Butterfly Stitching

by Shermin Kruse

  A white tablecloth veiled the large Persian rug that ordinarily dominated the family room floor with its swirled, silk, blood-red flowers and blue-and-green semi-circles. It was like a blanket of snow hiding a flower field. Several kilos of potatoes, bunches and bunches of herbs, and Sahar and her maman sat atop the cloth. Her brothers played nearby, pretending to color their picture books but mostly watching Maman rain potato peels into the air.

  Sahar’s peeling was clumsier but, like her brothers, she loved to watch the peels fall. They reminded her of leaves in a windstorm. She took a whiff of the stew cooking on the stove—green onion, basil, tarragon, cilantro, parsley, mint and dried limes infused flavor into tender chunks of meat. She was happy school was still closed, and relished the moments home with Maman.

  “How do you say, ‘My name is Sahar’?” Maman asked.

  “Je m’appelle Sahar,” Sahar answered.

  “How do you say, ‘What is your name’?”

  “To whom?”

  “Good question! To an older gentleman.”

  “Comment vous-appelez vous?”

  “Well done. ‘See you later’.”

  “À tout à l’heure.”

  “‘Good luck.’”

  “Bonne chance!”

  “Well, your French is certainly better than your math, my darling. Shall we practice some more?”

  “No.”

  “How about just two more?”

  “I don’t feel like it, Maman!”

  “Just two more.”

  “Basheh.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Je ne comprends pas.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “Je suis . . . perdu.”

  “Well done, sweetheart!”

  Light sounds of pre-revolutionary Persian love songs flowed from the record player that Sahar’s baba had installed in the living room, coloring the background of their chat. Although the records were now illegal, her parents, like everyone else, not only refused to get rid of theirs but expanded their collection with back-alley purchases. They had everything from bubbly Persian love songs set to exciting dance beats to sad cries of post-revolutionary Iranian singers pouring their hearts out in exile. The cleverly smuggled pop hits by Michael Jackson and Madonna were Sahar’s favorites.

  After the potatoes were peeled, the herbs took their turn at being cleaned and chopped. Shreds of fresh cilantro, mint, parsley, green onion and spinach for the stew, or the yogurt, or served as side dishes by themselves, were flung into the wicker basket in between mother and daughter. Then all the old peels and discarded herb stems that had colored the white tablecloth a pretty green were lifted up with the tablecloth.

  Reza, bored of his picture book and the food preparation, turned on the television. He checked both channels in search of cartoons but news of the war dominated. He turned it off just as quickly as he had turned it on.

  “And how about cousin Nasrin?” Sahar asked. “Is she going to marry that suitor from Isfahan or not?”

  “Well, your amoo said the choice is hers. Though he did just give her a diamond necklace.”

  “Wow.”

  “In this economy? He must have it in with the mullahs. No other way to make that kind of money these days. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Skim off the top. That’s all these mullahs do. Skim off the top.”

  “Well, then she should say no, right? Otherwise she’ll marry into a zealous crowd. Diamonds aren’t worth it.”

  “That’s right, my baby. Those stones will cut right through your heart.”

  There was an unusual tone in her maman’s voice, as though she spoke from experience. That was strange because her maman did not own any diamonds except for the tiny one on her ring finger.

  “Raumbod,” Reza yelled, “I want the red one!”

  “No! You’ve been hogging the red one the whole time.”

  “I’m not hogging it. I just picked it up.”

  “You had it before! And now you’re coloring a fire engine! You’re gonna’ use up the whole crayon on that stupid fire engine!”

  “What am I supposed to do? Fire engines are red!”

  “Maman says we can use whatever color we want to color anything any way we like to. Remember? Use a different color.”

  “No. You use a different color. I don’t want—”

  “Okay, boys. That’s enough of that. Sahar, why don’t you go over to the record player and play some Googoosh?”

  “Chashm, Maman.”

  “Good girl. Come on! We’ll put you restless kids to use and we can all work and dance together.”

  Soon, the apartment was filled with Persian songs and impermissibly provocative dancing. Volume: UP. Rhythmic movements in the hips and stomach, arms and hands twirled in the air, expertly following the lead of the music.

  Swirl—“Here you go, Reza, why don’t you splash a dash of spice into the stew?”

  Spiral—a vacuum huffed and puffed to the music, leaving circles in the Persian rugs.

  Sing along—“Okay, Raumbod, you sing into Maman’s microphone-mop; better keep up as I sweep the kitchen and the bathroom floors.”

  Spin—“Come on, Sahar jan, wipe the dust off the furniture.”

  As they soaked the rice and set the table, they felt the music through them, squeezed in between the sorrow, stuffed into the small open cracks of their day. It crawled out of the pipes. Some of it even flew out of the windows, tip-toeing into the alleyways around the apartment building.

  Yes, illegal.

  Yes, others could hear.

  “Maman, isn’t the music too loud?” Sahar interrupted the movement to ask, “Won’t we be raided?”

  “No, honey, your baba took care of it.”

  “How’d he take care of it? Because they raided Shadi’s house and took all their records, their satellite dish and all of their vodka and then they arrested her baba and her brother, too.”

  “Calm down, darling.”

  “But I also heard Mr. Nasser talking the other day at the bakery that the same thing happened to his cousin. There was also this other lady who was sitting in the waiting area of the beauty salon last week, remember? When we went for you to get your eyebrows threaded? And she said they raided her sister’s house—”

  “Raids only happened to those who don’t pay the right people, which your baba does every time we’re having a party. He took care of it last night.”

  “But how can we be sure? I mean, paying the neighborhood guards doesn’t always work.”

  “Well, we have to live. We can’t just suffocate in here. Now come on, meymoon, raise your arms with your maman! Do a turn for me!”

  Sahar saw the notes pouring out of Maman’s fingernails. Arm-twirling hearts, sound-loving souls and fearful-minds spilled out of the music. They could have lowered the music, thrown it out and lived without it, just as they could refuse to buy homebrewed whiskey or read black-market books. But to live like that, her parents said, what would be the point? Just then, the music turned off, as did all of the lights in the house.

  Her maman sighed heavily. “Again? Sahar jan, go and click down all of the light switches and turn off the record player.”

  “Chashm, Maman.”

  “This has got to be the eighth or ninth time this week!”

  “At least we already vacuumed.”

  “More medicines will expire,” Maman said under her breath. “More wounded will die . . . vay Khoda, when will this end?”

  “Will it be off for the party, Maman?” Reza asked.

  “It’ll probably come back on in an hour or two.” She turned to Sahar, “We may as well go and run our errands now. Can’t do anything with the stew or the rice until the power’s back.”

  “Chashm, Maman! I’ll go grab my rupush!”

  “Maman, can we come too?” Raumbod asked.

  “Honey, you know you can’t come.”

  “But how come you’re taking Sahar to the bazaar and not
us? We’re big enough!”

  “I can’t manage all three of you in that chaos.”

  “I can take care of myself!” Reza protested.

  “You’re far too young, aziz. Now come along. Grab your books and I’ll ask Nazanin to watch you.”

  “But we don’t like to go over upstairs,” Reza complained. “It smells funny!”

  “Reza! Is that any way to talk about our neighbor? Now grab your books and hurry up.”

  ***

  “Get under that blanket, honey,” her maman said to Sahar once inside the Peykan. “The heat still doesn’t work.”

  Sahar tried to snuggle under the orange-and-white striped blanket but had a hard time containing her jumpy excitement. The bazaar! Just her and Maman! Extraordinary! Her friends would be so jealous. Kids never got to go to Tehran’s central super-sized bazaar. There would be hundreds of shopkeepers with stands in imperfect rows, columns and circles, an enormous beehive of barter. So many interesting people buying so many different things. Maybe her maman would even buy her a piece of candy if she asked really nicely.

  Tehran’s traffic was its typical death trap. Lines on the road utterly failed as boundaries. Red lights only barely suggested, “Stop, if you’re in the mood.” A maze of un-signaled lane changes. A turn, then a twist, then a dizzying shake. Turn turn boom, twist twist twist, “Get outa the way,” boom boom boom, “Watch where you’re goin’,” honk honk honk, spin swirl boom. Maman wove through the traffic’s drumbeat like a master.

  Sahar, slightly dizzy with the movements, took control by imagining she was directing her maman’s movements. Now a sharp left, go around the red car, run the yellow light, and honk like a mad woman. She pointed, jumped and instructed with her never used seatbelt hanging to the side and her blanket flinging about.

  The best parking spot they could find was on Khordad Avenue, several blocks away from the southeast entrance, the closest of nearly a dozen bazaar entrances. As the streets were to cars, the narrow pathways of the bazaar were to the people they could barely contain. The swarm of bodies compressed together like the dehydrated cherries in Sahar’s snack packs, making it impossible for the shoppers to get to where they wanted to go without literally pushing their way through the masses.

  “Now make sure you fuse your hand to mine.”

  “Yes.”

  “You got it?”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  “And be mindful of your scarf. Don’t let it fall down.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You know what’ll happen if it falls and the Morality Police catch you.”

  “I know!”

  “I know you know, but it’s harder with the pulls and twists of a walk through the bazaar.” Maman forced her way through the imposing male bodies to get to where she wanted to go. Her every shove was a statement.

  “And if anyone gropes you, touches you or pinches you, you stop dead in your tracks and immediately let me know, you understand?”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  “This crowd draws opportunists!”

  “What do you do, Maman, if someone grabs you?” Sahar had to speak loudly so Maman could hear her through the crowd.

  “These men have to be taught their assaults won’t go unpunished. So you scream. At least, that’s what I do.”

  “You just scream in the middle of the bazaar?”

  “Yup. Scare them. Teach them they don’t go unnoticed.”

  I bet Baba doesn’t have to worry about any of this, Sahar thought. Or the weight of sun-sucking hejab in the summer or the drizzled sharp snowflakes soaking through in the winter. A big, burly man shoved his way in between Sahar and Maman, breaking their hand-grip.

  “What did I tell you about letting go?” Maman turned to her in anger.

  “I tried, but I—”

  “You do not let go.”

  “I got it, Maman. I’ve been to the bazaar before. I know how to get through it. Don’t worry so much.”

  Sahar had been before twice. The first time she was a year old. Though Sahar did not recall the adventure, Maman told her all about their exploits, how Sahar had wrapped her legs tightly around Maman’s hips, like a monkey, the reason Sahar was now nicknamed Meymoon.

  Sahar’s second visit to the bazaar was just last month—an expedition to Mr. Mahmud’s shoe store to select her first pair of heels. There were plenty of actual shoe stores around the city, but Sahar had begged for the bazaar shopping experience. She chose a black pair with burgundy butterfly patterns. The heel was only a centimeter, but made the most wonderful clidicky clack noise when she walked.

  It was clear to the nine-year-old that this trip to the bazaar would be the most exciting yet. It was just her and Maman, for one thing, which had become a rarity since the rude entrance of the twins into her world. Besides, Maman told her that they would make several stops, bartering for everything from saffron to a new dining room tablecloth.

  Sahar kept quiet as she moved through the jungle, taking it in with all of her senses. The bazaar was mostly stalls, but a few merchants had tiny coves with tin roofs that functioned like actual stores. Sahar wanted to go inside of every one of them, but Maman pulled her along with haste. They began in the section that was for car parts. Men held up their products and screamed “Radiator fans,” and “Spark plugs” and “Windshield wipers” and lots of other words that Sahar did not understand. Before Sahar knew it, there were no more car parts and everywhere she looked was copper. Copper kettles, copper pots, copper bracelets, copper strainers, copper pipes, and lots and lots of wires. When the last copper stall disappeared and the stench of cows filled her nose, Sahar realized they were in the leather section. Jackets. Floor mats. Belts. It stank and Sahar was relieved when they suddenly entered a slightly more open space.

  “You see how we’ve just come into a kind of a circle?” Maman asked.

  Sahar nodded.

  “We’re in the center of the bazaar right now. We came in from southeast, and are now in the center. Kind of like the middle of a beehive.”

  “Is there anything you can’t get here?” Sahar was bursting with excitement.

  Maman laughed. “No, they have everything! Hangers. Pecans. Underwear. Calculators. Anything! You can find it here!”

  “Khanum, Khanum, don’t you want to get your daughter a pretty necklace? See, this necklace right here’s on sale,” a man with yellow teeth muttered, pushing sparkly somethings into Sahar’s face as she stumbled past the jewelers and into kitchenware. “Tea sets! Tea sets!” one short, heavily moustached man hollered, a cigar in his mouth. He slammed a small and seemingly delicate tea glass against the surface of his shop’s table, grinning. “See, it doesn’t break!” As they arrived at the spices, two men replenished their shop’s saffron and turmeric supplies by pouring fresh bags of the spices into two large plastic containers. Yellow-orange smoke filled the air. Sahar watched it land on her nose and veil like magic yellow dust. The welcome spicy scent filled her nose and made her eyes tear.

  “The best pistachios in all of Tehran! Stop by for the best pistachios!” another shopkeeper offered as they walked past. Sahar’s fingertips stroked the surface of a large potato sack filled with pistachio nuts as her maman pulled her forward.

  “Bread, then?” the pistachio shop keeper yelled at the backs of their heads. “Perhaps you’d like some fresh bread?”

  The warm smell of the freshly baked barbari bread, Sahar’s favorite, filled several steps of their otherwise polluted air.

  “Reminds me—we do need bread,” Maman said turning toward a baker. “How much for two loaves?”

  “For you, Khanum, only ten toman.”

  “I’ll give you seven.”

  “You twisted my arm!” He smiled. As he bagged her maman’s purchase, a gaunt-looking boy of about ten years old walked up to him with a tray of tea.

  “Some chai, sir?” The boy had encouraging eyes and cheekbones that moved upward when he spoke. “Fresh from my mother’s stove.”

  �
�Sure, son.” The pistachio-bread man paused bagging her maman’s bread to reach in his pocket and hand the boy a few coins. “Put two glasses over there, on the short stool by the cashews.”

  The boy quickly did as he was told. He then reached into a glass cup that Sahar had not noticed before, took out a couple of pieces of roughly cut sugar cubes, and left them next to the tea.

  “Khanum, please,” the pistachio-bread man offered a glass of tea to Maman with commonplace hospitality.

  “Na agha, but thank you for your kindness.”

  Only after she had refused did the man help himself, place a sugar cube on his tongue and take a sip of tea through it. Everything paused for tea, as usual, and Maman and Sahar waited without annoyance for him to take a couple of sips before wrapping up their bread.

  “I’ll be back for the glass in a few minutes,” the boy yelled as he made his way to the next stall.

  Sahar, still gripping Maman’s hand, kept her gaze on the boy as he made his rounds of the stalls.

  “He’ll unload all of the glasses, run around and gather the empty ones, and then go get a fresh tray with more tea to sell to the shopkeepers,” Maman explained, noticing Sahar’s gaze on the boy. “The men really appreciate fresh chai.”

  “Where does he get it?”

  “His family probably lives very close to the bazaar, or maybe they have a shop here and a room in the back of it and this is a way for them to earn some extra money.”

  “Maybe, if he goes to Raumbod and Reza’s school, they know him.”

  “He doesn’t go to school. Now keep up, azizam, we’re late. The guests are invited at seven tonight.”

  Their shopping list required four stops, each one involving more negotiation than the last, after which Maman commented on their success. When they were done, the winding path out of the bazaar was an adventure. Just as Maman exclaimed that she thought she saw their particular bazaar exit, they heard, through the jumbled clanking, bartering, spilling, shoving, advertising, breaking and hammering noises around them, the sound of someone calling out Maman’s name.

  “Do you hear that, Sahar jan?” Maman craned over the crowd to find the source of the voice calling her name.