birthday.” I pinch her playfully. “You were as flat as a skillet.”

Oni steps in and gestures that supper is ready, leading us into the dining room. I move the food around on my plate—baby spinach and heart of palm salad, roasted chicken and steamed broccoli—and nibble on a piece of lettuce, pretending to eat. I will never know if Butterfly will pile Aziz's plate with the juiciest piece of chicken, spoon out tender heart of palm, and grind a pinch of pepper on top, because Oni, with great pride, has taken it upon herself to serve us.

The curtains quiver in the warm breeze that makes its way in from the courtyard, transporting the odors of the Corpse Flower, wet and cloying as a traitor's slap.

Butterfly's nostrils flare. “Strange smell!”

“Yes. Stink of goldfish. I bought them for the New Year. They didn't last more than a week. All fifteen died. Tossed them in the garbage disposal.” I don't say that on the first night of Noruz, instead of following custom and having goldfish swim in a bowl of clear water for good luck, instead of partaking of the delicacies Mansour had set on the table, food that started with the letter S for happiness, prosperity, and long life, I had gone out hunting for a
mullah
.

Aziz folds the napkin on the table and plants a kiss behind my ear. “Show me the bedroom,
Jounam
.”

The dreaded moment is here at last, and I am not prepared. Aziz wants me all to himself. I hold his face in both my hands and look straight into his fickle eyes. “Make yourself comfortable, my love. I'll be back after I show Parvaneh to her room.”