Scent of Butterflies (19 page)

I guide Butterfly into the foyer of bedroom suites, every detail of which I personally oversaw. We step into a pink-colored fairyland, antique crib and changing table, miniature dining- and living-room sets. An electrical train snakes its way from one room to another. Battery-operated dogs and cats tumble and roll, bark and meow. China dolls dressed in lace and velvet gowns sit, stand, or recline on shelves. Open closet doors reveal tiny patent shoes with bows, small straw hats with satin ribbons, girly beaded purses with rhinestone clasps, and taffeta evening dresses for babies.

“
Khodaya
! My God!” Butterfly screams, jumping around, hugging me, and planting a kiss on my arm. “You're pregnant! Success at last. So happy for you.
Mobarakeh
, congratulations!”

At the sight of her genuine joy and excitement, a heavy weight settles in the pit of my stomach. One by one, I lock the closets as if to deadbolt my cruelty in there. Pick up the battery-operated toys and turn them off. The racket of electrical train, barking dogs, and nursery rhymes dies down. “I'm not pregnant. Oni must have done it. She likes to wind up the mechanical toys. I don't know why.”

Tears flash in Butterfly's eyes. I wipe a tear off the tip of her lashes. She sobs, falling into my arms, her body shaking with the force of her grief. “Sometimes I think I should leave Hamid and marry someone who can have children.”

I murmur how sorry I am for her, how deeply I feel her longing. And I do. I run a hand over her stomach and feel the muscles tighten under my touch. We exchange glances the way we did not long ago, when we shared silent secrets.

I yank the blanket off the crib and toss it over the row of dolls on the shelves. “If it didn't belong to the owner of the house,” I lie, “I'd give them all away. Come, let's get out of here!”

“I want to be like you, Soraya. Accept my fate and move on.”

Chera
delam
misouzeh?
Why the burning in my heart for her? Why do I pity her, when she has no compassion for me?

She wraps her arm around my waist and wipes my cheeks with the gossamer
harir
fabric of her
chador
, which has turned dark with my tears. “Don't worry, Soraya. I've learned to cope. I'm fine most of the time.”

“Of course you are, my friend. Come. Let me show you your room.”

Butterfly observes the black sheets on the bed in the guest suite, purchased for her arrival, the scented candles flickering on the bedside tables, the bottle of Chanel perfume on the dresser. She cocks her head and listens to “The Blue Danube” playing on the CD player. A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrays her feelings; an attempt to scratch her thigh transforms into a fist she conceals behind her back.

“It's lovely here, Soraya. Thanks. Feels like home. Where did you find the sheets? They remind me of Tehran.”

Of course, they do, my friend. You had sex with my husband on similar sheets, wore the same perfume, lit the same candles, played the same music.

“Chanel! My favorite perfume.” She raises the bottle from the dressing table, removes the stopper, and dabs perfume behind her ears.

I open the windows and draw in a few deep breaths, linger there, hoping and praying to hear my owl's voice of reason above the surrounding chaos. “I hope you are staying long, Parvaneh.”

She flops on the bed, arms and legs splayed in a defenseless posture. “Ten days. Don't want to leave Hamid alone for more than that. It's the first time I won't be celebrating the Thirteenth with him.”

From ancient Zoroastrian times to the present, it is customary for Iranians to gather outdoors on the thirteenth day of Farvardin, the end of the New Year celebrations, to honor nature and its rebirth. Blades of green sprouts that graced tables are tied, then cast into running water, a ritual intended to bring good luck in the coming year.

I attempt to riffle through her words to reveal their true meaning, but the overpowering scent of Chanel is confusing. My sense of smell numbed. I'm lost, blind, unable to identify the undercurrent of odors that would reveal her true emotions.

“Don't look so sad, Soraya. Ten days is a long time.”

Yes, my friend, it is. You'll have a wonderful and exciting ten days. Like a “Butterfly Week,” beautiful, but short-lived. Even the best of times must end.

A spark of an idea occurs to me. Why not take care of business tonight? Then there won't be any tomorrows for her to follow me and Aziz around and intrude on what must occur next. When she comes down with cramps, I'd tell Aziz that she must have had bad food on the plane, that another cup of tea would calm her stomach and that a doctor is unnecessary. And soon, after another cup of special tea, peace and harmony will be restored.

But, no, I am not ready to forego the pleasure of observing the two of them react to the prints in my studio and the swarms of Monarchs in the eucalyptus grove. Not ready to forego the pleasure of watching Aziz react to Butterfly's transformation in America as I tempt, even force, her to discard her
chador
and reveal the whore concealed underneath. My album of men is an altogether different matter. That must be presented to Aziz at the right time, once Butterfly is gone and he is at his most vulnerable.

We face the dressing table with its framed mirror and gaze at each other, Butterfly and me, as if we are still teenagers and scrutinizing our budding breasts, forming curves, and new growth of pubic hair. We might as well be naked. We know each other too well, the two of us, not only every inch of our bodies, but our shared hopes and dreams and shattered illusions.

Butterfly's arched brows resemble a lark in flight, the peach fuzz on her upper lip that she bleaches with harsh chemicals glitters in the light above the mirror. The red beauty mark on top of her right eyebrow, which I found exotic once, looks like a drop of congealed blood. I cup her face between my hands and gaze at her brown, admiring eyes. Stroke the outline of her naked lips; press the plump center with one finger, forging a different kind of a bond. I draw her closer to me and press my mouth to the lips Aziz likes to kiss.

A moment of hesitation, a soft intake of her breath, before she steps away. Pats her lips with her
chador
and then manipulates it around her waist.

“Put the
chador
away, Parvaneh. You won't need it here.”

“You sound upset, Soraya.”

“Not at all. Just that it's considered backward to wear a
chador
here.” I take the
chador
, spread it on the bed, and fold it carefully, slipping it in back of the closet and out of sight. “You won't need the
manteau
either.”

“Until tomorrow?”

“We'll see how you feel about it tomorrow.” I walk to the bed, lounge on the covers, and pull myself up to lean against the headboard. Aziz will have to wait while I slowly undress my friend to reveal the woman he finds more attractive than me, to study the intimate turns and grooves of the woman he caresses, licks, and whispers endearment to. Yes, he will have to wait while I reveal the hypocrisy of a woman who wraps herself like a mummy in public, yet has no qualms about transforming herself into a one-penny whore in his arms.

She removes her coat, exposing her ankles and wrists, the most tempting parts of a woman, according to the
mullahs
. Is Aziz drawn to her small wrists, the two delicate veins that run up her ankles, her narrow waist cinched with a silver chain-link? The hem of her blue dress flares out as she walks toward the closet to hang her coat. She unbuckles her belt and rolls it neatly on one of the shelves. She turns her back to me. Struggles to unzip her dress. The silk slides open to reveal the delicate bones of her shoulders, the black gossamer bra and matching lace panties that arouse my husband.

She unclasps her bra and steps out of her underwear for Aziz to crush her tiny breasts, lick her thighs, peel off her panties.

I ought to turn away. Spare myself. But I am hypnotized by the fragile chain of her vertebrae that leads down to the curve of her waist, mesmerized by her lifted arms and the manicured fingers that unclasp a horseshoe-shaped hairpin to loosen her braid, mesmerized by the suggestive shake of her head and the dark curtain of curls that tumble to the childlike buttocks Aziz cups in his hands.

She turns to face me. My fist springs up to my mouth to strangle the gasp in my throat. I struggle for a gulp of air. Plump breasts. Arrogant. Lustful. Breasts larger than mine! What dramatic event in her life could have caused this transformation? Why didn't I notice it the afternoon I caught them together? The body I had evoked in my husband's arms was that of a teenager—boyish breasts and girlish thighs and angular all over, the Butterfly I remember from years back. After all these years in my husband's care, she has bloomed into the maturity of a thirty-five-year-old woman, endowed with tempting curves, all softness and desire.

She sighs and shivers as she snuggles under the covers next to me.

I pass my hand over her damp forehead and hear myself asking if she sweats during lovemaking.

Her laughter is childlike, nervous perhaps, but when she answers I do not detect a trace of suspicion. “Of course I sweat. Like a dog! You know I like a good and dirty fuck.”

“Yes. But something's different. You're more beautiful. More content. And your breasts! Implants?”

“Don't be silly. I wouldn't dare.” She weighs her breasts in her cupped hands. “They are bigger, aren't they? Did I gain weight?”

“No. Just here.” Her breasts yield under my touch. Her nipples harden between my thumb and forefinger, goose bumps frame her areola. “It happens sometimes, you know. Breasts can become flush with love.” My husband. His love and passion. His betrayal.

“Mystery solved, then!” she announces with a yawn. “Now I know why Hamid can't keep his hands off my breasts. Aren't you tired, Soraya? Go, before Aziz hates me for keeping you so late. It's midnight. Go, darling!” She covers her eyes with one hand and her lips move in a silent prayer.

What else is left for her to ask of God?

Aziz murmurs that my bedroom, with its small bed and cold colors, is too dreary for words. Enough to render impotent the most virile of men.

I glance at his bulging crotch that is immune to this frigid environment and declare that I am so miserable without him that I neither notice or care about my surroundings. He stops in front of the dressing table. “A broken mirror? Very strange, Soraya. Not like you!”

I shrug my shoulders and tell him that I simply didn't bother to order a new one. I do not tell him that the mirror was left intact to stoke my rage, to hone and polish my memories into crystalline slivers. I do not tell him that every morning after I wake up, and every evening before I go to bed, I study my cracked reflection in the mirror as I lose weight and my eyes acquire the hard glint of a predator.

Our split image in the mirror, mine and Aziz's, is a collage of broken bits and slivers. If only normalcy could be restored by shifting and setting the shards of glass differently on the mercury backing.

“Talk to me, Soraya, now that we're alone. Tell me what is happening.” His stare dissects my image in the mirror, lingers here and there, before transforming into an expression of puzzled concern as if his wife removed her mask, and he has just become aware she is a stranger.

“Talk about what, Aziz? Decorating? I didn't want to waste time and money on decorating a temporary house.”

“Look at this! You brought it with you?” He holds up the embalmed iguana and checks the chipped leg. He pulls a tiny shard of glass from the back, then another two. He puts the pieces on the dressing table. “Soraya, who broke the mirror with your iguana?”

“I did. I was alone. It was late. I wanted you. There was the iguana reminding me of my birthday when you told me these animals don't fuck if they're not in love. And I'm in love and wanting to fuck, with you on the other end of the world. So, I felt like breaking something.”

“I'm here now.” He draws me to him. A chilly breeze flaps the curtains, and I tremble. He strokes me with two hands as if to put me back together, as if to repair the insult he caused. His tightening arms are not gentle, but possessive and deliberate. He lifts me, weightless as air, I think, because it doesn't feel as if I am the one he is carrying to the faraway bed.

—Keep your eyes open,
Jounam
—

And I keep my eyes wide open to probe the depths of his betrayal, brush my nose against his neck, where the curve meets his shoulder, and the dimple of his arm where perspiration tends to pool, and he smells of desire and his tongue tastes sweet.

And he, who has become a master performer, cuddles my breasts in his hands and whispers: “I want you, Soree,
Jounam
, my life.”

And I, who have never, ever desired another man, melt into his warmth, into the longing in his mouth, the sweet bitterness on his tongue.

That's why despite the threat in his touch, despite Butterfly asleep in another room, despite all the dead butterflies in the cabinet and the live Monarchs in the eucalyptus grove, despite the Corpse Flower in the atrium and the black and blue vein in the crook of my arm, despite the warning barks of the owl all night, I open my thighs wide and invite him in.

This morning, Aziz in deep sleep, I prepare myself for the day, toning down my image to allow Butterfly to stand out and shine. It is a permissive society, America; it has a way of breeding temptation. And Butterfly is ripe prey. It will not take long, perhaps no longer than a day, before I succeed in exposing the real woman concealed behind the façade of modesty Aziz drools over.

A cup of steaming tea in hand, I tiptoe into Butterfly's room. The half domes of her breasts swell under the silk-stitched edging of the sheets, and her hair spreads on the pillows. Her eyes flutter open. She yawns and curls like a snake on warm sand.

I put the cup of tea on the side table. Arrange and fluff up her pillows against the headboard.

She pulls herself up with a contented sigh and snuggles back against the pillows.

I hand her the steaming cup, and she selects a sugar cube from among the three on a corner of the saucer, drops it in her mouth, and sips chamomile tea laced with cardamom and orange peel. We are back in Iran, in her kitchen, two close friends sharing intimate details of our lives over cups of aromatic tea, until her words shatter my memories.

“I didn't sleep very well.”

Saliva pools under my tongue. Of course, she couldn't sleep. She couldn't bear Aziz spending the night with me. “That's what you get for drinking Morning Thunder! I'll brew you a special tea tonight. You'll sleep like an angel.” I hand her a pigeon-blood-colored robe of mine and ask her to toss it over her nightgown because I've something interesting to show her.

She follows me out of the bedroom into the hall that leads to the drawing room, my satin gown trailing her like tempting plumage. We must be a sight, Butterfly and I, she clad in screaming red—barefoot and all flushed with curiosity and excitement—and me all in black—high-heeled and silk-clad and cracked beyond repair.

We step onto the balcony that wraps around the open-air courtyard in the center of the house. My friend's eyes widen with wonder at the sunken panorama below. The marble daises displaying Greek goddesses, Grecian columns supporting granite benches, the majestic monkey tree on the far right. And the atrium in the center, home to my Corpse Plant.

Butterfly descends the steps, her gown sliding behind like an invitation. She strolls about, enjoying this warm spring dawn, so different from the blazing summers and snowy winters back home. Humming under her breath, my friend, the seductress, glittering and colorful and ruthless like butterflies that land on flowers, tease and cuddle each receptive petal, then suckle it dry, strokes leaves and petals of snapdragons, bleeding hearts, and yellow honeysuckle, wide open in anticipation of impregnation.

She dips a finger in a glass feeder, brimming with sugar water to entice butterflies, and sucks her finger, then raises her bare arms overhead and shuts her eyes. I avert my gaze from her groomed, hairless armpits, from her neckline that outlines her plump cleavage.

“It's liberating, Soraya, isn't it? Not to worry about showing some skin. But I feel guilty too, as if I'm doing something wrong. I wonder why!”

“Because the
mullahs
have brainwashed us to feel like prostitutes if we don't cover ourselves.”

“Exactly! Have you heard about the Spider Murders?”

“No, tell me.”

She shakes her hair, already more uninhibited and at ease than last night. Is this not what I've been striving for? Then why am I bothered?

The tiny, bleached hairs on her arms stand up on end. “It's scary, Soraya. All women talk about these days are the twelve prostitutes strangled in the streets of Mashhad. A headscarf knotted twice to the right side of their neck. Called Spider Murders because of the way the bodies are draped in
chadors
before being dumped into streets and canals.”

“What's the significance of the knots?” I ask.

“Who knows!”

“The answer might be found in the
Koran
. The right is farther from the heart, for example, but closer to some part of the brain that controls our reasoning. Not sure…or it could be an act of revenge…”

“The authorities say it might be the work of religious vigilantes. It's terrible. Families of the victims are embarrassed to come forward and claim the bodies.”

For the second time this morning, I am about to get sick. Women who support their families the only way they can are denied a simple burial, yet the adulteress, Butterfly, is free to roam at will and create further havoc. I pluck a black leaf, dappled with dew, and press it to my flushed cheeks.

She bends to observe a Stalachtis phaedusa suspended upside down on a bleeding heart.

“It's harmless but can change color to resemble toxic butterflies to deter predators. Smart, isn't it? Like us. We camouflage ourselves, too.”

“But we must,” she replies in her innocent tone. “We're women! How else can we survive?”

I study a male Anteros kupris that maintains territory in the canopy of magnolia leaves, intent on trapping yet another mate. Interesting, how this species managed to find its way here from the Ecuador lowland forests. No hurdles are insurmountable, I suppose, when one is hunting for sex.

“Soraya, since when did you become so infatuated with butterflies?”

“Interested, not infatuated. Homage to you, my friend.”

“You're full of it!” She grins, pulling a lock of my hair. “What's with the butterflies? The truth!”

“It was all here and it reminded me of you,” I lie. “When the owner wouldn't rent the house if her butterflies weren't taken care of, I promised to take care of them. And you know what? I've been seduced. Come, see why. This one is a male Oleria quadrata. Belongs to the Clearwing family. It feeds on aster and then passes its alkaloids to females during mating, after which the female tastes bitter to other males. And that's it! Kaput! No more sex for them. Fascinating, isn't it!”

“Are you serious?
Khodaya
! You are serious. I love the idea.” She approaches to take a closer look at the butterfly.

“If I had alkaloids,” I say, “I'd inject Aziz with a healthy dose. And voila! I'll never worry about him wandering off.”

Her face drains of color; an unguarded second of hesitation passes before she comes up with a reply. “Not a good idea. Then he'll taste bitter to you, too. Think before you start doling out your precious alkaloids.”

I inhale her smells of orris and ylang-ylang, stir them in my nostrils, churn them in the pit of my stomach. She smells rotten and beyond repair.

My Owl of Reason swoops down with a startling bark and settles on my right shoulder.

Butterfly jumps back and cries out in fright.

Despite her weight and powerful grip, my owl has learned to land with graceful agility on my lap, arm, or shoulder without hurting me in the least. I like the sturdy grip of her claws, the comforting weight of her underbelly that helps me maintain a semblance of equilibrium.

“Soraya,” Butterfly whispers, “Is that Mamabozorg's owl?”

“Don't be silly! We're miles and miles away. How could it be the same owl?”

“
Vayii
! I don't know what I'm saying. But it looks exactly like Mamabozorg's owl.”

“Yes, it does. Pet her. She's friendly.”

Butterfly recoils with a low gasp. “I'm scared.”

“Scared? Of what?”

“I don't know. The eyes, I think. They're so large and yellow. They're frightening.”

Butterfly is right. Sunlight has turned my owl's eyes into glaring, yellow orbs, bright and fierce and judgmental.

I run my thumb down the parting in the center of the bird's chest, the plumage smooth and oily on the surface, yet unyielding at the roots, stroke the plush down on her head, and a low hoot of pleasure emanates from her. “See, she's harmless. Come closer. Yes, try not to startle her.”

Butterfly reaches out a trembling hand, then changes her mind and gently combs her fingers through my hair, down the long blond strands, so different from her dark curls.

I wrap my arm around my friend, all fluff and beauty, rays waltzing on the tendrils escaping her curls, this other sunlit Butterfly I knew as an innocent child, vulnerable girl, rebellious teenager, and now the close friend I have lost.

She tucks her arm in mine and, once again, as in the past, I feel a strong urge to protect her as we walk toward the atrium that seems to be on fire from the rising sun, reflecting on every glass panel. I open the door and stand aside for her to enter.

“
Khodaya
, help me!” she cries. “Get it out!”

A hummingbird is entangled in her hair. She jumps around, struggling to free it, her nervous cries ringing about the courtyard.

I thrust one hand into her curls.

“Careful, Soraya, you're hurting me.”

“Stand still. Don't move. I almost got it!”

I take my time to free the hummingbird, trapped in Butterfly's net. There is a certain pleasure in tugging, plucking, and untangling, a certain melody to the drone of the alarmed bird vibrating in its net. Male and territorial, it pecks frantically at my fingers as if to drive away rivals from its breeding ground. This one requires careful handling. Like a packet of dynamite.

Freed, the disoriented hummingbird, dazzling green and fine as gossamer, lingers above Butterfly's head to recover its equilibrium, before buzzing away in anger.

From inside the house, the low voice of Mansour, the opening of a door. Aziz calling my name. The sun is higher in the sky and the atrium a fiery globe of glass.

Butterfly surprises me again by murmuring that it is high time I leave this madhouse and return home, and then she ambles into the atrium as if entering the familiar safety of her own home. A strong smell of carrion hits us like a punch. The tragic reality of where our fate has led us strikes me with renewed grief. I want to warn her that this is not home. Far from it. This is a shrine to her enemy.

My owl, too, hoots and barks and flaps in protest. She has never liked the atrium, but I want her close by now. I tempt her with handfuls of seasoned meat, juice-soaked nuts, and dried fruit from bowls Mansour replenishes daily and leaves all around, his way of bribing the owl to keep her evil eye at bay. I murmur in my most soothing voice, tickle the damp feathers under her wing, hold her gently down on my shoulder so she won't escape.

She resumes a ferocious fight to free herself, letting out a strange, piercing bark of pain. I loosen my grip and she takes off with agile speed, loops around my head once, flies around the atrium, then swoops down with great precision to land on Butterfly's shoulder.

“
Vayii
!
Khodaya
!” Butterfly cries out to God. “Soraya! It's hurting me! Send it away!”

I grab the bird with two hands and hold her dense, sinewy body tight. She wiggles free and flies out of the atrium like a feathered arrow.

Butterfly's face has turned the color of stale turmeric, her words tumble over each other. “I'm scared, Soraya. Keep your owl away from me. Please! I've never liked owls. Not even Mamabozorg's.”

She turns her attention to the Corpse Flower, her hand shielding her mouth and nose against the smell of rotting flesh. “What a strange plant.
Bougand
mideh
it stinks.”

I point to the heart of the flower from where, just a few days ago, I had plucked most of the petals. I explain that when, if ever, the plant blooms, its seductive smell attracts pollinating bugs that congregate in its core. I explain that the plant has devised ingenious ways to tempt all kinds of innocent creatures to approach it and perform what amounts to sexual acts. “It sure knows how to trap to satisfy its sexual appetite.”

Butterfly's body shakes with laughter. “God, Soraya, you're something else. I love your imagination.”

Yes, she does. In that she resembles Aziz. And for that reason, they are the only two I feel comfortable sharing my dreams, fantasies, and photographs with. To the world, my photographs are the creations of a weird mind. To Butterfly, they are the product of genius, talent she supposes she lost at birth because she entered the world bent over and nearly strangled by the umbilical cord. To this day, she believes that those crucial moments of struggling for breath stumped her creativity.

She strolls around to check the Amorphophallus from all angles, a plant that resembles her in so many ways—her man-eating smell, voracious desire for what is not hers, her colorful, yet poisonous appearance. “Piff! It stinks in here, Soraya.” She grabs my hand and drags me out of the atrium. “Can't bear the smell. Don't come here too often. It can't be good for you.”

“As far as I'm concerned, out there is more dangerous than in here.”

She releases my hand and aims a questioning stare at me. “Why is the world suddenly so dangerous? You're acting strange, Soraya! It's America, being alone, I don't know. Forget about the project and come back home. It isn't as if you need the money. Tell the magazine you've changed your mind. Say something, anything, lie if you have to.”

“You want me to come back home?”

“Of course I do. Life is too short, Soraya. Let's wear it out together!”

I hold her at arm's length, observing her with genuine surprise. “Really! Since when?”

She lets out a mirthless laugh that belies her pontification. “Since forever, Soraya! Since I lost my parents and was stuck with Aunt Tala. Why are you surprised? You are the one who encouraged me to live life to its fullest, rather than shrivel up and become a wrinkled spinster. So, there! You are to blame.”

“All right! I'm responsible. So, let's get out of here and do something fun and crazy. Let's start with shopping for clothes we can't wear back home.”

I murmur promises of a thrilling day. A day immersed in a culture fraught with possibilities of freedom to spread your wings, my friend, to take off, soar, and live the day to its fullest. You are my guest, after all, and good manners and decorum require that even poisons be served sugarcoated and with great pomp and ceremony.