Scent of Butterflies (2 page)

The
mullah
shifts in his seat, raising the smell of spices, the familiar, comforting scents of baked sweets and closeness I associate with saffron, warm butter, and browned flour, the ingredients my grandmother, Mamabozorg Emerald, stirred into her golden halvah. And, like a veil, another scent swirls around him. Expensive cologne, Paco Rabanne, imported from the West, from “the Great Satan,” “the Great Arrogance,” the same country he feels obligated to curse for the benefit of his colleagues.

An urge to jolt the
mullah
out of his religious stupor overcomes me. I stroke my camera, encased in ostrich leather and cradled in my lap. Snap the case open, tempted to turn my camera on and agitate his calm façade with the click, click of my shutter control. Perhaps I should ask the flight attendant to take a photograph of us, a record of him sitting next to a female stranger, even worse, next to a
taghouti
, a royalist and an aristocrat. Such devastating evidence, proof of his disregard for the commands of his supreme Ayatollah.

I survived the Islamic Revolution by developing ingenious ways of sidestepping its horrors—the splash of acid if found wearing lipstick or mascara on the streets, the pull and snap of scissors and razors if hair is visible from under the
chador
, interrogation and imprisonment if the Morality Police found me with a male stranger.

In Tehran, in place of the
chador
, I wore the dark, opaque stockings and
roopoosh
over dresses of the latest fashion purchased on trips to Europe. A scarf would cover my hair, and my face would have no makeup. But as soon as the chauffeur dropped me off at a friend or relative's house for our evening get-together, I'd remove my
roopoosh
and head cover and join other women in the makeup vestibule.

Secure in the knowledge that, in case of a raid, the host's private safe held millions of
toumans
in cash to bribe the Morality Police—the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice—I'd apply makeup, a ritual each woman conducted in her own way, while the latest gossip swirled about. I accentuated the green of my eyes with lavender pencil and lengthened my lashes with soft black mascara, aware of sideways glances in the mirrors as other women attempted to duplicate my look on their own often darker complexions.

Once the swift transformation from Islamic to European—from one culture to another, one religion to another, even one century to another—had taken place, men and women would mingle freely. Banned alcoholic drinks swayed in Baccarat goblets, embraced by teasing hands. Guests swayed, danced, and flirted to forbidden
taghouti
Western music.

Here, high in the air, too close to a
mullah
, who reminds me of what I left behind, I peruse the menu, check the wine list, then signal the stewardess and ask her if she has anything better back there.

“All we have,” she replies, before retreating down the aisle, her perfume as annihilating as Parvaneh's. Why do coy women insist on leaving the screeching echo of their scent behind? I spray a mist of Metal from my purse, a lingering whisper to chase the offensive odor away. I hear the subtle intake of the
mullah
's breath and imagine his flaring nostrils drinking in the nuanced scents of my perfume.

The stewardess arrives with a bottle and displays the label. “1995 was a good year,” she says.

Last night in our bedroom, Aziz uncorked a bottle of 1945 Chateau d'Yquem. He swirled the glittering liquid in a Saint-Louis glass, then warmed the wine in his mouth. My lips embraced his, yielding awareness to the scorch of alcohol as he folded me in his arms and murmured in my ear.

—I want your child, Soree—

The
mullah
flinches at the offensive pop of the cork, the releasing of the obscene smell of the forbidden. He shuts his Koran, shifts in his seat, and aims a reprimanding glance at me.

“
Sharab
meil
darid?
” I raise my glass and ask if he would like some wine. He is wearing expensive American cologne and Italian loafers, after all; why not have French wine?

His arm springs up as if to ward off the evil eye. “
Astagfirullah, Gonaheh!
God forbid, it's sinful!” He scratches the top of his turban as if his scalp has erupted into hives under it. The audacity of a woman not only ordering alcohol, but tempting him as well, must have sent his sensibilities reeling.

I drink half the glass in three swallows. The alcohol does not assuage the urge to spill out the chaos in my head. Even a
mullah
, to whom a man's infidelity is not an issue, would acknowledge the strangeness of their affair. The coupling of my lion with Parvaneh. A butterfly! All these years of friendship, since we were innocent children in kindergarten, and this is the first time I meditate on the meaning of my friend's name: Parvaneh. Butterfly. My husband, a sensible man anchored in the here and now, snared by a shameless sorceress called Butterfly.

There's a reason why her parents chose to name her Butterfly. She was born breech, doubled over and unable to breathe until the midwife slapped her on the buttocks and blew life into her. Butterflies are fragile. Their life is short. Very short. And when their wings become wet, they can't fly, but fall to the ground and flutter helplessly until they die.

How could this have happened to me, Soraya, an only child, the darling of my Baba, favorite of my Mamabozorg, and loved by a husband who had no qualms about falling on his knees in adoration at a formal gala? Aroused by wine, dazzling in a tuxedo, he knelt in front of five hundred guests, removed my pumps, plucked a hole in my nylons with his teeth, and pressed his lips to my toes, our public foreplay stoking our passion.

—Let them gossip,
Jounam
, I don't care—

The next glass tastes warmer, tangier, intensifies the rush in my veins, stirring possibilities. For a fleeting breath, my stare lingers on the
mullah
's as I wipe my wine-wet mouth, push tendrils of blond hair back into my headscarf.

His lips part and his eyes light up as if noticing me for the first time.

Acidic words spill out of me like vomit. “You might not need alcohol,
agha
, sir, but I need it badly. I've escaped from my husband!”

The unburdening does not prove cathartic. The urge to take action is blinding. I cross my legs. Pale, defiant ankles flash through the slit of my
roopoosh
. I raise my wineglass and wish the
mullah
salamati
good health, toss my head back, and empty the glass. “My husband is having an affair with my best friend!”

In a calm, soothing voice, he murmurs, “It happens more often than you think,
khahar
.”

“
Nakheir
! No! Not to me,
agha
!”

“Even to you, sister,” he replies, turning to gaze at me with such unexpected boldness that I feel the need to tuck my hair back into the safety of my headscarf but, hand in midair, decide against it.

“Let me explain,
khahar
. There are three types of women. Those who do not wear the
hejab
and do not cover themselves properly resemble public buses that everyone can freely ride. Those women, on the other hand, who opt to partially cover themselves are like taxis that only a few are allowed to ride. The third type who, like my modest wife, cover themselves properly, are like faithful donkeys. Only one man is permitted to ever ride them. Your friend, no doubt, resembles a bus. So, understandably, your husband was tempted to ride her.”

I am rendered speechless by the appalling comparison. My thoughts churn like dough in a mixer until ready to be delivered in that calm and deliberate manner I've mastered to perfection. I turn to face him, a poisonous cobra, ready to strike.

He slips to the edge of his seat. Leans sideways and thrusts one hand into his cloak pocket.

What is he doing? What is he looking for? I shift away from him and instinctively clutch my camera.

His hand appears. A white handkerchief is crumpled in his fist.

My heart slaps against my rib cage. Is a razor concealed in the folds of his handkerchief? Not so long ago, in the streets of Tehran, a woman's mouth was cut with a razor because she had worn lipstick. A young girl's face was mangled by acid because she wore mascara. My mind races to calculate the fastest route of escape from my window seat. If I step over his legs, he will easily grab and stop me. The idea shoots through my mind to smash my camera against his head. I'm about to jump up, to sprint over his legs and call for help.

He raises his hand and reaches the handkerchief toward me.

I grab his wrist, my grip tightening, rigid as a vise.

A look of surprise appears on his face. Then, as quickly, his features contort in anger. He attempts to release himself. I hold tight.

He seems to change his mind and calmly, as if resigned to my hold, transfers the handkerchief to his other hand. With a single fast motion, he wipes off the red lipstick I've applied for protection against the dry cabin air. “Islam forbids women to adorn their lips.”

I release him and drop back in my seat, pass my tongue over chapped lips. My mouth stinging, my voice mocking, I say, “What if I'm not Muslim,
agha
? Will this restriction still apply?”

“Of course,
khahar
. Chastity is required of women of all faiths.”

“I've lost my faith,
agha
.”

He slaps the back of his hand twice, as if to awaken himself from a blasphemous nightmare. “
Astakhfor'Allah
, God forbid! You do not know what you are saying, sister. You lost your way; you are confused.”

“That I am.” Yes, I am certainly confused, since I don't understand what my husband could ever see in a butterfly to make him risk losing me, his breath and life.

The
mullah
strokes a page of his book between forefinger and thumb, as if checking a bolt of gabardine to be custom-made into an elegant cloak. “That's normal,
khahar
. Most women are confused. A pious man can be of great help.”

An urgent need to further offend him overtakes me, and I pour another glass. Turn the dial on my watch forward to American neutral time. I am done with this
mullah
and the rest of them! Done making myself invisible at home, while religious fundamentalism raged outside. They can all go to
jahanam
and dictate their restrictions and beliefs to their own timid wives.

I stand up and stretch my body to its full impressive height, untie my scarf, and loosen my straight blond hair to tumble all the way down to my waist.

Aziz's smoke-shattered voice vibrates in my head.

—The shapeliest legs in the universe,
Jounam
, the silkiest of hair—

I trace the embroidered sleeves of my overcoat, linger on every mother-of-pearl button meant to breathe life into an otherwise dreary coat, glide out of it as if shedding unwanted skin.

His stare slides up my bare calves, velvet skirt, silk camisole, and lingers on Mamabozorg's gift, the amber necklace. And hanging on the chain, wedged between my breasts, is the ruby-encrusted Star of David pendant.

A hint of a blush appears above his peppered beard, rises to his cheeks and onto his forehead. He tilts his head back and takes another good look at the Star of David. He shuts the Koran and touches his lips to the cover, a farewell kiss, before tucking it in the pocket of the front seat. He has finally distanced himself from his religious constraints, shed the pretenses forced upon him.

The revealed man is sexual, vigorous, and involved. He glances around as if looking for the hostess or assessing his surroundings. A tilt, a slightly amused expression, appears at the corners of his mouth. He pats his attractive beard, adjusts his turban, and sets it slightly at an angle like a Persian gigolo, revealing clean, angular sideburns.

He pulls out his handkerchief and wipes sweat off his forehead. A smudge of my lipstick remains behind.

I shift slightly closer to him, to his scent of baked goods and American cologne. Reach out and stroke the remnant of my lipstick off his forehead.

He touches his forehead. His dark eyes flicker into life like a cat catching sight of a plump mouse. “
Kheili
moteshakeram
, many thanks.”

Rising above the plane's roar, the captain's voice spills through the loudspeaker: “On your right is Las Vegas, the world capital of gambling.”

The
mullah
brushes his arm against my bare shoulder, a fleeting touch, then runs his thumb down the length of my wrist, a bold move, flirting in public with this special treat, a Jewish woman. “Some more wine?”

“Yes,” I reply eagerly, curiosity taking over. “Yes, please.” Will he order a bottle, share a glass with me, toss all religious restrictions to the wind?

He raises the half-full bottle of wine on my tray and pours me a glass. I think I hear him murmur
khoshkel
under his breath, beautiful or lovely or some such pronouncement, before letting out a long-drawn sigh. “
Zane
jalebi
hastid, kheili motefavet
.” His breath laced with lust, he murmurs that I am an interesting woman, quite different from any other.

I assess with wonder this man who is full of contradictions, who seems to vacillate between two cultures, one moment a religious fanatic, the next moderately tolerant, even likable.

And then, like an afterthought, he asks, “Do you care to become my
sigheh
?”

“What! What did you say?” I blurt out as if I did not understand what he wants. “I'm Jewish, you know.”

“Yes, I know. It is the proper thing to do. For a night, two, or as many as you wish, of course. Not much to it, I assure you. I'll perform the religious ceremony myself in private. At the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where I will be staying.”