The Street of Butterflies

by Mehri Yalfani

  A few months after buying the Niavaran house, Maman purchased a lamb and hired a butcher to behead it in the yard—to blind the jealous eyes, as folk say. Then she invited all her friends and relatives for Hazrat Abbass Sofreh, and hired a female preacher. For all these religious ceremonies and feasts, Soraya joon was present, too. As Maman used to say, she was a big help, like a real sister. We considered her our aunt, and she really was. Our only true aunt, Maman’s sister, had moved to America with her family after the revolution.

  When Maman and Soraya joon got together they told us about their friendship, which went back many years. They were neighbours for a while and had attended the same elementary school. After my grandfather bought his house on Mirdamad Street, Soraya joon and Maman no longer lived close to each other, but they kept in touch by phone and at various parties and events hosted by mutual friends. As Maman used to say, the similarities between them were amazing: “Soraya had one sister; me, too. I’ve got two daughters; Soraya, too.” They don’t have any physical similarities. Soraya joon is tall, slim, with black eyes, black hair, and an olive complexion. My mother is rather short and plump, always worrying about her weight, with curly, brown hair, and a light complexion. Unlike my mother, who’s noisy and talkative, Soraya joon is taciturn and reserved, but a genuinely kind person. Maman always said Soraya joon wasn’t so reserved and quiet when they were in high school. Soraya joon participated in almost all the school’s programs, and with her nice, soft voice, she could imitate most of the famous singers, making for good times during recess.

  Whenever Soraya joon came to visit—usually with her daughters, Paria and Nazli—we would sit together in the kitchen. Maman made us coffee and after we finished drinking it, Soraya joon told our fortune from our cups the way her Armenian neighbour had taught her.

  Maman said, “Our real friendship started in Anooshirvan Dadgar high school in grade ten. In those days, we sometimes stayed overnight at each other’s house. Our parents, too, started to develop a close friendship. We travelled together a few times, once to the Caspian seashore, and once to Isfehan and Shiraz. Those trips, I’ll never forget.”

  Maman said, “Soraya joon’s husband was the son of a friend of my grandfather. They met each other at my birthday party.” At that time Soraya joon was a second-year student at the university, studying literature to be a high school teacher. My Maman hadn’t been accepted at the university. As she said, she hadn’t been a very good student. She was in love with her cousin—I mean, my father. Their parents weren’t opposed; they wanted them to get married, and believed in the folk saying that, “A marriage between two cousins has been signed in heaven.” Baba had gone to America for his education. As he later joked, travelling to America wasn’t as a big deal in those days as it was after the revolution, when it was accessible only to Prophet Solomon, flying on his rug.

  My father said that getting admitted to an American university was easier than being accepted in a university in Iran, where only very talented students pass the entrance exams. To attend an American university, all you needed was a high school diploma and a bank account with a considerable amount of money, which my grandfather had been able to provide.

  Uncle Goodarz was studying chemical engineering in the technical faculty of Tehran University when he met Soraya joon. A few months later they became engaged but they didn’t marry until they both finished their education. That year my Maman’s fiancé, I mean my Baba, had retuned from the U.S. for his summer holidays. My mother and father got married and then left for America together. Two years later, my father’s education was completed and they returned to Iran with Taraneh, who was six months old. Soraya joon was eight months’ pregnant with Paria. So Taraneh and Paria were born in the same year, only a few months apart. Naturally, they grew up together and developed a close friendship—like Maman and Soraya joon. Sometimes, I envied them. They would close the door of Taraneh’s room and not let Nazli and me in. I was sure they were talking about their boyfriends. Nazli and I weren’t very intimate. She’s two years older than me and never showed any interest in being my friend. She called me a mommy-daddy spoiled baby, I think because I had a room to myself and a closet full of clothes, as well as many toys and games, a guitar and a piano. Nazli and Paria had a small bedroom. Their house and ours weren’t comparable. But Baba always advised us not to pay attention to what people own but how kind and good-hearted they are. “Try to value your friendships,” he always said.

  Uncle Goodarz was hired by the Tolidaroo Company after graduating as a chemical engineer and later they bought a little house in Bahar Street, when Paria and Nazli were still very young. Soraya joon didn’t want to be far from her parents, who lived in the same area. Her mother wasn’t very healthy and Soraya joon visited her every day. Soraya joon’s younger sister, Zohreh, had gone to Germany, like many Iranians who fled the country after the revolution, those who had political involvements or those who couldn’t stand the religious government interfering in their private lives. We wanted to leave the country, too, Maman particularly. When Taraneh and I had to wear those black maghnehes and dark school uniforms, Maman looked at us distressed, as if she were sending us to a torture chamber. The worst time was during the Iran-Iraq war, when Tehran was under missile attack. Maman urged Baba to arrange for us to leave Iran. Once or twice we went to the north, to our villa at the Caspian seashore. Once, Soraya joon’s family visited us, but they stayed only two nights. Our villa was crowded with Baba’s brother’s family and our grandparents as well. My mother nagged my father to sell his properties and get a visa for America, where my aunt, her husband, and their son and daughter were living. They sent us letter after letter, writing, “Why are you staying?” Baba didn’t want to leave. “Nowhere else would be like home,” he used to say.

  When I became older, having to be veiled was like a curse to me. Taraneh and I dreamed about leaving Iran, especially when we received photos from our cousins with their friends, boys and girls, at school or at parties, wearing tight jeans, mini-skirts, short-sleeved shirts, and colourful dresses, their hair waving in wind. They looked as happy as we imagined they would be; we thought they lived in paradise. At that time in Iran, we hardly dared to have a birthday party or listen to music that we liked, and if we did, Maman had to stand by the window to watch the street. If she noticed anything suspicious, we had to turn off the lights and music, trembling with fear that there might be a raid on our home and we would be taken to Committee for flogging. In spite of all our precautions, Taraneh and I had been taken to Committee several times because of attending birthday parties and being careless with our hijabs. And if it wasn’t for Baba paying big bribes, God knows what might have happened to us.

  Yes, in those days, Maman, Taraneh, and I begged Baba to send us to America. When Grandma heard us, she was angry with Maman: “Parvaneh, are you crazy? Leaving your home and going to a foreign, faraway land? Well, Farzaneh had no choice because of her husband—a shah’s colonel. If he didn’t leave, he would have been executed by now.”

  Grandpa also showered Maman with fatherly advice: “I can’t believe you want to leave your old parents and go to another part of world. What’s wrong with your life here or with your daughters’ lives? So, the girls have to wear a veil. This is not just for your daughters—it’s the same for half of the population of this country.” He told Maman that if she left the country, he wouldn’t call her his daughter anymore.

  We lived in fear of being arrested and imprisoned. Prison meant flogging, torture, or execution, and still does. Whenever we were invited to a birthday party, Maman always accompanied us there, then talked to the hostess, giving her advice, inspecting the neighbourhood carefully, asking about possible escape routes in case there was a pasdars raid. When she was sure that the host and hostess were watchful, she would leave but she called us every half an hour to be sure we were safe and secure. Almost all of our friends’ parents did the same. They were all afraid that something
bad might happen to us.

  We’d newly moved to our Niavaran house and Maman was busy with decorating and buying new furniture when Taraneh became sick. Our new house looked like a mansion, according to my friends. No one had a pool then, and if they did, they didn’t dare have water in it. We had a deep well in our yard, so we could fill the pool with no need to use the city water.

  Taraneh had headaches once in a while, but our parents didn’t take them seriously. Then they got worse, and some days she couldn’t leave her bed. My parents took her to visit every specialist they could find, but none of them could do anything for her. When she was all right for a few days, joy came back to our house, but it didn’t last too long. Another severe headache would capture her and Taraneh would collapse in bed.

  Grandma blamed Maman. “It’s from too much work, too many classes—draining your children’s energy. You don’t let them enjoy their childhood, or their teenage years: piano class, mathematics class, English class, dance class, swimming class, and this and that class. When a girl gets her high school diploma, she has to marry a nice, wealthy man. Thank God your daughters won’t need such wealthy men. Their father can give them enough. They need a loyal, obedient husband like their own father.” Then with the same note of accusation in her voice, she asked Maman, “What’s wrong with your life? You didn’t have to take all those classes.”

  Defiantly Maman said, “My mother blames me for everything. She puts the guilt on my shoulders. I did what a mother does these days for her daughters. Many of my friends have hired a piano teacher for their children, and I did too. Is it my fault that Taraneh loves to sit at the piano and practice the melodies of Beethoven, Mozart, and I don’t know who else for long hours? Well, she loves classical music. Her teacher says she has a great talent for music. She wanted to learn the setar, too. I didn’t force her to do so. Now that the daughters of any grocery store owner go to university, why should my daughters end up with just a high school diploma? Why should Paria be accepted at the medical school and my Taraneh…?”

  She couldn’t continue after she mentioned Taraneh’s name and started to cry. Taraneh hadn’t taken the university entrance exams because she was sick. Baba said he’d send her to America. Taraneh said, “Who wants to go to America?” She locked herself in her room and no one dared knock on her door to ask her how she was. When Soraya joon came to visit, she knocked lightly on the door, speaking lovingly, and trying to get Taraneh to come out. If Paria was with her, Taraneh would be happier and the two of them would spend some time together in her room. Maman thanked Soraya joon, saying, “You might help her to get well.”

  “You should give her time,” Soraya joon soothed Maman. “She might be tired, or bored, or upset…”

  “Why can’t the doctors figure out what’s wrong with her?” Maman lamented. “If her headaches would just let her alone…”

  Apparently, the doctors thought nothing was wrong with Taraneh, that she looked healthy. Still, she had lost weight. Some days, when she had a headache, she couldn’t eat. On those days, our home looked like a place of mourning.

  Two years passed, then three, and nothing changed. We’d already moved to our new house when Baba made an appointment with a very famous hospital in England and we went to London. It was in the summer time so I could go with them. But I didn’t like London and counted the days until we could come back. We spent the whole time either sitting by Taraneh’s bed in the hospital or at the hotel. Maman kept saying, “I want to leave this place as soon as possible.” She couldn’t speak English—she’d forgotten the little she had learned during the years they had lived in America. Baba and I interpreted the doctors’ words for her and Taraneh understood even better than Baba. Finally, the doctors called Maman and Baba and in front of Taraneh told them that their examinations and tests had gone nowhere, and that they were unable to find anything wrong with Miss Taraneh. They told my parents that Taraneh might get well as time went on and she got older.

  We were so happy that we flew back to Iran few days later. Then Baba insisted we go to the south of France for a week, to rest and relax after the stressful time in London. He was so happy about the doctors’ opinion that he believed all of us needed some happy times. But three of us didn’t want to go. I’d missed my friends and our beautiful house. Taraneh wanted to go home, too. I knew her real motive for wanting to go back to Iran right away. She missed Bijan, for sure. Nobody except Paria, Nazli, and I knew about Bijan. If Maman and Baba found out about him, they would have made Bijan’s family miserable. Taraneh had been pledged to marry her cousin, Nima, since she was born—like my parents. Nima had studied engineering at Azad University and worked in Baba’s office. Their company had built a high-rise apartment building and a penthouse in the building belonged to Nima and Taraneh. But since Taraneh had become sick, no one dared mention Nima in front of her. Nima didn’t come to visit her any more. He did a few times and Taraneh had made such a fuss and screamed so loudly, that Maman and Baba imagined she had become psychotic. I found out about Bijan when Taraneh started learning to play the setar. Bijan was her instructor. He was a slim, bearded young boy who had lost his father in the revolution. He lived with his mother. His only sister had left Iran to seek asylum in France. For a while, Bijan came to our house to teach Taraneh, then he stopped coming. Taraneh’s illness became worse, and recurring severe headaches forced her to stay in bed. One day she told me about her love for Bijan and made me swear to God to say nothing to Maman and Baba. I became a messenger between them and kept Taraneh’s secret to myself. I didn’t feel it was necessary to talk about it to Maman and Baba. Taraneh and Bijan believed their love for each other was a Platonic love. When Taraneh played the setar, it was as though she was talking to Bijan, and it brought tears to my eyes. It never crossed my mind that Taraneh might one day be gone.

  If Maman or Baba had thought the marriage of Taraneh and Bijan would bring back Taraneh’s health, they might have beseeched him to marry her. Now I feel guilty. I wish I had told them about the couple as they might have done something. It might have saved Taraneh’s life, or, at the very least, she would have had the man she loved beside her at her death bed.

  Maman tried everything she could to bring back Taraneh’s health. When the doctors in Iran and England weren’t able to help, she went to fortune-tellers and spent lots of money on them, hoping they could tell her of something that might cure her.

  When Soraya joon, Uncle Goodarz, Paria, and Nazli stopped to coming to visit, Maman didn’t say anything about it. Whenever Taraneh or I asked about Soraya joon, Maman said, “She lives faraway and she is busy with her mother who is sick at home and needs someone to care for her. We shouldn’t oblige them to come to visit us.”

  Baba’s bankruptcy happened after Taraneh’s death, but actually his fortunes had started to decline a few months before that. Suddenly everything turned upside down and our luxurious lifestyle vanished as if it had never existed.

  Soraya joon didn’t show up for Taraneh’s memorial, either. It was a week or two later that I called their home to talk to Nazli. We chatted for a while and I asked about Paria. She said Paria was living in a small town in the north of Iran where she was doing her medical training. I couldn’t help myself and started to cry. When she asked why I was crying, I told her about Taraneh’s death. A few days later, Paria and Nazli came to visit. Maman stayed in her room; Grandma was looking after her. Paria and Nazli visited with me for about half an hour and then left.

  A year or so after Taraneh’s death, Maman told us about her dream: that she had seen Taraneh, who told her she missed Paria. With a sense of regret in her voice, Maman said, “Actually, it was the Niavaran house that distanced us.”

  I don’t know what exactly happened that made Soraya joon stop visiting and what Maman said to her that brought her back to us. Soraya joon told us the whole story when she came to visit.

  *

  It was a Friday morning and I h
ad slept longer than usual. When I woke up, I heard voices coming from the living room. I knew that a few days before, Maman had gone to see Soraya joon and had asked her to come to visit.

  I washed, combed my hair and changed my dress, then went to the living room to greet them. Uncle Goodarz, Paria, and Nazli were there, too. A feeling of joy and excitement momentarily warmed me and I felt as though I had returned to those happy days we’d had together. But after Taraneh’s death, happiness meant nothing and returning to the past was an illusion. Not only had our wealth disappeared, but we had lost Taraneh too.

  Soraya joon said, “It’s good that Ghazal is here too. I have to say everything in front of you all, so there’s no misunderstanding. In the past two years, Goodarz, Paria, and Nazli asked me what happened that I ended my relationship with my old friend—a friend closer to me than my own sister. What causes you to forget a forty-year friendship and to not want to mention your old and once dear friend’s name? I’ll tell you what happened.” She looked at Maman, then at Baba and me, and continued. “Parvaneh said that a fortune teller had told her I was jealous of you after you bought your Niavaran house and that I’d cursed you. She told me that the fortune teller said I had a devil eye, and that it was the reason for Taraneh’s sickness. Parvaneh told me if I stopped visiting, Taraneh would get well.”

  Maman was looking down at the floor, wiping tears off of her face. I imagined they were tears of shame, not for losing Taraneh. Baba didn’t say a word. Since he’d had to sell the Niavaran house to pay his debts and had bought this small apartment in Mirdamad, close to Grandpa’s place, he wasn’t the same man any more. Losing Taraneh was a huge loss for him, too.