The Street of Butterflies

by Mehri Yalfani

The next week Flecia joined our group. We weren’t supposed to invite our girlfriends to our Friday night gatherings, but Kiumars brought her, explaining that she wanted to get to know his friends. She was one of those rare persons who radiate love. To get to know us, she asked simple questions: Do you like Canada? What do you do for living? Do you have family here? And after a short while, it was as if we had all known each other for years. The conversation flowed and familiarity warmed up our words. When she found out Ahmad and I were also separated from our families, her eyes filled with sympathy and compassion. Whenever she looked at us, she made us hot with love. The talk changed quickly to topics such as racism, culture, history, the environment, the economy, and politics. Flecia had such broad knowledge of these subjects that the three of us felt ignorant compared to her. Of course, when we still lived in our homeland, we considered ourselves political and social justice activists, and we claimed we were challenging our government to provide a better life for our all people. But when we found out we were in danger, we preferred to flee rather than to stay and continue our efforts.

  Flecia spoke to us like an economist, a society and cultural specialist, and an environmentalist. She bewitched us with her original ideas, her natural beauty, and her unique character. I was fascinated by her. When I noticed Kiumars looking at me with threatening, warning eyes, I remembered that I had to be careful with my behaviour. Iranian men do not tolerate other men paying too much attention to, or flirting with, their mothers, sisters, wives, daughters or girlfriends. But I was captivated by Flecia and I had to work hard at controlling my enthusiasm in her presence.

  When Flecia asked us about our origins, we boasted about how as Iranians we were from a “pure” race, by which we meant Aryan. She laughed loudly, as if she had heard the funniest joke, and said, “I don’t believe that at the threshold of the twenty-first century, at the beginning of the third millennium, there’s one person on the whole earth who’s racially ‘pure’. I think to find such a person you’d have to go to the depths of Brazil’s or Australia’s forests.”

  The three of us looked at her bewildered. Frankly, her words were insulting. I couldn’t bear a woman like Flecia humiliating us in front of her boyfriend, who was Iranian like we were. I asked, “Well, what about you? You don’t look like you are from a pure race.”

  She laughed again, seductively. Her white teeth were like pearls. Her red tongue touched the tip of her mouth, her big, dark eyes, which were not black nor brown nor even grey or blue or green, but a mixture of all colours, were wet with tears of laughter. Her exquisite eyes were wild with surprise and her cheeks glittered with freshness. Her hair reminded us that one of her ancestors, perhaps long ago, had been black. It was like a forest that no human being had touched; it didn’t fall on her shoulders, but stood up on her head like a crown of golden-brown curls. And it seemed that Flecia did nothing to tame it. Her hair was the first thing that attracted the eyes; it was like a halo around her beautiful face.

  “Me?” she replied mischeviously. “You won’t believe me, and you may think I’m boasting, but I am a mixture of all races.”

  Kiumars looked at Ahmad and me and beamed with pride. He had his arms around Flecia’s shoulders, and every now and then he kissed her. He was ensuring that both of us were well aware that she belonged to him.

  Ahmad asked, “How do you know that?”

  Flecia laughed again. Her laughter was like a spring rain that pours down suddenly after a long drought and fills you with joy.

  “How do I know?” she said. “I have a family tree. A very long family tree that goes back seven generations.”

  “Really?” I said. There was doubt in my voice that Flecia quickly grasped.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But I have the blood of all races in my veins. And because of that I’m familiar with all people of the world.”

  Kiumars encouraged her: “Tell them about your ancestors. Don’t worry if they don’t believe you.”

  “I believe everything you say,” I responded in an apologetic tone.

  “Well, in brief,” she said, “my seventh ancestor was a black man who was stolen from Africa, chained and beaten, kept hungry, and taken to the America as a slave. He was the father of the father of the mother of the father of the father of the mother of my mother.”

  I was confused and I wanted to ask Flecia to explain this more clearly, but she was so absorbed by her ancestors’ story that I forced myself to listen and not interrupt with questions.

  She continued, “That pure black African married a woman who had been the child of a black girl who had been raped by a white man. My sixth ancestor, who considered himself a black man even though he was of mixed race, raped a white woman and was lynched.”

  She looked at us, her eyes wide, and asked, “Do you know what ‘lynch’ means?” And without waiting for us to reply, she gave us a long lecture about how black people were hung from trees by white mobs.

  Again, she didn’t give us a chance to open our mouths. She continued, “That white woman found out she was pregnant, fled to an Aboriginal community, and gave birth to my fifth ancestor. My fifth ancestor married an Indian man. Their son, my fourth ancestor, married a white woman, and their son was my third ancestor. He married a Chinese woman. Their daughter was my second ancestor, who was my grandmother, and she married a European. Their daughter married a man from India and I am their child.” Cool and relaxed she added, “You see, this is me, made of seven different ingredients.” And again she laughed.

  “You see,” Kiumars said, “Flecia is the symbol of all races and now she’s going to mix with someone of the Aryan race.”

  “Aryan race? I haven’t heard of such a thing,” Flecia said, surprised. “Did you invent such a race?”

  “How haven’t you heard about the Aryan race?” Ahmad said. “Hitler, in Germany, claimed it was the superior race.”

  Flecia’s eyes widened with disbelief. “And he was responsible for the most heinous acts! Are you sure you want to say that you are from the Aryan race?”

  “We are indeed Aryan,” I said. “Hitler’s concept of the Aryan race was quite different…. Our Aryan roots derive from our ancient Indo-Iranian origins.”

  Flecia nodded and then we debated history, the intermingling of races, cultures, and societies for many hours on many evenings. We enjoyed Flecia’s cascading laughter and intimate manner, which was like spring sunshine that warmed and delighted us. We always had wonderful and memorable evenings when Flecia joined us.

  A few months passed and Flecia broke up with Kiumars. She told me he expected too much from her. We talked on the phone a few times, and then one day she said she wanted to visit me at my place. She stayed for the night.

  Kiumars stopped talking to me; Ahmad too. They said I had double-crossed them. But it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t refuse Flecia’s friendship and send her back to Kiumars. He wasn’t worthy of her. Flecia was an exceptional woman, warm and full of love and compassion. Knowing her was a privilege for me; she helped me to understand women better. I learned a lot from her about the secrets of womanhood. She even helped me to reconsider my relationship with Mahnaz. Through Flecia, I realized that Mahnaz had been a devoted wife, a wife who loved me, but she was also keen to learn and grow as a person, and I had ignored her.

  Flecia used to say, “I’m like the earth, accepting and giving.” And she really was. Her ideas about race, about life, thrilled me and made me rethink my own notions about the mixing of races and about our expectations of women. I was close to falling in love with her when she left me.

  I called Kiumars and told him, “Flecia left me. Don’t be angry with me. Let’s be friends again.”

  “You deserved that,” he said. “When you steal your friend’s girlfriend, you should be punished the same way.”

  “I didn’t steal her,” I said. “She came to me.”

  “Why didn’t s
he go to Ahmad?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Several weeks passed and the coldness between us began to fade. I called Kiumars and Ahmad and asked if we could resume our Friday night get-togethers. It was the second or third week when Flecia joined us again, this time with Ahmad. Neither Kiumars nor I were surprised. We welcomed Flecia enthusiastically. As usual, she warmed our gathering with her laughter and her discussion of whatever was the topic of the day. Being with Flecia seemed to eliminate any animosity among us.

  After a few months, Flecia left Ahmad, too, and the three of us never got together again on Friday nights.

  Later, I learned Kiumars had gone back to his wife. There was no news from Ahmad. I went to Happy Hours two or three times, but I never saw him there. I called him once to see how he was and he told me he needed to spend more time with his children. I asked if Taraneh had remarried.

  “No. That man was only a friend, a colleague,” he said. Then he added, “I’m actually thinking of going back to my family.”

  I felt lonely. I called Mahnaz and asked her how she was doing. A few months had passed since the appointment regarding our divorce. I had completely forgotten about it and so had Mahnaz. Another time was set and we arranged a meeting to decide how to divide our belongings. On my way there, I never imagined that I would go back to my wife, but I did.

  Now, Kiumars, Ahmed and I occasionally get together with our families and sometimes we talk about Flecia. Incredulous, our wives listen to us talking and ask, “Are you sure you aren’t dreaming? Did such a woman really exist?”

  And we ask ourselves, “Did she?”

  The French Fiancé

  “YOU TOLD ME THAT your fiancé was French,” Nahid said. She was driving fast along a highway that glowed under the streetlights, fading in the morning light. There had been mostly silence between them during the trip from the airport to home.

  When Nahid repeated her comment, Azar answered boldly, “Yes, he was.” And then she turned to fix her gaze outside the window. There were no more words exchanged after that.

  At home, Nahid led Azar to a bedroom that had been readied for her, and then she made her way to the kitchen to start breakfast and put on a pot of tea.

  Azar closed the door of the bedroom quietly and joined her in the kitchen. She held a wet diaper and asked Nahid, “What can I do with this?”

  Nahid took a plastic shopping bag from a drawer and handed it to Azar. “Put the diaper in this and dump it in the garbage.”

  “You don’t recycle it?”

  “What?”

  Azar tucked the diaper into the bag and looked around for the garbage can. Nahid seemed exasperated. She took the bag from Azar, opened the door of the cabinet under the sink, and dumped the bag into the trash. She washed her hands and said, “I made fresh tea for breakfast. Pointing to a room on the left of the kitchen, she said, “There’s the washroom if you want to wash your hands.” While Azar was in the washroom, Nahid stood by the kitchen window, her face stern and unsmiling. The morning light coloured the building on the other side of the alley like a delicate fog and she didn’t notice when Azar returned. When she turned around, Azar was once again sitting down at the table. Nahid walked over to the stove, poured the tea into two big glass cups, and placed them on the table. “You must be very tired,” she said.

  Azar leaned forward, and asked, “Is Mr. Engineer sleeping?”

  “No, he’s on a trip, to Zahedan and Kerman, those areas. He is mostly not at home. He’s interested in exploring Iran. Thank God…”

  She trailed off and sipped her tea. Tired, Nahid didn’t have any appetite for breakfast. She had been awake the whole night. She had been anxious about seeing her sister and had tossed and turned for hours. She had driven to the airport at two o’clock in morning. Nastaran had wanted to go with her, but she dissuaded her, suggesting that she come with her children to see her aunt later in the afternoon.

  Azar put a morsel of bread and cheese in her mouth. She didn’t have any appetite either. She’d had food twice on the plane. “Our breakfast, when Maman was alive,” she said with a trace of sorrow in her voice. “Do you remember? She always woke up early in the morning…”

  Nahid didn’t answer. She looked directly into Azar’s eyes and began to say something. “Azar…” she uttered, but then didn’t continue.

  Azar stared at her and said, “What is it? Is it the baby?”

  Nahid said, “Yes, why…?”

  Azar didn’t let her finish her words. “I know. It’s because he’s black?”

  Nahid said, “Well, yes. You said your fiancé was French. You said his name was Alen and…”

  Azar had another morsel of bread and cheese in her hand, but she put it down and forced herself to swallow the first morsel. She placed her hands against the table, leaning in close to Nahid, and as if she needed to confirm it, she said, “Yes, I told you that Alen was French. Well, he was. His parents were French and he was born in Quebec. He wasn’t as black as his son. If I had known…” She paused.

  Nahid said, “If you had known what?”

  Azar turned her face away from her sister, and looked out the window. The daylight was a stark fact now—almost harsh as it spilled through the window, spreading everywhere.

  Nahid said, “Have you thought about it?”

  “About what?”

  “About our families, friends. About Nastaran and Niloofar, Mehdi and Farhad, our relatives. What do I tell them? How do I explain it to them? The worst is Mostafa. If he finds out that the child is…” she hesitated, “…an illegitimate child, he will give me, give us, a hard time.”

  Azar stood up. It wasn’t anger that made her stand up, it was surprise. She hadn’t thought at all about what Nahid was now telling her. Should she have thought about it? She had told Nahid everything and had written to her in detail as well.

  “I’m so lonely, Nahid.” She still could not turn to face her sister. “With a child only a few months old and the grief of Alen’s death, I didn’t know what to do. My life is torn apart. My psychologist told me to return to my country, to stay with my sister, that then I might forget.”

  Earlier, Nahid had said, “Yes, come. I’m here. I’m not dead yet. I’m lonely, too. Mostafa is mostly away. I’m not sure if he has a wife somewhere else. Even if he has, it’s not important to me anymore. Well, come. What are you waiting for?”

  And Azar had come.

  “And now what are you going to do?” Nahid asked.

  Azar sat down again. The sunlight was like an unwanted guest, blanketing the sofa in the living room, and creeping toward the kitchen. She stretched out her hand, reaching for the bread, then pulled it back. Nahid abruptly got up, poured fresh tea for them both.

  “What do you suggest I should do?” Azar asked. “He’s my son, Alen’s son. We had planned to get married. When the accident happened, I wasn’t in the car with him. I wish I had been.” Her voice broke.

  Nahid lightly touched Azar’s arm, but said nothing.

  “Then I found out, I was pregnant. I couldn’t….”

  “But…?” Nahid asked, her eyes narrowed, her lips tight.

  “But what?”

  “Didn’t you think about the consequences? About today?”

  “No, I didn’t think about anything. If you had met him—I mean Alen…”

  “But he wasn’t black.”

  “No, he wasn’t. His grandmother was black. His father, too. But his mother and his grandfather were white. Alen was mixed race.”

  “So, why this…?”

  “This…?” Azar was confused.

  “I mean, why so black?”

  “How do I know? Well, the previous generations were black. I didn’t order a black baby.”

  Nahid gave her an anxious, uncertain smile. She shook her head, and dropped her eyes, as though she couldn’t i
magine what might be next. Frustrated Nahid cried out, “So, tell me, tell me what must I do now?”

  Azar raised her voice. “I don’t understand what you mean. Over there, in Canada, I didn’t have any problems, even with the Iranians who were living there. What’s going on here? This child is my son. His father was my boyfriend. We were going to be married. If Alen hadn’t died in a car accident, and was with me now, it wouldn’t matter if my son were black or white or anything! He would have a father. Isn’t that true? And now…” She stopped, got up, and began pacing the small kitchen, her arms wrapped tightly around her. “And now what? What do you expect me to do?”

  Nahid also got up and turned off the lamp over the kitchen table. “You’d better rest,” she said gently. “Aren’t you tired? Did you sleep on the plane?”

  Azar didn’t say a word. It was the first time she had been in Nahid’s apartment. When she’d left Iran, Nahid and Mostafa, Nastaran, and Niloofar were living in a big house in the Vanak area. Azar had loved that house. She had swum in its pool so many times with Nastaran and Niloofar, and she’d gone with them to restaurants and the cinema. Nahid was a like a second mother to Azar. Fifteen years had passed since she had left Iran. Her parents had passed away and she couldn’t come for their memorials because Mahmood had refused to give her her passport when she separated from him.

  It seemed to Nahid that she didn’t know her sister anymore. There was a new, big, and incomprehensible gap between them. Azar was no longer the noisy, active, happy young girl whom their mother always worried would make trouble outside of the house and be arrested by Pasdars because she was always careless with her hijab and she insisted on wearing make up.

  “Don’t you want to rest while the baby is sleeping?” Nahid asked again.

  Then as if she hadn’t heard her, Azar sat back down at the table and asked, “Do you have any news from Mahmood? I heard when Father died, he came to visit.”

  “Do you mean that he shouldn’t have come? Father was his uncle.” Nahid was glaring at her, anger twitching at her lips