The Street of Butterflies

by Mehri Yalfani

  “What does he mean?” Farid asked himself, confused, “Isn’t this country real?”

  The woman cleared her voice, touched her scarf, an involuntary gesture, and said, “If there’s such a place, it’s inaccessible. You can’t get there, even in your dreams.”

  A young, tall, thin woman with two big black eyes, and a little girl sucking a lollipop in her arms, asked, “What place are you talking about?”

  “The country all of us are waiting to get visa to enter,” Farid said. “Have you been to this country?”

  The tall woman said, “Have I? Yes, I have. I’ve been there in my dreams.” Those nearby turned to look at her with suspicion.

  “It’s a wonderful country,” she continued. “It is filled with white-skinned people, who have blue eyes and blond hair. In that country, there is freedom. I mean, people are free. When I say free, I mean they’re really free. They can wear whatever they like, and they can talk and laugh—yes, laugh, they can laugh. Here, laughter is an offense.” With tears in her eyes, she turned her back to Farid and the others who were staring at her.

  The middle-aged man in front of Farid said, “All of these are dreams, fantasies. That woman is just dreaming about that country. If such a country really existed, it would be here.”

  A woman ahead of the man said, “Sir, are you deceiving a child? Me, and many people like me who are here applying for a visa to enter this country, have studied and researched this place. We’re not taking a risk. The earth is big. There are many countries on the earth, but we chose this country in particular, because we know it is an ideal place for the young.” She looked like a child herself with her colourful scarf and her light brown hair visible on her forehead. Two feverish brown eyes glittered in her shiny, round face.

  “But that woman hasn’t been to that country yet,” the middle-aged man said. “She is simply drawing a fantastic portrait of it, describing it for young people like you, to enthrall you, to mislead you, to drag you to somewhere that does not exist and if it does exist, it’s not the kind of place that she is talking about.”

  “What kind of place is it then?” Farid asked, innocently.

  The middle-aged man crushed the butt of a cigarette under his feet, his eyes blankly sweeping over the line of people, and said, “There is no such place. How can I explain…?”

  The childlike woman interrupted the man, and said, “What do you mean, there’s no such place? Is it possible a country that has an embassy, which is standing right here in front of us, doesn’t exist? This country may be inaccessible, but it exists. My son and daughter have been living there for years. They sent me invitation and if I get visa…” She sighed, her eyes saddened, and continued, “This is the third time I have received an invitation from them, but the embassy won’t give me visa.”

  “Why not?” asked Farid.

  The woman looked at Farid, her eyes full of frustration. “How do I know? I’m not the ambassador of that country. I don’t know why.”

  The middle-aged man said, “I know why.”

  “You know everything,” the childlike woman snapped at him. “But your words are unacceptable and they follow no logic. Have you ever been there?”

  The middle-aged man, proud of himself, paused for a while as if he wanted to measure his effect on others.

  Farid told himself, I’d better not to listen to these people. They are confusing me. I’ll have to do some of my own research about this country, read books written about it, and collect information. These people are just expressing their point of view, which is not important, and some of them don’t even have an opinion; some can’t see even the front of their feet.

  The chubby woman turned toward the middle-aged man and asked, “How did you get a visa? Do you know why they won’t give me a visa?”

  “There might be many reasons,” the middle-aged man said. “I’ve been there and I have some friends who live there. I know the language of those people. When I was there, I could communicate with them. It’s very important that one knows the language of the people.”

  The man hadn’t finished, when another woman in the line interrupted him saying. “Sir, speak for yourself. Over there you can get jobs and you can get information about many things without knowing the language.” She was a tall, grave woman with a large body covered from head to toe in a black chador. Her black gloves caught Farid’s eyes—strange to be wearing those on such a warm day. “I have been there twice,” she added. “But you, sir—obviously you haven’t been there at all.”

  “This gentleman says this place does not exist but then he announces that he knows the language,” Farid said loudly, so his voice would reach the woman dressed all in black. “What about you? Have you really been there or are you, too, saying that there is no such land?”

  The woman dressed in black said, “For sure I was there. This is the third time I’m going there. The country exists, it really exists. I wish it didn’t exist. It is a land of blasphemy and you will lose yourself in this place. Especially the young people—it leads them to hell.”

  The woman with a child in her arms and Farid spoke at the same time. “What we’ve heard about this land is completely different. We’ve heard that over there young people are free to dress as they like, be friends with anyone they want, they can go out dancing and to parties, they can be happy.”

  The woman dressed in black vehemently shook her hand in the air and waved her arms. “Yes, all that blasphemy: going out with friends, dancing, being happy. Look at our own beloved country: with all its rules and laws, with flogging, imprisonment, and heavy fines, our government still can’t prevent debauchery. Boys and girls talk to each other in public, go to restaurants, cinemas, and on dates before marriage. Over there…. Oh, God forbid, it’s truly blasphemous—‘eyes not to see, and ears not to hear.’”

  The childlike woman said, “What’s the problem? You call it a blasphemy, but we are young, we want to enjoy our lives.”

  The woman stared at her as if she were a dreaded insect. Her face filled with hatred and she almost yelled, “You…!” And then, as if she were talking to herself, she continued, “Over there is a real hell.”

  The chubby woman said, “They say over there it is too cold. And hell isn’t cold.” And then laughed quietly, as if she had told a funny joke.

  Farid ignored the woman’s irony and addressed the heavy woman dressed in black, “So, why do you go there then?”

  The woman in black straightened her back proudly and with confidence replied, “I have to. My husband is studying theology over there. He got a scholarship from the government and he’s been there eight years now. He has asked me to join him. I’ve been there twice but I can never stay more than a few months. My children go astray there.”

  Farid turned his back to her and whispered into the chubby woman’s ear, “Studying theology in the land of blasphemy!” Both laughed quietly. They could imagine what kind of woman she was and what values she was defending.

  The woman with the child in her arms smothered her tears and listened carefully. She started speaking as if she were addressing her own reflection in a mirror, “If they give me a visa, I won’t wait for one single hour. I’ve sold all my properties and traded it for dollars.” She lowered her voice so that the woman dressed in black could not hear her, and continued, “I’ve divorced my husband. He had a Masters degree in law but he still felt he had the right to beat me. I’ve heard over there is the land of single women. And if they have children, they can get visas easily.” She turned to the middle-aged man and asked, “Good Sir, you said you have been there. Can you tell us what you know about over there?”

  The woman dressed in black had her back to them, but she had heard what the woman with a child in her arms said. She turned toward her, her arms tightly folded across her chest, and hissed at her crudely, “Yes, that place is exactly for women like you, a divorced, free woman. Over
there, you’ll be a complete….”

  All who heard knew what she meant; she didn’t have to finish her sentence out loud. Some looked at the woman in black with disgust, others turned their backs to her and ignored her. The woman with a child in her arms stepped back, her eyes spilling tears. She addressed the woman in black, her voice harsh, “You bitch! Do you really understand what you are talking about?”

  “Of course I do. You haven’t been there, and you don’t know; over there blasphemy is everywhere and it will make a whore of you.”

  “Madam, you are pessimistic and rude,” the childlike woman said angrily. “Your point of view is as black as your clothing. Your imagination about the whole world is black. Over there is the land of freedom, joy, and life. And you say…”

  The woman in black turned her back to the childlike woman. Almost whispering, the woman with the child in her arms said to no one in particular, “You see, I am fleeing from these people. The people who always have a rope ready to hang you. I prefer to live in a desert or in a cave and raise my daughter without these kinds of people around her.”

  The childlike woman said, “But I want to live among people, among people of my age. I want to go somewhere and have many friends. I’d like to dance. Do you remember the day of the soccer game? When we won and the U.S. lost? That day I danced so much, my whole body ached. Yes, I’d like to dance until I die.”

  Farid smiled and said, “I remember that day. Me too, I danced a lot that day.”

  The middle-aged man noticed the sapling of love sprouting between Farid and the childlike woman, and said, “Well, you can dance in your homes. No one has taken your home away from you.”

  The young woman looked at the man as if he were an idiot and said, “Dancing by myself at home doesn’t mean anything. Dancing is something you do with others, something that helps start relationships. It’s a way of talking to each other. You can’t only talk to yourself. After all, we don’t have freedom in our own houses, either.”

  The chubby woman interrupted her, “So, you want to go there simply to dance?”

  The girl’s cheeks turned crimson; excited and surprised, she said, “What’s the matter with that? Is dancing a sin over there too?”

  The woman in black meddled again and screeched, “Obviously, it’s a sin. Dancing is a sin. Don’t you know that?”

  The childlike woman raised her voice too and angrily responded, “No one asked for your opinion. You’d better stay where you are.”

  The middle-aged man said, “Cut it out. Be quiet please. Do you want them to send us away and waste our day of waiting here for nothing?” He turned to the young girl, advising her. “Don’t argue with that woman. And listen to me, over there isn’t a place for dancing. If over there exists, it exists for work. And if they give a visa to a young, pretty, intelligent girl like you, and I’m sure they will, they’ll give it for your strength and your labour, not for your dancing. Their own people can dance, and they dance very well, so well that all of us, people from this side of ocean, would be astounded and dumbfounded. If you can go there, you’ll forget about dancing.”

  The young girl let the middle-aged man finish and then said, “I won’t forget about dancing. I danced even while I was in jail. I was flogged but didn’t forget dancing. Do you want me to dance for you right here, in line?”

  The woman with a baby in her arms said, “Have you lost your wits or do you want to go to jail again?’

  Farid said, “I don’t believe you have such courage.”

  The middle-aged man said, “She is joking. It’s good to have a sense of humour. It’s good not to forget how to joke in difficult times. But I can’t believe you would dare dance.”

  The young girl started to dance among the people in line, their eyes wide with astonishment. It lasted only a few moments but even the woman in black saw the young girl dancing and her tongue froze in her mouth. The young girl eyed her audience, one by one, as if to say, “Now do you believe me?”

  The middle-aged man finally broke the silence. “You should leave this country. Here, you’ll sacrifice your life for your dancing.”

  “Now, tell me about there,” the young girl said, pleased with herself. “What kind of place is it?”

  The middle-aged man said, “I already told you there is no such place and it doesn’t exist.”

  “Don’t listen to this gentleman,” Farid whispered to the young girl, “if this country, this place, doesn’t exist, then neither do we exist. This line doesn’t exist, either.” He pointed to the line and said, “Look. These people….”

  But there were no people. The line had disappeared into smog, fog, and shadow.

  An earlier version of this story appeared in Maple Tree Literary Supplement, Issue 4, 2008.

  Acknowledgements

  I am in debt to Farah Jamali who spent time with me, polishing and editing earlier versions of these short stories. I am also grateful for her positive comments and her encouragement.

  I must recognize and thank Lynn Connigham who also edited earlier versions of this work.

  In particular, I would like to acknowledge Luciana Ricciutelli, editor-in-chief of Inanna Publications, for her dedication to this manuscript, her keen editing skills, and her commitment to diverse women’s writing.

  Mehri Yalfani was born in Hamadan, Iran. She graduated from the University of Tehran with a degree in electrical engineering and worked as an engineer for twenty years. She immigrated to Canada in 1987 with her family, and has been writing and publishing ever since. Four novels and two collections of short stories written in Farsi, her mother language, were published in Sweden, the U.S. and Canada. Her novel, Dancing in a Broken Mirror, published in Iran, was a finalist for the “Book of the Year” in 2000. She has published several books in English, including Parastoo: Stories and Poems (1995): Two Sisters (2000); and Afsaneh’s Moon (2002). A Farsi version of Afsaneh’s Moon was published in Iran in 2004. A volume of poetry in Farsi, Rahavard, was also published in 2004. Her short fiction has appeared in a number of American and Canadian anthologies. She lives and writes in Toronto.