The Street of Butterflies

by Mehri Yalfani

  She placed my writing—crimson with shame—on the table and left. She had been sympathetic, but she obviously didn’t see a bright future for my writing in English. She held her tongue, though, and it was as if my own papers chided me: Translation isn’t easy. If you want your work to be published in English, if you want a publisher to get beyond the first manuscript pages, you must forget your mother tongue. The sweet, rhythmic Farsi that interweaves with and emerges from your flesh and bones. Forget the fairy tales you heard as a child, forget the poems of Hafiz, Rumi, Khaiam, Nima Shamloo, Sepehri, Forugh. Leave behind the community newspapers and Iranian websites in which you find beautiful poems to revive and refresh your soul.

  These thoughts made me miserable and my eyes filled with tears.

  I saw my friend beside me, a ghostly voice repeating her pessimistic words, “Remember, you’re living in an English-speaking country…”

  I didn’t hear the rest of her words. I didn’t need to hear them.

  I tried to follow my friend’s advice. For a few months I read only books and newspapers in English and I wrote only in English. I tried to think in English too, but mostly my mind became blank, as if I had less and less to think about. It seemed as though a murky veil surrounded me, sometimes gloomy, on occasion clear, as if a lace curtain separated me from the texts I was reading.

  And when I began to write in English, it got worse. The words seemed to come, not from my skin and flesh, but from somewhere unknown, where I could neither feel nor touch them. When I wanted to put an idea down on paper, the words fled from my memory, disappeared like wisps of smoke in the air, their meanings dissolving in my mind. Even when I was sure I knew the right words, had heard them on many occasions, and read them in many texts, when I tried to use them in creative writing, they seemed to play a game with me, fleeing from my mind and leaving me bewildered and frustrated. When I tried to read back my writing, the words seemed without soul or life. These words weren’t mine. Fictional characters were as stiff as mannequins with blank faces. They were like unfinished sculptures that still needed a lot of work to take shape. I hardly recognized my own writing. The plot and the descriptive passages were foreign to me. A voice inside me yelled, You’re not an English-language writer. Your heart’s language is Farsi; don’t abandon it. Farsi, as Jamalzadeh said, is sugar.

  For me, Farsi is much better than sugar, better than anything I can imagine. When I read Rumi’s poetry for the first time, my joy was compounded by the realization that I shared this great poet’s mother tongue. I could read Rumi’s poetry in the language in which it was written, and it could speak directly to my heart.

  So, once again I took refuge in Farsi. I have chosen to continue to write in my first language and to translate it afterwards, into English. I force myself to emigrate from my own beloved homeland to a foreign one, finding my way through its winding alleys and its semi-dark hallways. And, I have to navigate seas on which I find myself afloat for the first time. Each time I reach a far shore with new earth under my feet, I reencounter the process of becoming familiar and safe. I still have a long road ahead of me, a path on which perhaps English will gradually become bright and clear as a language for writing, and then I can perhaps internalize it like my mother tongue— the language of my heart.

  An earlier version of this story was published in a collection of short stories, Speaking in Tongues: Pen Canada Writers In Exile, edited by Maggie Helwig (The Banff Centre, 2005).

  Geranium Family

  A YOUNG CHINESE WOMAN led Sima to Farah’s cubicle and asked her to be seated. Sima was taken aback when she entered the space. It was small and narrow like a coffin that not only pressed against her body but her soul as well. She remembered Farah’s office in Tehran, when they worked together in the government Planning and Budget Department. That had been a spacious room with a large desk, lush green plants next to a large window, and a sofa for visitors. Sima felt as if Farah had been cheated.

  She could hear the murmur of conversation and the clatter of computer keyboards coming from behind the privacy panels that served as walls. The panels were not very tall and the ceiling seemed high and far away. Sima was bewildered by the space and it seemed to her that there were many secrets behind the panels. She looked at the computer on Farah’s desk—colourful images danced on its screen as if to suggest that the work was full of happiness and joy.

  “You have an office?

  “Yes, I do, and a boyfriend, too.”

  “Wow, and who is he? I didn’t know you were so clever. When did you meet him?”

  “The day I started to work in this department.”

  “Who is he then?”

  “Siamak.”

  “Siamak? That civil engineer, the tall, handsome man? So, you are a smart girl! I envy you.”

  A photo of Farah, Hassan, and their two daughters was sitting on the desk. The four of them had forced smiles on their faces, showing their teeth, as if they were pretending to be happy. Sima involuntarily giggled, “The happy family.” That sparked a memory of a sitcom she used to watch on television in Iran, The Geranium Family. For a while, it was a popular comedy that everyone in Iran watched and talked about. It was about a family that tried hard to be perfect. Sima smiled and thought she should tease Farah about this when she saw her.

  “Are you really going to leave forever?” Sima asked.

  “I think so. Hassan believes we have to flee as soon as possible. He says the clergy here are not giving educated people a chance. Sooner or later, we will be forced to forget our university degrees and open a grocery store.”

  “But it’s not possible. They need us. We have knowledge, we have experience.”

  “Maybe they need men’s knowledge, but not ours. You and I, despite our degrees in computer programming, will be forced to stay home and cook meals for our husbands, and give birth to a bunch of children.”

  Farah finally returned and entered the cubicle. Instead of hugging Sima, as she always did, she shook her hand formally as if she were a client. She sat on her chair, which was too big for her tiny body—her feet barely touched the floor. One of her small, plump hands rested on her desk, toying with a pen. She smiled at Sima and asked, “Tell me, how are you? Is everything okay?” There was a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes.

  Sima wanted to say not yet, but Farah didn’t give her chance to respond. She turned her chair so that she faced Sima directly, looked deeply into her eyes, and said, “You must be patient. It’s not as easy as you think. It was hard for us, too. It’s hard for everybody.” She was speaking like an authority.

  “I have to find a job,” Sima said in a subdued, voice. “I’m worried about Siamak. Our savings are running out.” She paused, tried hard to avoid tears, and swallowed the lump in her throat. “How do I say this? I didn’t imagine it like this.”

  Farah eyed Sima with a measure of compassion and said, “Well, when you are there, you have another image of here. But I wrote you about everything. I talked to you on the phone. I told you that this wasn’t paradise.”

  “We didn’t come looking for a paradise. We had to leave.”

  “So, you should get on with it. You should get on with it in any case.”

  “Do you think Farah can help me?” Sima asked Siamak.

  “What kind of help you do expect from your friend?” Siamak answered. “I don’t think she is a saint that can perform miracles.”

  “She’s my old friend. She’s been living in this country for ten years already. She may know some ways.”

  “What ways? Their situation was different. They came here with lots of money. They didn’t have to buy dollars on the black market. They didn’t have to pay a smuggler.”

  The telephone rang. Farah swivelled smoothly in her chair to reach for the receiver. With her profile to Sima, she spoke into the mouthpiece in a clipped tone. Her accent was unfamiliar to Sima. The expression on her
face could have been surprise, indifference or anger. Sima couldn’t tell. Then she hung up the phone and remained silent for a moment, not turning back to Sima.

  “You finally decided to get married. Who’s the lucky guy?” Sima asked.

  “Not a civil engineer and not as handsome as your fiancé, but I had to choose someone. I am not as pretty as you, either, and I don’t want to be like a grandmother for my children.”

  “Who is he, then?”

  “Hassan.”

  “The guy in accounting department? Well, if you love him, that’s enough.”

  “Love is not a big deal. Today’s values are money and appearance.”

  “I hope you’re not interested in only those superficial values.”

  Sima waited for Farah to speak. She imagined Farah might be having some problems at her work. She wanted to ask her, but she didn’t. She didn’t have any idea what Farah’s job entailed or what responsibilities she might have. She knew she was a computer programmer in a big company. Farah had told her before that she should have been considered one of the top employees in the organization, but because she was from a Third World country, she wasn’t given a promotion nor the job she really deserved.

  “Am I disturbing you?” Sima asked.

  Farah turned to her with a visibly reddened face. “Not at all,” she said. “It’s my lunch time. Nobody is allowed to interrupt me during this time. Well, that’s it. Anyhow…”

  “You look troubled. Is there a problem?”

  “Problem? Problems never end. That’s life, and I have to deal with it. Things here are no better than in large companies in Iran. Do you remember when we were employed how much they hurt us at the beginning. Not you so much because you were always an obedient, patient, and quiet person, and more than that, you were beautiful, but me…. The men couldn’t bear having a woman working beside them. They wanted all women to be like their own wives, preparing them dinner, and being ready for them in the bed…” She stopped abruptly.

  “Here, too?” Sima asked.

  “Oh,” Farah said, “how do I tell you? Here, everybody is against everybody. One has to have the skin of wolf to be able to stand it. Do you think if they give you a cubicle, like this, with a desk, a computer, and a telephone, it’s over? No, my dear, it’s the beginning of problems. The people who work here are of many races and nationalities. And each one wants to hire only their own friends. And Canadians want to lord it over all of them.”

  “What about you?” Sima asked. “Do you have any fellow countrywomen here?”

  “No, I’m alone. And because of that, all the problems are on my shoulders. I wish you could get a job here. Think about it; then you and I could work together again. But you haven’t been accepted as an immigrant yet, and well, there is also the language problem. All of us have language problems. This problem will never be solved, because English is not our native tongue even if we started to learn it when we were growing up. For me, language has been a barrier for so long and I’m sure it will continue to be in the future too.”

  “How did you get the promotion so quickly?” Farah asked. “I’m sure Siamak helped you.”

  “No. Siamak is going to leave the Planning and Budget Department. I got the promotion because I finished the project ahead of time. I work hard for them.”

  “And because you are obedient to them.”

  “I’m not obedient. I’m a hard worker and I’m dutiful.”

  Farah’s hand stretched toward the telephone, and mumbling “Excuse me” to Sima, she dialled a number. She started to speak again in her Farsi-English accent. She talked slowly and clearly and sometimes she paused to search for a word, repeating, “How do I say…?”

  “I can’t believe you’re going so far away,” Sima said. “I’m sure I’ll miss you. We’ve been together since high school. And then in college …how happy we were. Then working together in the Planning and Budget Deopartment. But now you’re leaving me behind. I consider you my sister. I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. And we can still be friends.”

  “No, we won’t. You’re going to a new country. You’ll find new friends.”

  “Why don’t you emigrate, too?”

  “No, I don’t want to raise my children in a foreign country. I don’t want to leave my family. I’m my mother’s only daughter; she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Siamak doesn’t like the idea of emigrating, either. He has a good job here. Consulting engineers are in demand, and we have a comfortable life here. It’s not easy to start all over again.”

  “Maybe you’re right—you have everything here. You have your mansion, you have your villa on the Caspian shore, Siamak has his private office—you can’t risk everything in a new country.”

  “Well, how do you find Canada? Is it paradise for you?” Hassan asked, offering a glass of whiskey to Siamak and a glass of wine to Sima.

  Siamak didn’t reply. He glanced at Sima with a bored expression.

  “We aren’t looking for paradise,” Sima said. “We came here because we had to. Life was becoming unbearable in Iran. We had many problems in recent years. The guards invaded our house during Maziar’s birthday. Another time all our rugs and our jewellery were stolen. Mona was arrested in the street because she was walking with her boyfriend. So we had to be uprooted.”

  “How many times have I told you,” Hassan said, “that dealing with religious people is not easy. They don’t understand a single logical word. But you were optimistic, saying that they won’t stay long, they’ll give up. They won’t give anything up. They want to take, not to give anything to anyone. This is how they live.”

  Siamak remained silent. He was tired of Hassan boasting about the income from his grocery store, the cottage they had just bought on Georgian Bay.

  “But nobody knew that our revolution would end like this,” Sima said. “We had hope. We never imagined there would be a war after the revolution, a war for nothing, and that our children would be in danger, that the price of everything would become astronomical, that our jobs would disappear. Who could predict such a nightmare?”

  “Me,” Hassan said, with a clear pride. “How many times did I mention the story of Kalileh Damenh. Do you remember it?”

  Siamak remembered it very well. The story was told over and over again at family gatherings. He said, “Yes, I do. And now you’re the first fish, who anticipated the situation and fled before the fisherman made a dam in the river. And I’m the one who fled later, with nothing in my hands.”

  Farah still was speaking on the phone. She grimaced and gesticulated and rocked her chair from left to right and right to left. When she finished her conversation, she turned to Sima and said, “Well, what will you do now?”

  “I told you last night on the phone. I’m looking for a job. Our savings are running out. Siamak is depressed. I have to find a job, otherwise…”

  Farah interrupted her, “I told you that you must be patient. You and Siamak must face reality. This is not your country; you’re nobody here. You have to start from the beginning, as we did.”

  “I know.”

  “So, what do you expect?”

  “Nothing,” Sima said. She got up from her chair abruptly, as if a cold wind had blown over her body and carried her away. As she said goodbye to Farah, she noticed again the family photo on Farah’s desk and wanted to say, “A Geranium Family,” but she didn’t.

  While waiting for the elevator, she ran into the young Chinese woman who had earlier led her to Farah’s office. The woman recognized Sima and asked her, “Did you have a good chat with your friend?’

  “Yes, yes,” Sima said as she stepped into the elevator with a forced smile on her face and the sweat of humiliation on her back.

  “If you want continue to have a relationship with your friend, Farah and her husband,” Siamak said, “you’d better forget about me. I couldn�
��t bear her husband even when we were in Iran. Don’t you remember how deferential and flattering he was? He always wanted to prove something to me. And now he thinks with his grocery store he is the vice president of the United States. I don’t give damn about him.”

  Sima stepped out onto the street and a warm fall breeze caressed her face. The trees in front of building were filled with colourful leaves, and against the deep blue sky above them, they looked as if they had been painted by a master artist. She breathed deeply and thought, Siamak is right. I shouldn’t expect Farah to perform miracles. I will find a way. I will.

  Line

  THE LINE SEEMED STRETCHED to eternity, then it vanished in a heavy fog. People of different ages—men and women, young and old, plus a few children who had no one at home to take care of them—were in the line. Farid, a tall man in his early twenties, his deep brown eyes shadowed with curiosity and anxiety, was looking around, especially at the people lined up directly in front of him and behind him. His black T-shirt had a white skull on the front that attracted the eyes of many. His thoughts wandered; it must be a fantastic country, he thought, otherwise so many people wouldn’t be lined up in front of this embassy to get a visa—happy those who would be able to get one and leave. As if he had heard what Farid was thinking, a middle-aged man ahead of Farid in the line said, “Young fellow, tell me what kind of dreams and what kind of fantasies are you spinning about this place? You should know, there’s no such place as the one that you create in your mind.”

  This man was about fifty years old, with a salt-and-pepper receding hairline. He looked smart, with his grey coat, dark trousers, and a yellow and red striped tie. Well-shaved with a hint of cologne, he held a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. Behind Farid was a chubby woman of average height. It wasn’t possible to say how old she was as her hijab covered her hair and body. She had exhausted, sad, grey eyes and her cheeks were dominated by her large nose. The woman also seemed to have heard Farid’s question even though he hadn’t uttered the words out loud.