Zinat didn’t know how many months and years had passed since that call, and Mahan hadn’t come back. Whenever she asked about Mahan, Taher shook his head and muttered sarcastically, “You’re talking nonsense.” If it was late at night, he barely answered her at all, and simply announced he was going to bed.
When they were living in their house, Zinat had had more space for herself. She was always busy in the kitchen cooking, or in the front yard caring for the garden, or cleaning Mahan’s or Parastoo’s bedroom. She could talk to Mahan as much as she wanted and Taher couldn’t hear her, and ask, “Who are you talking to?” When he did, she would look at him and say nothing.
Parastoo came back from Germany to visit after a few years. She stayed with them for a while, encouraged them to sell the house and buy an apartment, which she thought would be more comfortable for them, as they were getting old and fragile. Zinat felt the apartment was too small, with the bedrooms, living room, kitchen and bathroom all on the same floor. It had a small balcony, though, and Zinat liked to sit on the balcony and watch the street, always full of noise and traffic, especially in the afternoon, when the children came back from school with their backpacks slung over their shoulders. The girls in their uniforms and head scarves looked like a flock of birds, chirping and moving in unison. She remembered when Parastoo and Mahan were younger and attended the same school. In those days, Parastoo didn’t have to wear a head scarf. Sometimes, she spotted a little boy who looked like her own Mahan. She fell into a deep melancholy, and when she regained herself, Taher was at the balcony door calling her inside. Night had fallen, so the lights were on and Taher had arranged the table for supper. They ate for the most part in silence, sometimes exchanging only a few words.
The apartment was jammed with furniture and a few potted plants. The plants reminded her of her house and her front yard with its two small gardens. She loved her gardens, especially the geraniums and petunias that would flower abundantly in summer. She used to like to wake up early in the morning and go out to the front yard where she would sit on a bench and watch the sky as it slowly turned a deep blue. The gardens were verdant, full of different kinds of flowers, and the sparrows would fly joyfully among the tree branches. The green gate at the end of courtyard was covered by a vine that stretched up to the top of the trellis, making shade for the car that was parked underneath. The car had gone along with the house.
She remembered the hours she spent in that house staring at the front door, waiting for it to open. Mahan would enter and she would run toward him, hug him tightly, and ask, “Where have you been, my dear boy? Why are you so late? You said you’d be back soon.”
The sun would not have yet reached her feet when Taher would call her. Inside, Taher would have arranged the table for the breakfast with cheese, bread, jam and butter. The samovar was boiling with a teapot on the top of it. Taher, who had already had his own breakfast, sat on a folded blanket, leaning on a cushion and reading a newspaper. He would look at Zinat with an inexplicable question in his eyes, and this disturbed her. If he asked her what she did in the yard, she would look back at him bewildered. Sometimes, she blurted out that she was waiting for Mahan. Then Taher would shake his head, disappointed, and say nothing. But there was something in his silence that bothered Zinat. She wished everyone would simply leave her alone so that she would be able to wait for Mahan as long as she wanted. She had lost interest in cleaning the house, cooking, or tidying up—all she could do was stare at the door, imagine it being opened and Mahan coming in. Even though she knew that the door bell was broken, once in a while she went to the door to see who was there, and if Taher asked her why, she would be cross at him and grumble, “Didn’t you hear the door bell? I heard the bell ringing.” When there was no one there, she would mumble something, accuse the children in the alley playing soccer. Taher had told her a hundred times, even a thousand times, that Mahan had a key. “He always used his key to open the door. Have you forgotten?” No, she hadn’t forgotten, but, well, she thought he might have left his key at home or he might have lost it. After so many years…
When they moved to the apartment, Zinat collected all Mahan’s books and put them in boxes. She took the posters off the walls, rolled them up carefully, and placed them on top of the books, planning to eventually hang them up again in his new bedroom. But when they moved to the new apartment she couldn’t find the posters or even the boxes of books. She took a few photos from her album and gave them to a shop close to their new place and had them enlarged. She framed the photos, and hung them on Mahan’s empty bedroom walls. The photos filled Mahan’s room as if Mahan himself was there.
Afterward, Zinat looked at the photos, a smile on her face, and said, “You know that I love you so much. Why don’t you come back, my dear? I miss you so much.” She chatted to Mahan’s photos for a while almost daily. When she was in the living room, she talked to the images on the television. When she was alone at home, she talked to her son as long as she liked, but when Taher was around, he usually heard her and would come out from his bedroom, puzzled, and ask, “Were you talking on the phone?” Zinat would look at him as if she’d done something wrong. Taher didn’t show any anger, just muttered, “I thought you were talking on the phone.” Zinat smiled as if she was saying, you know everything, don’t you?
It was almost dawn when the key turned in the lock. Zinat was sure that it was Mahan. Her heart started pounding, its echo in her ears as loud as a big drum. She thought she should go to Taher’s room and wake him up. Was it possible that Taher was asleep and wouldn’t hear that Mahan was home? But all her strength had been drained from her body and her legs were so weak, she couldn’t bring herself to stand up. Mahan walked toward her and she reached out for him, her voice faltering, “Mahan.”
She couldn’t believe this man was her own Mahan. He was vaguely familiar, but he was also reserved and formal towards her, like a stranger.
When Mahan left them, they still lived in the two-storey house. He had the key for that house, not this apartment where they’d moved years after he had disappeared. How did he get the key to this apartment? Zinat couldn’t figure that out. Probably Parastoo had given it to him, she guessed. Zinat stared at Mahan, her eyes searching his features. Mahan tried to bring Zinat back to herself and said, “Mother, why haven’t you gone to bed? It’s almost dawn.”
Zinat coloured crimson. Sweat beaded on her forehead and on her upper lip, and her body flushed. She wanted to say, “Where have you been all these many years, my son?” But her mouth was dry and her tongue was like a piece of wood—the words did not take shape. She sank into her own disturbed thoughts, but Mahan’s voice brought her back, and this time she was sure that this man was her own Mahan.
Mahan said, “Your apartment looks like a cage…” He didn’t continue. She had heard the same thing come from Taher. When Parastoo chose this apartment for them and encouraged them to buy it, Taher had carefully inspected it and it was then he had said the place looked like a cage. But Zinat hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want to hurt Parastoo, who had come a long way after so many years to arrange a nice, comfortable place for her parents. She just let her eyes wander randomly around the place and said quietly, “Well, it’s only a flat, that’s it.” She opened the door to the balcony and the roar of buses and trucks rushed in.
She asked Mahan, “Why are you so late?” And then continued hesitantly, “You’re older.”
Mahan stared at Zinat, and the look in his eyes bewildered her. It was always the same; she panicked when people looked straight into her eyes and she herself could not see what was in their eyes.
But now that Mahan had finally returned, she should be happy again. But this Mahan didn’t look like her own Mahan. He mostly looked like Taher, who hadn’t wakened to see how Mahan had aged. She wanted to yell, “Look? Our Mahan’s back! Didn’t I tell you he’d be back? I always told you he would come back. But you….”
Tahe
r never believed her. He never told her directly that he didn’t believe her, but the way he looked at her, his hands waving and mocking her, she was certain that he hadn’t ever believed her. But now he could not deny that Mahan was back.
Zinat stared at Mahan and a sudden sense of suspicion crept over her that the man sitting on the sofa beside her, staring at her with sympathy, wasn’t her own Mahan. She couldn’t communicate with him. She couldn’t ask him whether he was hungry or thirsty or tired, as she always did. She couldn’t even ask him, “Where have you been for so many years?” The words were flowing inside her like a creek, but her mouth didn’t move. She might have had a stroke, she thought.
She suddenly sensed Taher sitting next to her on the sofa. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. Why haven’t you gone to bed? Are you feeling well? Your heart…”
How Mahan had changed places with Taher she couldn’t figure out. Maybe she had fallen asleep for a few minutes. Her heart was calm, not racing anymore. Amazement was in her eyes, but Taher was indifferent to her. She stared at him without uttering one word. She couldn’t tell him that he, too, must talk to Mahan and confirm that he was really their Mahan who’d come back or…
Zinat knew what Taher would say: leave aside these disturbing thoughts, take your sleeping pill and go to bed.
For years she believed she knew about things that Taher didn’t know and Taher knew about the other things that she didn’t know. They didn’t argue with each other about the things they knew—it was useless. She was sure if she told Taher to talk to Mahan, he would shake his head and head for his room, slam the door to show his disagreement and his anger. So she chose to be quiet and say nothing.
She didn’t notice when Taher finally went back to his room.
Now she was alone again with this Mahan or this strange man and she didn’t know what to do with him. Whether to make him dinner or breakfast or send him to her bedroom, which actually was Mahan’s bedroom, and say, “You’d better go to bed. It’s late. You need to rest. I’ll go to get fresh bread. Like those years when you and your sister were little and fought for having the pebble stuck to the back of bread to play with. And if the bread didn’t have any pebbles, you’d make a fuss and not want to have your breakfast.”
All these words were boiling in Zinat’s head, but she was quiet. The morning sun lit the living room as it spilled through the kitchen window like an unwanted guest.
Taher appeared from his room. Zinat was still sitting on the sofa, lost in her reverie. Surprised, he asked, “Are you waking up now or…”
Zinat said, “Last night, Mahan…”
She didn’t continue. In Taher’s eyes she read a bitter pity.
The Street of Butterflies
I SEE THE HOUSE THE DAY we go to look at the apartment we’re going to buy. I look through the apartment’s kitchen window and the house is the first thing that catches my eye. It’s a bungalow on about six-hundred square metres of land. Apartment buildings flank it on either side; one with arched windows and clear glass, and the other with long, rectangular windows of pale brown glass. The apartment buildings are both much taller than the house and tower over the bungalow as if to crush it. But the house and its front yard sit solemn and proud between the buildings, as though it has been claiming its place and its dignity for a long time.
Bahman is obsessed by inspecting the apartment, determined to find problems and deficiencies. The apartment doesn’t interest me at all. When Mr. Rafat opens the door and let us in, I see that it is empty. It should look spacious, but it doesn’t. Thinking about fitting so much furniture in this tiny space, and about Nastaran sleeping in the same bedroom with Pouria bothers me. The kitchen is small and has only a few cabinets, though there’s space for a fridge and washing machine.
I am upset. We had to sell our big house on a beautiful, green, winding street in Shemiranat, in the north of Tehran, and now I’m supposed to be happy with this tiny somewhat dreary apartment. The house belonged to Bahman’s father and while Bahman’s mother was alive, we lived there. Nobody ever talked about selling the house. Nastaran and Pouria were born there and grew up there. They each had their own bedroom. Over time, most of the other houses in the neighbourhood were demolished and giant apartment buildings were raised in their place. The builder had offered Bahman’s mother a good price, but we were lucky that she didn’t permit anyone to touch the house. Two years ago, after she passed away, her daughter and son, who lived abroad, returned to Iran and claimed their shares of the estate, so we were forced to sell the house.
And now this house on the other side of street, with its white curtains, its small pond in the middle of the front yard, and its garden full of petunias, geraniums, roses bushes, and….
Bahman places his hand on my shoulder and says, “Why are you so bewitched by what is outside this apartment? We’re not buying the whole street. Look at this apartment and tell me if you like it or not.”
I don’t need to look at the apartment. I can see everything from where I’m standing. I don’t like it. This tiny apartment is in no way comparable to the large and comfortable house we had lived in for so long.
Bahman turns to me and, as if he knows what I am thinking, says, “God bless my father…”
Yes, God bless Bahman’s father. We were able to pay for part of this apartment with the money we got from Bahman’s share from his father’s house, and the balance we were able to borrow from the bank and from some friends.
Bahman adds, “Otherwise, God knows what we would have done.”
I nod and comment, “With only one of our salaries, we would never be able to afford to pay the rent for even a smaller apartment than this one.”
Bahman continues, “Of course, especially as the other’s salary has to be used to pay for the children’s tuition.” He smiles ruefully, and says, “Don’t be so upset, then. Thank God, we finally own an apartment.”
Nastaran and Pouria started fighting the first day we moved to the apartment. “I won’t sleep in the same room with Nastaran,” Pouria insists, stamping her feet.
“I won’t even let you set foot in my room,” Nastaran hisses back.
We give the two bedrooms to the children and we buy a sofa bed for ourselves. At night we have to make it into a bed and in the morning turn it back into a sofa. Bahman and I have to do it by turns as soon as we get up, otherwise, it would give the children another bed to jump on.
We could only bring part of the furniture we had collected during the years living in the big house. We filled up every single bit of space in the apartment and the rest of our furniture either went into the garbage or was sold at the door for a pittance.
Our apartment building is on the Street of Butterflies in the west part of Tehran. I hear from the corner grocery store’s owner that the street had once been famous for its greenness—tall, graceful trees and copious bushes of honeysuckle used to line the street. With sadness in his voice, he says, “In the spring and summer you could smell their fragrance before stepping onto the street.”
When we move to this apartment, there are no signs of honeysuckle or tall trees. On both sides of the street there are only tall buildings, four-, five- or six-storeys, built in different architectural styles, different colours of brick, and different window panes. When I pass them on the street, I can see my reflection in the windows, some yellow, some brown, and some orange, and a lump in my throat goes up and down.
Bahman says, “Don’t take it so hard. Thank God we have something.”
I thank God for sure. I’m worried things will get worse. I saw what happened to my cousin, Pari, and her husband, who had sold their small apartment and went to the bank to get a loan to buy a bigger apartment. Prices had jumped so high that they couldn’t afford to buy something similar to their previous place. So Pari had to go back to her mother-in-law’s, and rent two rooms in her small house in a neighbourhood she didn’t like at all
. Since then she is always getting sick. She told me that she has to take pills every night to be able to sleep. So, I am very lucky compared to many people. Bahram is right. I shouldn’t take it so hard. I have to thank God.
We settle in the apartment and get used to the lack of space. Actually, I don’t, but Bahman and the children seem to.
And now, my only joy is to watch the house that sits across the street from our kitchen window. It reminds me so much of the house we used to live in the green valley north of Tehran. Soon after moving into the apartment, I’d spotted the family name on a blue tile, on the right side of the door, mounted on the brick wall: “Mahmood, Pirasteh.”
Little by little, I discover that Mrs. Pirasteh is a lonely woman. Her two sons live out of the country and only come to visit once a while. I’ve seen her in her yard. She has long hair, usually braided and wrapped on top of her head. She is a tall, stout woman, a little bent when she’s walking. I can’t guess how old she is from this far, but it’s clear that she’s elderly. She wears a long dress and a big scarf covers her shoulders, but not her hair. It seems that she doesn’t care about the neighbours living in the apartment buildings on the other side of her house. The house with its curtains drawn reminds me of a short story by William Faulkner, “A Rose for Emily.” I talk to Bahman about it, and he says, “You are happy with your fantasies about this house.”
I say, “Yes, I am.”
Mr. Salamat, the owner of the corner grocery store, is one of the oldest residents on the street and his store provides many of the street’s residents’ needs. He has sparse salt-and-pepper hair, and he always wears a white shirt. When he speaks, he won’t look in your eyes. He’s usually taciturn and often won’t answer any questions. I hear from his son, Nasser Agha, who runs the store when his father is away, that they converted their four-hundred-square-metre house to a five-storey apartment building. Now his parents, his other two brothers, and Nasser himself all live there with their families.
The Street of Butterflies Page 3