THE STREET OF BUTTERFLIES
Copyright © 2017 Mehri Yalfani
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.
Cover design: Val Fullard
eBook: tikaebooks.com
The Street of Butterflies is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Yalfani, Mehri, author
The street of butterflies / short fiction by Mehri Yalfani.
(Inanna poetry & fiction series)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77133-425-9 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77133-426-6 (epub).--
ISBN 978-1-77133-427-3 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77133-428-0 (pdf)
I. Title. II. Series: Inanna poetry and fiction series
PS8597.A47S77 2017 C813’.54 C2017-905369-8
C2017-905370-1
Printed and bound in Canada
Inanna Publications and Education Inc.
210 Founders College, York University
4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario M3J 1P3 Canada
Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax (416) 736-5765
Email: [email protected] Website: www.inanna.ca
THE STREET OF BUTTERFLIES
stories by
MEHRI YALFANI
INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.
TORONTO, CANADA
For my family
Table of Contents
Books
American Chocolate
Inexplicable
The Street of Butterflies
Soleiman’s Silence
Flecia
The French Fiancé
A Suitable Choice
Where Is Paradise?
Coffee Cup Fortune
If You Were I
Snake
Heart’s Language
Geranium Family
Line
Acknowledgements
Books
For my brother, Mohsen Yalfani, a playwright, who spent four years in prison during the time of the Shah. Though he was freed by the revolution, he was persecuted after the Islamic Republic became the absolute power in Iran and thus forced to flee the country.
NOZAR OPENED THE DOOR of the house and peeked into the alley. The streetlights were off but the lights were on in some of the houses and their front yards, though they barely lit the alley. For a few months now, there hadn’t been any air attacks, so some of the neighbours no longer worried about the war between Iran and Iraq in Khuzestan, almost one thousand kilometres from Tehran.
Nozar was breathing hard from lugging five large garbage bags full of books down the front stairs. He had made three trips. The car had been parked only a few metres away from the front door. Nevertheless, he had started the engine, put the car in reverse, and then eased it as close as possible to the entrance. Very quietly, he placed the bags one by one inside the trunk.
Sara was sitting on the bottom step, watching Nozar’s ordeal each time he came down. She was wearing a loose cotton dress with short sleeves, and was very still and silent. With her hair tied back, her sunken eyes seemed even bigger. Her frightened expression was an extra burden on Nozar, who was preoccupied by what he was doing. With a few days’ growth of whiskers, his complexion looked darker and he appeared older; his tall, sturdy body was wet with sweat and hunched slightly. He looked at Sara, sitting mutely on the stairs, watching him, her eyes filled with desperation. He softened his voice and said, “You’d better go upstairs and rest. You need…”
The motor of a passing car interrupted him. Nozar listened carefully until the thrum of the motor faded away. With the same calm, soothing tone he continued, “I’ll finish the job in an hour and then I’ll come right back. I promise.” He continued ferociously, “These wicked books! We have to get rid of them. They are the reason for our...”
This time it was the sound of faraway shooting that made him stop abruptly.
Sara couldn’t bring herself to say a word. She smiled anxiously and this made Nozar even more nervous, the silence between them, and blanketing the neighbourhood, a heavy fog pressing around them.
The books sitting in Nozar’s trunk were dear to Sara. She had spent money and time on them, enjoyed reading them, and had learned from them. She was proud of having them, considered them valuable assets, like she would a dear friend. They were something that she could count on, that gave her pleasure, joy, happiness, and they had filled the dreary days and nights when Nozar was in prison. They were her prestige, her dignity, an integral part of her life. She had shared them with Nozar, her friends, and even with people she didn’t know well, but who had read the same books—the very same books she was now going to throw away, disappearing them from her life.
Sara was quiet. It seemed to her that a film was playing in front of her, and everything seemed unreal.
From the bottom step, she could see only a small part of the alley. Nozar closed the trunk of the car quietly and walked toward her. She stood up, her hands in her pockets, let Nozar hug her, kiss her forehead and lips, but she was remote. He cupped her face with his hands, looked at her in the eyes, and said, “Don’t worry. Many people are doing the same. Everybody is throwing away the books that might cause them problems. Farahzad’s and Varamin’s ditches, and even those of Shahre Ray and the roads out of Tehran, are all full of books people have thrown away. I won’t go very far. So, I’ll be back soon.”
“I’d better come with you,” Sara said, releasing herself from Nozar’s arms with a sudden jerk. She looked at her dress and continued, “I’ll change in a minute, wear my black chador, and accompany you. With me, it will look less suspicious.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Nozar said firmly. Sara had already started climbing the steps toward the second floor. Nozar held her arm gently and continued, “Nothing will happen. I promise.”
Sara did not resist. She breathed deeply, as if she wanted to release a burden from her chest, and said, “You’re right. Many people have done the same. Last night Bahram and Kami took a few garbage bags of books out and threw them into Farahzad’s ditches. They said there were thousands of books in the highway ditches and even in some other areas right in the city. Those books might have belonged to people who didn’t have a car to drive further out of the city. You see…” A lump in her throat and tears in her eyes prevented her from saying more.
“You see,” repeated Nozar confidently, but she could read the unspoken words in his eyes. He nodded sympathetically, “I know that you are sorry to lose the books. I feel the same, but we have no choice except to get rid of them.”
Sara smothered her tears with a forced smile as Nozar accompanied her up the rest of the stairs to their apartment. He hugged her tightly and kissed her again, this time avoiding her eyes. “Stay calm and rest,” he said. Then he separated himself from Sara and looked at his watch; it was ten past eleven. He said goodbye, climbed back down the st
airs, and closed the door quietly behind him. Sara listened to the sound of the engine starting, then flew down the stairs, out the door, and rushed to the driver’s window. Nozar hit the brakes suddenly, then lowered the window and said, “Please go inside and try to relax. I’ll be back in an hour.” He pressed on the gas and the car jerked forward.
Sara climbed up the stairs again slowly, feeling cold in her hands and feet and went back inside the house. She stood at the top until the sound of the car faded away and silence dominated again.
The apartment felt empty, as if a group of noisy friends had suddenly left a few minutes earlier. The bare bookshelves were ugly wounds, hurting her. She sat on the sofa and quietly sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t try to wipe them away. She laughed in the middle of her crying, told herself she was “crazy,” then calmed herself down, repeating Nozar’s words out loud: “Nothing will happen.” She went to the bedroom to look for something to busy herself with, but she couldn’t find anything that could occupy her. Sluggishly, she made her way back to the living room, sat on the sofa and turned the TV on, but there was no programming. The only sound in the room was the steady tick tock of the clock. She jumped at the sound of another shooting, also far away. Her heart was racing. “No, nothing will happen,” she repeated to herself.
She wished she could phone a friend or her sister but it was too late. She went to the kitchen to wash the dishes but Nozar had already done them. Restless, she returned to the living room and picked up the book that was on coffee table—one of the few remaining deemed acceptable to own—a novel. She opened it to the page she had bookmarked, read half a page, but lost her concentration and put it back on the table. She drifted to the bedroom, found her basket of knitting, and carried it into the living room. She sat on the sofa again and rifled through the different colours and textures of yarn. Finally, she chose white and pink. She listened to the silence and wondered listlessly about what to knit, decided finally to start working on a sweater for her baby. Her hands moved automatically and rhythmically. For a while she was absorbed by her hands shaping the yarn, but suddenly she lost the rhythm and stopped. The shriek of an ambulance’s siren crossing a nearby street startled her momentarily, but then the ticking of the clock was once again the only noise in the living room. Sara carefully examined what she had knitted. It was too small to be a sweater, even for newborn baby. She undid her work and abandoned the knitting needles and yarn on the sofa.
When she heard the voices of two men talking in the alley, she hurriedly made her way to the kitchen. She stood by the window and peered out without turning the light on, but the men were gone, the sound of their distant footsteps the only sign they had been there. Darkness didn’t allow much of the alley to be visible; there was only a dim light, perhaps from the stars or the crescent moon. She could barely see the houses on the other side. The nearest house, which belonged to Mr. Imani, was in total darkness. She imagined the whole family—Mr. Imani, Mrs. Fariba, and their two little daughters—in their sweet sleep, far from the agonies. Their Mercedes was parked under a trellis covered in vines close to the gate. There were stars in the sky but not like the stars in Kerman’s sky on a moonless night, which to Sara had always looked like a dark carpet woven with diamonds. If I weren’t pregnant, she thought, we could go to Kerman and stay there with my parents for a few weeks.
The tree by the alley was also invisible in darkness, but a whispering breeze caressed Sara’s arms and neck. She returned to the living room. It was almost midnight. There was more shooting and the siren of another distant ambulance. Coldness penetrated her bones and she shivered. Driving to Farahzad and returning to Amirabad should take about an hour, she thought. At any moment Nozar’s car will enter the alley and stop under the kitchen window. There it is…. The sound of a car brought a small smile to her face and her heart started to beat faster. But the car didn’t stop and a chilly shiver replaced her momentary joy. Midnight’s silence was getting heavier. She went to the bedroom and came back with a blanket. She wrapped herself in it and huddled on the sofa. She tried to rest but a sudden cramp gripped the muscles under her belly. The clock on the wall moved ahead and midnight passed. The sound of another car in the alley made her jump, but it stopped before reaching her house. She heard the car door slam shut and even though she had lost hope, she didn’t want to give up completely. She went into the kitchen once again peer at the alley from the window, but a new pain in her belly forced her to sit down at the table.
She wasn’t aware when the clock’s hands passed one. She remained sitting at the table, her mind a blank. There was no sound in the alley, and if a car passed occasionally, she didn’t get up to look out the window. The thought that Nozar might not come back paralyzed her. She stopped thinking about tomorrow and about what might have happened to Nozar. Instead, the past captured her mind and she was taken back to eight years ago.
Five months after Nozar’s confinement in Evin prison, she went to visit him. He was being kept in a cage with walls of glass, as if he was a dangerous beast. He had lost weight and most of his legs were covered in bandages, but Sara was happy to see him alive. After his sentencing—ten years in prison—he was allowed weekly visits. He gradually gained more strength, and encouraged Sara to be strong, too. Later, Sara tried not to show weakness behind the thick glass that separated them in the meeting room, their voices buffered by the commotion coming from the crowds of people visiting other inmates. He had asked her to bring him some books and she was pleased that he would be able to use his time in prison to enrich his knowledge.
Five years passed and the murmur of revolution and freedom filled the streets and hearts of the people. They had lived together for only four months before Nozar was arrested and imprisoned. The promise of their reunion, along with the excitement of the coming revolution, was a sweet dream.
When he was released from the prison and they were together again, all they wanted was to relive all those years and days, all the moments that had been stolen from them during the five years they had been separated by a brutal force.
A few months after Nozar’s release, Sara found out she was pregnant, and she wondered what to do. They discussed the possibility of an abortion. Nozar left the decision to Sara. Fascinated by an unknown creature growing inside her, she delayed making a decision. But when she considered the baby’s need for lifelong commitment, she was reluctant to have it. She wanted to have her whole life for herself. The years she had waited for Nozar’s freedom—the years that had passed between the time she was twenty-four and twenty-nine—had been stolen from her, and now she had a thirst for life. This baby wouldn’t let her be free, wouldn’t let her live as she liked. When she had some bleeding in the second month of her pregnancy, she had thought it might be a sign that she should have an abortion, but then something prevented her from doing it—a feeling that the child represented a deeper tie between Nozar and herself; a physical bond, perhaps. The child would be the continuation of her life, and his, after they both ceased to exist. These thoughts encouraged her to keep the baby and suddenly she allowed herself to be thrilled by the creature growing inside her body. She finally announced her decision to Nozar: “The baby will be born.”
Crumpled on the sofa, lost in her thoughts, when the clock clicked at three a.m., she was startled. It seemed every object in the apartment was asking her, “What happened to Nozar? Why is he late? Where is he?”
Sara was certain that Nozar would not come back. She was certain when she had watched him place the bags of books inside the trunk of the car, certain when he had hugged her, when he had looked in her eyes and said, “I’ll be back quickly. It won’t take more than an hour. Don’t worry. You rest and relax.” Sara had listened to him without saying anything, but her certainty about him not coming back had filled her with dread, had made her feet and hands ice cold. Nozar had hugged her warmly again, then murmured against her cheek, “Don’t worry. No need for you to come. You sho
uldn’t be anxious.”
Cars passed infrequently and nothing disturbed the deep silence that filled her apartment and the entire neighbourhood.
Sara lay down again on the sofa. She was certain about tomorrow too—the revolutionary guards would come and take her as well, and then…. She couldn’t imagine what might happen afterward. Instead, the past rushed back to her and filled her thoughts once again. She knew the past would be repeated. Nozar was imprisoned the first time because of his book of poetry, a best seller.
He had been captured on the street and that night the Savakies had invaded their home. She had opened the door and they had rushed in like a victorious army conquering an enemy castle. Their apartment didn’t have much furniture; it wasn’t yet a real place to live. They only had a small bed in the bedroom; a sofa, the same one that she was lying on now, a desk; and a rug that her father had given them as a marriage gift. Their books were still in boxes or on the floor. Their pots and pans and dishes were barely a handful.
All those moments returned to her. It was the middle of night when the Savakies banged on the door and rang the bell insistently. She had raced to the door, imagining it was Nozar and that she would fall into his arms. Instead, she faced five men with cold faces who warned her to cooperate, otherwise she would face dire consequences. They destroyed the house: ripped the mattress, the pillows, broke the bed, pulled everything out the kitchen cabinets and knocked holes in the walls with their fists to be sure nothing was hidden there. Sara sat on the sofa immobile and watched them—it was a nightmare. They collected every book they considered a crime to own: novels, short stories, even science books. They didn’t tell her where they had taken Nozar.
Now Sara was certain they would come again to search the house and this time take her, too. She abandoned herself to this destiny.
The sound of a truck bringing milk for Rastgoo Supermarket woke her up. In the June sunshine she could see the outline of other houses on the street and the maple tree in the yard, whose branches reached the window. Cars passed in the street, but the apartment was quiet. Even though she was certain that Nozar would not be back, she could not quell the flutter of hope inside her. Under her skin, she still felt cold, and so she again wrapped herself in a blanket. She didn’t have the strength to get up and go to her bedroom, mesmerized as she was by the sound of the traffic close by and further away. Sara felt another cramp move through her belly muscles, reminding her of the baby growing inside. She remembered something her mother had said: “You will feel the baby’s first movement as a shivering of your belly muscles.” Sara smiled faintly, and thought she would tell Nozar that the she had felt the baby move as soon as he got home.
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