Scent of Butterflies (5 page)

“Go easy on the makeup. Men don't like too much.”

Two teardrops sprang to her eyes and slid down her lashes. “Not sure I'm ready for this. You're so brave, Soraya, getting married when you turn fifteen. But me, I don't know.”

Never in my young life had I seen such a sweep of emotions, such a chameleon quality in a person. I admired Parvaneh for her spontaneity, for her vacillating moods, for blushing violently when she, at last, met Hamid, and for having clipped her fingernails short and having the sense not to wear makeup that day.

Yes! Butterfly
did
marry Hamid, Aziz's partner. Yes! I am to blame. I am the one who, with wide open arms, invited her into our life, mine and my husband's.

I tossed lovely Butterfly with her transparent, engulfing wings between Aziz's inviting thighs, left the two of them free to roam the high mountains of my homeland, hike the lush trails by the Darakeh River, drink in the crisp air from the snow-capped peaks of the Alborz, lie under weeping willows, and revel in peach sunsets, while I exiled myself to a terrain as flat and foreign as a stranger's palm.

Steve Rivers steers the car through the gates of the Bel Air mansion and across a cobblestone driveway flanked by regal maple trees. The driveway leads onto a vast open space carpeted with saffron-colored gravel and bordered on both sides by a double-knot pattern of clipped boxwood.

My breath catches at the sight of the glorious French mansion of rosy brick and white stone beyond, a splendid two-story edifice with slanted slate roofs and numerous windows carved into the slopes of old-fashioned attics.

White bougainvillea cascades over balustrades of two staircases flanking the house. The staircases curve up toward the second level, extending into mock balconies that frame a marble placard onto which the name of the house is carved:

Chateau
Laurier-Rose Blanc
.

An odd name. Must have been left forgotten from earlier times when the grounds were planted with white oleander. Why would anyone name their home after the ugly, poisonous flower? The petals fall limply around the corolla, and the oblong leaves have a way of turning away from the flower as if appalled by its smell.

I turn around to survey the land through the back window of the car, the expansive driveway behind me, the geometrically accurate bordering. I am pleased. The purity of white and green is a respite from my personal chaos. “Show me the inside, Mr. Rivers.”

Filtered sunlight pours through massive French windows, glazing the interior with copper hues. No! Not this excess. The ornate décor exacerbates the great clutter in my head. I want quiet. I want simplicity. In the dining room the crown moldings, the Louis XVI gilded chairs, gold-threaded upholstery, and engravings on the antique dining-room table are far too elaborate. I want a garden. A piece of land to care for. Enough space to create my own haven, a place to shelter my fragments, to plant, nurture, and hone my resentment.

The French windows in the drawing room open to a spacious veranda I walk out onto. Below, acres of rolling land stretch out to the horizon. On my right, a gazebo is hardly visible under a mass of climbing jasmine. The last half of the grounds, as far as the eye can see, is allotted to acres of land with all types of fruit trees. A bridge crosses a brook that snakes somewhere out of sight. Although the landscape that leads to the front of the house is meticulously cared for, these gardens in back are neglected. The weeds need uprooting, the dripping wisteria training, the climbing jasmine taming, and the iceberg roses spraying.

How could the owner have cared for his carpets and art, clipped the hedges in front with such diligence, yet abandoned an expanse of such valuable land? The nagging question lingering, I cross the veranda and take the steps down. I stroll among the vegetation and stroke the rough bark, the grainy leaves that creep up the gazebo, and the few petals that cling to parched stems. I kneel down and rub a fistful of dark, rich earth between my palms, smell its properties. Moist and full of minerals and humus, this soil is far superior to that in my Tehran garden. The possibilities are endless for such fertile earth. A wealth of plants can be cultivated, grafted, and left dormant in this friendly climate—as they certainly once were.

Baba would appreciate this piece of land, too.

One early morning, when I had come to tend to the plants in the greenhouse Aziz had built in our Tehran estate, I heard a cautious tap on the glass panel. This was my cloistered haven, a place where I loved my plants and nurtured my soul. My friends and family had learned to respect my time there, so I was surprised to find my father at the door.

I waved, encouraging him to enter, this lonely man who had sought me for comfort as the gulf between him and my mother widened and, in the process, had learned to share my interest in plants—so much so that he often brought me all types of exotic seeds from around the world. I welcomed the chance to show him that the emotional geography of plants was not that different from our own.

“They are magic! They will keep you busy and content without becoming cold and distant.” I didn't add that they are more loyal and certainly more appreciative than Madar, whose silent withdrawal felt like betrayal.

Baba moved a pot of Pelargonium cordifolium aside and settled next to it on the wooden bench, then absentmindedly stroked the leaves of the plant on his other side.

“Don't touch that one. It's hemlock. It can poison you.”

He locked his fingers in his lap. “You have a tender way with plants, Soraya. Didn't mean to disturb you, but it's hot. I couldn't sleep. So I walked here. Feels like
zelzeleh
weather.”

“Relax, Baba, heat has nothing to do with earthquakes,” I said as I pruned the Mexican Cestrum with the red leaves and inflated, purple tube flowers that resemble immodest creatures. He observed me as I tamed the Geranium harveyi, spraying each delicate, smoky leaf to a glossy shine and misting its flowers. Every embryonic tentacle, every baby leaf, every freshly produced bloom, I told him, was a show of gratitude and a testament to the competence of their creator.

He ambled among the plants, passing his palm over their leaves, their blossoms and stems, his usually erect body stooped. It pained me to see him in such a state of resignation. I asked if he missed Madar.

“A wife shouldn't abandon her nuptial bed no matter what. Enough is enough.
Bebakhshim
va
faramoush
konim
. Let us forgive and forget.”

I shot him a questioning look. Struggled to keep my surprise out of my face. It was not in Baba's character to share such intimate matters. He must be in real pain.

Unaware of the source of Madar's anger, but wanting to patch things between my parents, I had once attempted to pry the truth from my mother. “You love your father far too much to be objective,” she had sighed. “You won't understand. To him, I'm like a cockroach he might squash underfoot. Who am I, after all? A worthless wife who carried his child for nine months and raised her to become a capable and independent woman.”

She had once again attempted to add a layer of guilt to a pile she imagined I had accumulated throughout the years. She, my own mother, did not realize that I was different from her, that I was not prone to carrying other people's guilt.

At the time, I didn't know that the role of martyrdom Madar chose granted her some kind of power. That's why she preferred to stay put in the sad upstairs bedroom she had moved into.

Baba stopped in front of a pot of Silver Beads, a rare plant with miniature, triangular, silver leaves, the juxtaposition of black and silver striking. I had brought the seeds from New Zealand and planted them in a pot Aziz and I purchased in the Marché aux Puces in Paris, a dragon-draped container etched with Japanese bamboo.

This one held a special place in my heart. The plant evolved from sapling to maturity, its wiry, coal-black stems coiling and looping until they came to resemble our chief rabbi's signature—the same one he had stamped on four corners of that cursed nuptial piece of cloth. Daddy Long Legs, Aziz had christened the Silver Bead in an intimate moment in my greenhouse.

Baba shut his eyes and inhaled the vapors that spiraled from the pot. The glass panels broke into sweat. I kissed Baba on the forehead. He had, like me, learned to identify the character of plants from the nuances of their scents.

He straightened his back, and the impish sparkle lighting his eyes made him look younger. “Will you humor your old Baba and spare this? It's for a dear friend.”

A strained moment of silence passed between us. The sun made its way through the glass panels, painting everything sepia. I handed the plant to him, this treasure that continued to be the source of many private jokes between Aziz and me. “Of course, Baba, it's all yours. Who for?”

He tapped playfully on my nose with his finger. “Now, now, my Nightingale, you're not to put your Baba on the witness stand.”

I would have done anything to hold on to that moment, to the rekindled mischief in his eyes, the lighthearted humor, the Baba who had suddenly shed his sadness like snakeskin.

Will I end up lonely like my father? Bitter like my mother?

I walk deeper into the Bel Air gardens, surprised anew at the extent of neglect. The thicket of weeds becomes denser as I move farther away from the house and into a vast grove of dried oranges clinging to branches, peaches half-eaten by squirrels, rotten apples underfoot. The layered silence is broken by the dry crack of dead branches and leaves crushing under our footsteps, mine and Mr. Rivers.

And then, just beyond a puddle of stale water, I notice a slab of pink marble. A stain of bloody liver among the leaves. I cautiously approach, brush away a blanket of dead leaves with my shoe, and bend closer. A muffled silence shrouds the place as if all bird life suddenly ceased. The marble feels cold. A shudder runs across my bones as I attempt to register the meaning of the engraved gold letters on the stone at my feet.
Beloved
Friend
and
Husband, Your Memory Forever Lives

I step back with a start. “What in the world is this, Mr. Rivers?”

He clears his throat and coughs into his palm. “Mrs. Aziz, I meant to tell you about this, um, grave.” His mouth frames large, capped teeth that seem to speak honestly. “The husband passed away last year and the wife buried his ashes here. At that time she wanted him close by, I was told. Wouldn't allow the gardeners anywhere near the grave. But something must have happened lately and she…well…she decided to sell the house.”

Some people can't bear their memories, and some of us can't let go of them.

I follow Mr. Rivers back inside the house and enter a vestibule that connects a set of suites. “These are the children's rooms.”

“Don't bother. I don't have any children, Mr. Rivers. Show me the rest of the house.”

Baba appeared unannounced on my doorstep one day fifteen years back. He did not bother to greet me with the usual kisses on both cheeks. I took the coat thrown over his shoulder and led him into the family room.

“No, thank you,” he said curtly, insisting he would be more comfortable in the formal salon. Not a good sign. He refused the herbal drink of
gole-gav-zaban
, passion flower, and demanded dark tea. He sat erect in a high-backed armchair, the cup of tea steaming in his nicotine-stained grip.

“You have been married five years, Soraya. You are twenty, not growing any younger, and neither is Aziz. Time you had a son. A son would be the cane to support you in old age.” Having delivered his verdict, he stood up, squeezed my face between his hands, and stared into my eyes as if my bleak future was reflected there. He kissed me on the forehead, tossed his coat across his shoulders, and disappeared in the heavy smog.

That night, I considered my choices. I could stop taking the pill. I could conceive. But the truth was that with the passing years, my need for Aziz's undivided attention had intensified. Other women could open their legs for their men to ejaculate tiny creatures in them. Other women could fuss about becoming pregnant, giving birth, and spending rewarding years raising kids. I had Aziz. Our life was in perfect harmony. I did not intend to shatter the exclusive wholeness of our love.

As if I had just revealed that I was terminally ill, Mr. Rivers quickly guides me away from the children's quarters and into the master suites.

I take in the Baccarat chandelier, the Savonnerie carpet, the drapery sheers, silk fauteuils, and damask wall covering. A door at the other end of the bedroom catches my eye. I step into a walk-in closet. There is electricity, possibility for plumbing, and ample space for a sink and counter. Narrow enough for everything to be easily reached. The space can be converted into a darkroom.

I like to work late into the night, escape to the darkroom for hours to watch images drift up and take shape from their white sheets. Here, I can develop the rolls of film from Iran—a history of the intimate years with my husband, a record of the rise and ebb of his moods and the slightest details of his physical changes: each additional gray hair, each wrinkle that complemented his elegant features, each degree of the deepening of his tan and the toning of yet another already fit muscle. The slight, imperceptible stages of transformation would shed light on what might have incited him to turn into the man he has become.

I follow Mr. Rivers into a circular, mahogany-paneled library. Onyx fireplaces, gilded sconces, demilune tables, chenille sofas, and ottomans crowd the area. Odors of leather, fabric, and wood compete for attention. The high ceilings allow ample circulation, more oxygen for my lungs. In a corner, a cherry-wood grandfather clock with bronze numbers ticks with metallic finality.

On all three walls, lacquered shelves display leather-bound encyclopedias, their spines embossed with gold, black, or silver letters, warm and supple to my touch.
The
Encyclopedia
of
Magical
Herbs
;
The
Illustrated
Encyclopedia
of
Butterflies
;
Complete
Guide
to
Plants
and
Flowers
of
the
Orient
;
Illustrated Encyclopedia of Butterflies and Moths
;
Orchids, Desert Cacti, Rare Flowers of the Tropics
. I slide the last book out, leaving a dark void behind. The pages are earmarked. Delicate annotations in green ink crowd the margins:

Required
temperatures
of
90 and humidity of 80%. Aphrodisiac. Rarely blooms. Some species edible, others poisonous
.

I return the encyclopedia to the shelf and select
Nymphalidae: A Dictionary of Zoology
, fascinated by the range of butterflies—admirals, brush-footed butterflies, map butterflies, Rajah Brooke and Saturn butterflies—a major order of insects characterized by wings with overlapping scales. Adults have a sucking proboscis. In rare cases they possess chewing mouth-parts. The larvae are plant feeders, have chewing parts, and are quite destructive. Butterflies land on the reproductive organs of flowers, where sticky nectar is stored, after which the insects transfer the pollen back and forth from the female to the male. Butterflies reach their peak of activity at noon.