The Street of Butterflies

by Mehri Yalfani

  All the side streets of Safa Street are named after martyrs, such as Martyr Modarresi, Martyr Golparvar, Martyr Salehi, Martyr Manizadeh. And then there’s the Street of Butterflies.

  I asked Naser Agha, “Why wasn’t this street named after a martyr? Hasn’t it had any martyrs?”

  Naser doesn’t have more information about the history of the street, or if he has, he doesn’t want to share it with me, an intrusive newcomer to this neighbourhood. Maybe he imagines I am an informant looking to collect information about the people that live here. He ignores me and makes himself busy with other customers.

  I’m hurt by Naser Agha thinking of me as a stranger or an informant. I buy milk, honey, yogurt, and cheese, and go home. When I have a chance, I sit by the kitchen window and watch the house. I feel lucky that my view is not blocked. The house, the azure sky above it, and a small portion of the Darakeh Mountains, their summits covered by a delicate snow, fill my eyes.

  Every day, when I return from work, I remove my mantou and scarf, which are like an extra layer of skin on my body, and walk to the window and peer at the house on the other side of street, as if to ensure it has not disappeared while I wasn’t home. Since I know that the owner is an old woman and have heard that her sons live out of the country, I have a constant fear that she will die and her sons will come back, sell the house, and that the new owner will demolish it and build a high-rise in front of my kitchen window, blocking my view. I can’t bear the thought that the small part of the sky and mountains visible behind the house might one day be stolen from me.

  Last week, as I was closing the sofa bed, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back. My doctor prescribed a week of rest. We don’t open and close the sofa bed any more. Bahman sleeps on the sofa without making it into a bed, and I sleep on the floor. As folks say, “Life goes on.” And as our great Ferdousi says, “Sometime on the saddle and sometime under the saddle.”

  Today I feel better and sent Bahman to buy some vegetables. It’s been a while since I’ve made ghorme sabzi for my children. I spread a few pages of newspaper on the kitchen table and start to clean the vegetables.

  Once in a while, I look out of the window and watch the house. I see Mrs. Pirasteh coming out of the house. She is wearing a mantou dress for outside and a scarf over her head. A black purse is hanging from her shoulder. It’s clear that she’s going somewhere. I don’t know why, but I suddenly grab a chador from the hook by the door, climb hurriedly down the stairs without waiting for the elevator, and run out into the street to greet her.

  Mrs. Pirasteh is locking the gate in front of her house when I reach the street in front of our building. As she finishes, she turns around and starts to walk hesitantly toward me. I smile and say hello. She looks at me for a while, seemingly puzzled, so I greet her again. I introduce myself and add that I live on the fourth floor of this building and that it’s been three weeks since we moved to this street.

  I don’t get a reaction from her. It’s as if she’s saying, wherever you live, it’s none of my business.

  Frustrated, I blurt out, “I heard you’re living by yourself. If you need any help…”

  Then I wonder why I said this. With a full-time job and two children, I don’t have time enough even for my own chores. I’m always short of time. How can I help her? She looks at me, confused, and says nothing.

  This time, ashamed, I say, “Forgive me for intruding. I thought as a neighbour…”

  She stares at me and I assume she must think I’m a lunatic. Maybe she wonders why I am spying on her. But then she says, “I am happy and surprised.” She pauses and then I wonder, too. Why happy and why surprised?

  “After many years living on this street,” she adds, “I am surprised, and pleased, to be greeted by one of the new residents and asked how I am. So many of the previous residents have moved or passed away or are getting old like myself.” With a smile full of kindness, she continues, “I’d love to visit with you. I’m mostly at home. Please, come to my place whenever it suits you. We can have tea together. You can bring your children, too, if you have any. They can play in the yard.”

  Mrs. Pirasteh’s voice is welcoming and warm and like my grandmother’s, gentle and accepting. She arranges the purse on her shoulder, pulls her scarf up and says, “If you like, tomorrow afternoon is a good time for me.”

  I feel like a person who’s been invited to the house of God. I suggest, “After the children are back from school…?”

  She smiles and nods, “Very well.” And she leaves me by my door. Her steps are steady, as if she’s carrying the passage of many difficult years on her shoulders.

  The whole next day, I watch the house, worried that Mrs. Pirasteh will forget about our appointment and leave. I didn’t get her telephone number so I can’t call her. When the children come back from school, I cannot wait any longer. I help them change out of their school uniforms and have them wash their hands and faces. I pull out their bikes from among the things we have stored on the balcony and leave the apartment. In the past three weeks, whenever the children asked if they could go out onto the street to ride their bikes, I have not let them. How do I dare let two small children, only eight and ten, ride bikes on the street where cars drive by so fast?

  I have baked two cakes, one with raisins, the other with walnuts. I take half of each for Mrs. Pirasteh.

  I ring the doorbell and a few minutes later I hear her voice through the speaker. The gate clicks open. I send the kids in first with their bikes and then I follow them into the yard. It seems bigger and greener from close up. The vine-covered trellis creates a patch of shade in front of the door. I imagine that some time ago, a car had been parked there. Mrs. Pirasteh is standing on the veranda and invites us in.

  It’s the middle of the fall but the trees still have leaves though some yellow ones are scattered in the garden and in the shallow pond where a few goldfish swim. The garden isn’t as lush as it seems from my kitchen window, but the petunias and geraniums are still blooming. In one part of the garden, there are several bushes of red, yellow, and green tomatoes.

  Nastaran and Pouria stand by the pond and watch the goldfish. Pouria says, “They’re like the fish we used to have in our pond at the other house.”

  Nastaran continues, “I wish we had brought them here.”

  Ms. Pirasteh invites me and the children inside for sweets and tea. My walnut cake and raisin cake will be served. Ms. Pirasteh also has fruits and pastries on the table.

  We’re sitting in a small room with a big window overlooking the yard. After the children have their cakes and tea, they go outside to play. From where I’m sitting, I can watch them exuberantly riding their bikes in the yard, expending their childish energy. I feel sad, imagining they might be remembering the large yard of the house we used to live in north of Tehran.

  The question I’ve had since the first day I moved to this neighbourhood comes to me. I hope it isn’t intrusive. “What happened that your house was spared from becoming a high-rise apartment building?” To explain my forwardness, I continue, “I love this house. We lived in such a house until three weeks ago, but, well, we had to sell it, and I miss it.”

  Mrs. Pirasteh cuts a piece of cake for me and another piece for herself and says, “Yes, unfortunately, these kinds of houses are going to become historic buildings. Whenever my sons come to visit, they insist I sell the house and buy an apartment, or demolish this place and build an apartment building. And me…”

  I interrupt her to say, “For God’s sake, please don’t do it.” At the same time, I think to myself, Please don’t take away that small piece of sky and mountains over your house that I love so much.

  “I have never wanted to,” she replies firmly.

  I suppress my sigh of relief and we continue to chat about the neighbourhood. I am so comfortable with her that I feel as though I’ve known her for years, as if she were a relative. I ask her ano
ther question about something I have found curious since moving to the street. “How come this street doesn’t carry the name of a martyr, like all the other streets in this neighbourhood?”

  A shadow of sorrow crosses her face. She stares at me blankly, then breathes deeply, and places her cup of tea on the table. “There was a martyr that this street could have been named after—my own son,” she says in a soft voice. “In fact, our neighbours suggested changing the name the street to ‘Parham Pirasteh.’ But my husband wouldn’t let them. My husband passed away three years ago.”

  I am even more curious now. “How did it get this name, then? Why is it called the Street of Butterflies?”

  She says, “My husband chose the name for this street. We were the one first families to build a house here. In those days, it was called “Four Metres Street,” because of its width. When the city wanted to formally change the name of the street, my husband suggested ‘parvaneh,’ or butterfly, and no one objected.”

  She laughs amiably. She has big, even teeth. Her cheeks are full—not sunken because of old age. Her eyebrows are black, but there are soft bags under her dark eyes. Her long grey hair is parted in the middle, and her braid falls loosely down her back. Her hand goes involuntarily to her heart, as if she wants to pull out a sweet memory from there. With a sad smile, she adds, “My husband was very much in love with me. He wanted the street to be named after me.”

  I smile, “So, then your first name is Parvaneh?”

  She laughs again and nods, though tears also glisten in her eyes. Her voice breaks and she continues, “As I said, my husband was in love with me and everyone who knew us knew this, too. When my husband chose the name, I said, ‘I am not the only one—there are two others named Parvaneh that live on this street—they should be consulted.’ But no one objected, and the street thus became known as the Street of Butterflies.”

  I look at Mrs. Pirasteh in silence and my eyes move from her to a photo on the wall of a young man hanging next to a photo of an elderly man with salt-and-pepper hair, full lips, and black eyes; he must be Mrs. Pirasteh’s husband. The young man resembles his mother.

  She says, “That’s my son, Parham. He was on the front line, fighting the Iraqis. He had only three weeks of military service left when they brought his mutilated body back to us.”

  I know there’s nothing I can say to soothe her. I can only nod and gently squeeze her hand.

  She says, “This street has had many martyrs, some lost in the war and some in….”

  I want to say, “I’m so sorry,” but I am mute. I brush away the tears that have welled up in my eyes.

  I turn to look out at the yard so that I can hide my tears from Mrs. Pirasteh. I see the children chasing each other and giggling with abandon. I tell myself, “Play, my dears. Soon you won’t have such a nice place as this one to ride your bikes.”

  “Excuse me for upsetting you,” Mrs. Pirasteh says, “but the history of this street hasn’t been always so sad.” She suggests I drink my tea, which is getting cold, and she adds, “When we moved here, there was still lots of land on both sides of the street. Within a few years, young and middle-aged families joined us and the street was soon filled with houses. The yards had many beautiful trees and colourful bushes of honeysuckle. Every afternoon, especially during summer, we women sat by our doors chatting while our children played in the street. When those girls and boys grew up, some of them married each other. The disaster started after the revolution, when some of the families emigrated or sold their houses and moved to the neighbourhoods in the north of the city. The construction of apartment buildings was a like an epidemic! People needed to make money by selling apartments or they needed to make sure they had homes for their children who were growing up and needed somewhere to live—just like the owner of the grocery store on the corner of the street. As you can see, mine is the only house left on this street. And who knows what will happen after my death…”

  I cut short her words and say loudly, “I hope I never see that day.”

  Mrs. Pirasteh and I become close, almost like a mother and daughter. Many afternoons, especially in spring and summer, after my children are back from school and I have tidied up the apartment and made dinner, I visit her. Sometimes I take her a dish and sometimes she prepares one for me. She often says, “The woman who works outside the home doesn’t have time to make koofteh or cutlet and ash.” I visit with her at least three or four times per week and she’s present at many of our family gatherings. Once in a while, she tells me “I wish all the neighbours were like you.”

  Mrs. Pirasteh never suggests that I might need her as much as she might need me to fill her loneliness. But I tell myself, that as much I need and enjoy her company, I need her house, with the moutains behind it, and the blue sky above it, just as much.

  This happy time comes to an abrupt end. It’s been three years since we moved to the Street of Butterflies. Mrs. Pirasteh’s house, the mountains behind it, the blue sky above it, still make living in this tiny and dingy apartment bearable. As the children grow, it seems our space is getting smaller and smaller. We’re in the middle of the fall and there are still leaves on trees and flowers and vegetables in Mrs. Pirasteh’s gardens. It’s a Friday morning. We haven’t had our breakfast yet when I hear the sound of “La elaha el lalah” from the street. I rush to the kitchen window and see a coffin carried by a few men from Mrs. Pirasteh’s house to a hearse parked in the street. A few women and men dressed in black are following the coffin. In an instant, Bahman and I are at the door, then following the hearse by car to Beheshte Zahra.

  And now Mrs. Pirasteh’s sons are here. There are goings and comings at their house. I’m sure I will hear soon that the house has been sold, and there will be the sound of demolition and then the construction of another tall apartment building. God knows how long we will suffer from the noise and chaos in the street. The thought of the house being demolished is like a terrible disease, with me day and night.

  One day, coming back from work, I see Mrs. Pirasteh’s older son outside the house. I met him at his mother’s memorial. When I walk over, he thanks me for being a friend to his mother. “My mother always talked about you,” he says. Then he adds, “She said that you filled her loneliness.” He tells me how often they begged her to join them in America, but she always refused, insisting that she had a good neighbour watching over her.

  I wait until he finishes, then ask, “Are you going to sell the house?” The question has been with me since Mrs. Pirasteh’s death.

  Looking surprised, he replies, “No, we can’t.”

  Joy makes my heart beat faster in my chest. I ask, “Then what?”

  Right away I regret my abrupt question. Mrs. Pirasteh’s son must think I am a terribly rude person.

  Instead, in his face I see pride mixed with sadness. He says, “My father willed the house to my mother. Normally, after my mother’s death, the house would go my brother and me. But my mother’s will stated that she would like the house to be kept as it is, and given to a kindergarten.”

  My heart is beating even faster now. Is it possible? I ask myself.

  Mrs. Pirasteh’s son notices the astonishment in my eyes and continues, “My mother did not want her house to be sold or destroyed. She used to say, ‘I had happy and sad times in this house and I don’t want those memories to be transformed into dust.’ So she wanted it to be filled with the happy laughter of children.”

  I tell the story to Bahman with tears in my eyes. Bahman says, “Now that your prayer has being answered, you should take a bouquet of flowers to Mrs. Pirasteh’s grave every week.”

  Once again I remember Faulkner’s story, “A Rose for Emily.” I smile at him and reply, “I don’t think I need to take flowers for Mrs. Pirasteh to Beheshte Zahra every week. Her garden is always full of beautiful flowers; that is enough for her, and for me.”

  Soleiman’s Silence

&nb
sp; WHY DID ALL IRANIANS in Toronto know Soleiman? Nobody knew. Soleiman wasn’t wealthy; he wasn’t a poet, a writer, a musician, or a singer. He didn’t boast university or scientific titles. Soleiman was an ordinary person who chose to be silent. But Soleiman’s silence spoke volumes and people read words into his silence. Some believed Soleiman had never opened his mouth to speak. He was always quiet when they saw him. But it wasn’t true. Other had heard him tell the story of his past, a past as mysterious as his silence.

  Some believed Soleiman was raised in a city at the edge of the desert, a city full of impatient, gloomy, and thirsty people. A city imprinted in Soleiman’s face and eyes. Soleiman had told many stories about the city’s long, burning, boring summers—bittersweet stories. People retold these stories in Soleiman’s presence with the hope that he would confirm or deny them. He listened and said nothing.

  Others believed Soleiman came from a mountainous area. They believed they had heard Soleiman describe the cold winter, gusting winds, hardworking people who didn’t think about anything but how to conquer the summit hidden under the clouds. It seems that Soleiman had nice memories of this city, unlike the desert city that dragged energy from people, that made people struggle. The mountain, which sheltered the city, frightened people. The people believed there was a monster hidden on the summit of the mountain, a monster that should be killed. People worried about climbing the mountain, reaching its summit, and finding the monster that threatened them.

  Others thought Soleiman was from a city in the North, close to the Caspian Sea. They said that Soleiman had described tall poplars, willows, cedars, and plane trees whose brimming greenness in summer was like a wavering hallucination in the desert. The winter was rainy, days turning quickly to night filled with dreams and memories. Soleiman spoke so elegantly about this city, that listeners could feel the breeze passing over their skins and hear the waves that crashed on its shores.