Butterfly Stitching

by Shermin Kruse

  “It’s called a bird of paradise.” Samira turned around and faced a miniature female version of Davoud wearing a lace dress. “My father had the bulbs imported and Mr. Fazolali grows them.”

  My father, Samira repeated in her head. This is Shabnam. His daughter. “Oh.” A stupid response but all she could manage.

  “We keep them in that corner because it’s most humid there.”

  “It’s very pretty.”

  “Would you like to know more about the greenhouse?” Without waiting for a response, Shabnam turned her back and gestured around herself. “It was constructed in stages over a decade and was designed to showcase exotic plants. There are sometimes tours that go through here.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Fazolali leads them, but I’ve told father I could do a much better job.” She looked Samira up and down. “You’re the girl from the village, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I’m from Kandovan. My name is Samira.”

  A pretty green ribbon fell through Shabnam’s hair, and she twirled it with her finger. Samira tucked her own hair further under her headscarf, which helped her feel a little more comfortable.

  “I’ve never been to a village before. Mother says they’re all illiterate there. Are you illiterate?”

  “No!” Samira said right away.

  “But your Maman is, right?”

  Samira, stunned into silence, searched for an answer, and when time stretched out Shabnam smiled, turned and continued her tour. “This was designed by a very famous architect who you would not have heard of because you probably don’t know anything about architects. His vision was to design a paradise under glass.”

  Samira remembered the reason she had gone for her walk—to sketch the flowers with chalk.

  “Do you want to play hopscotch?” Samira asked, showing Shabnam the pieces of chalk in her hand. Shabnam smiled, took a piece, and began drawing the squares. Samira found the perfect throwing stone.

  “You were visiting your dayee in Tehran?” Samira asked in between a stone toss and foot hop.

  “Just got back a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh, your foot went outside the line!”

  “No, it didn’t! It didn’t!”

  Giggle.

  “So who do you normally play with?”

  “By myself. Do you see anyone else around here to play with?”

  “What about your brother?”

  “He’s too old to play with me.”

  “Oh. But you do live here with your brother and your maman and baba, right?”

  “Sort of. I live at school and my brother lives at another school. It’s your turn. Throw it. Oh, good throw!”

  Samira looked up at the sky with a short prayer, threw her stone onto one of the rectangles outlined on the ground, and hopped through the spaces to retrieve it. She tripped on a crack in the floor and the girls giggled together. For a moment, Samira forgot about her wedding, her husband, his wife, and the mandate to have scarf-free hair after marriage.

  “So, when are you here? I mean, when are you home?” Samira wondered if she would be sent to the same school as Shabnam. That might not be so bad. She would not have to live with Davoud and he would not be able to kiss her cheek every time he pleased. And she could be friends with Shabnam, who seemed nice. And certainly if she were away she could draw to her heart’s content. Maman and Baba would be so proud to visit her in her new school, and see her many books and beautiful pencils and erasers that smelled like candy.

  “Yeah, I come here a bit in the summers, but usually most of the summer we go with our maman to our house up north.”

  “Up north?”

  “We have another house there. By the Caspian.”

  “When do you see your Baba?” she handed Shabnam the stone.

  “He visits us in school and comes to the seaside sometimes in the summers. We see him. He loves me the most.”

  Unable to face her, Samira studied the flagging and asked, “Are you going to be at the wedding?”

  “No.” Shabnam reached the end; turned around, hopping on one foot; and made her way back to the front with a big smile. Samira smiled back.

  “Because I don’t really know anyone who’s coming,” Samira said. “Except my maman and baba. And one other friend from Kandovan.”

  “We weren’t even going to be here before the wedding at all. But the plans changed. My maman says this wedding is shameful.”

  “It’d be okay with me if you came.”

  The hopscotch game was over.

  Shabnam gave a look that Samira could not quite decipher. Desperate to find a friend, to make a place for herself, Samira asked, “Do you want to play again tomorrow?”

  Shabnam nodded. “How about we leave the chalk in the tool shed?”

  “Basheh.” Samira felt the sun beaming on her face and breathed in the beauty of the garden around her.

  The door to the shed was heavy and the two of them had to push it open. Baba would be envious of these tools, Samira thought, glancing around. Shabnam walked to the back of the room and pulled out a small metal box filled with trinkets. An old lipstick. A toy soldier. A plastic necklace. And now, three pieces of chalk.

  “Shabnam!”

  Both girls flinched and turned. A woman in an elegant pantsuit and no hejab raced to them and slapped Shabnam so hard her head reeled. Shabnam brought her hand to her face with a look of shock, tears starting in her eyes. “I forbid you to play with this village girl. Didn’t I warn you about her?”

  “But we were just—”

  “No buts. She’s not your playmate, Shabnam. She’s your father’s new wife. Now come on. Oh, I’ll never forgive my brother for falling infectiously ill just when I need him the most. Now I have to be here for all of this.” She turned to Samira. “And you!”

  Samira wanted to run, but her feet were as heavy as trees and had rooted to the ground.

  “I don’t want you going into that greenhouse. You hear me?”

  Samira looked over her shoulder where the sun reflected off the glass. She swallowed tears and turned back to face Gita. Her husband’s other, first, wife.

  “I asked if you heard me! I know you’re illiterate but for God’s sake did he get himself a mute for a second wife?”

  “I heard you. I’m not illiterate.” There was a crack in her voice but she said it without crying.

  “Oh yes you are. Even if you can read, you’re still illiterate because you don’t understand what you read. Oh, it’s not you I’m angry with. Do you understand? You’re just a child. I asked you if you understand!” Samira looked at the flush of Gita’s cheeks, heard the tacit apology in her voice. And suddenly Samira realized here was an enemy, clear as the glitter in those dark eyes, clear in the violence she visited on her own daughter. It was then Samira decided she hated this woman.

  “I understand,” Samira said.

  “That’s my greenhouse. I garden in there. You don’t want me coming in your—”

  “Mother, we’re not supposed to say . . . that’s a surprise!” Shabnam pulled at her maman’s pant leg.

  “Oh for the love of . . . fine.” Gita pointed her finger at Samira. “Now you just stay out of there and stay away from me and stay away from my children. Stay away. You hear me? Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “We don’t want you near us. Do you —”

  “I said, I hear you.” Samira could scarcely believe she had spoken back to an elder, but of course, this situation was different. Gita seemed less surprised, grabbed her daughter’s ear, and sped away.

  Samira brought her fingertips to her forehead and felt the smoothness of her skin. She did not have Gita’s wrinkles. Then she touched her lips. They were plump and full. Gita’s were thin and tight. Back in her room, Samira sketched the flowers with the heavenly name that she could not remember. Gita could not draw, she was sure. The only creation she was capable of was gardening, which any far
mer could do. Even that she did with help from professionals, people with fancy names that probably could not make anything grow better than Baba could.

  Samira, on the other hand, could do something only because God let her do it. Her talent was a gift and Gita did not have it. All the things Gita had: education, clothes, modernity, Samira would get all of those, too, because those could be acquired. Samira smiled a little, and kept on drawing until prayer time.

  ***

  They married two weeks later, less than two months after their first meeting, and Samira not yet fifteen. The night before the wedding, Maman came into Samira’s room and sat next to her on the bed.

  “Well, tomorrow’s the big day. We’re all just so happy for you, Samira jan.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Samira jan, there are some things we should talk about before tomorrow. Things that a wife ought to know about marriage, and, um, marital relations.”

  Samira looked up at her mother. She had been dreading this conversation. Having been raised on a farm and seen many animals copulate, the mechanics of sex were no mystery to her. The idea of Davoud coming at her like the bull to the cows in the barn, however, frightened her to no end. The pain. She wanted to learn about the pain and how to endure it. Judging from the squeals of the cows, it would be excruciating. How should she position her body to minimize the pain? There must be ways. And the frequency. Every month? Every week? Every day? And the smell of it, and who would clean up the mess afterwards? Was there anything that she had to do, or would he, like the bull, do it all?

  Maman did not discuss any of this. Instead, she talked in generalities about a woman’s duty in the bedroom and the appetites of men and the blessings of child bearing. About the only helpful advice was that Samira was allowed to refuse her husband during her menstrual cycle. Samira wanted to ask Maman specific questions. But she could not bring herself to do it. It felt shameful. Never had she longed more for an older sister than right now. But not only was she an only child, she was the first among her teenage friends in Kandovan to get married. Even if there was someone she could ask, they were all there—and she was here. There was no one here. She looked at her red scarf with the butterfly stitching draped over the corner of her bed. If she were a butterfly, she could fly to Kandovan tonight and find someone to ask. She closed her eyes. Felt the coolness of the air moving between her butterfly wings. If she had them, those wings, she could fly away every time she was scared. She could fly away and only come back if and when she wanted to.

  “Now come on, open those eyes and wipe those tears!” Maman said. “All women for the entire history of the world have been doing this. Getting married, getting pregnant and having children. And you got your period, which means your body’s ready to have children. Now come here and give your maman a hug. You’re going to be a woman tomorrow.”

  A woman. What makes a woman? Maman had told her she was a woman when she got her period. But now, there was another level of womanhood. That is, getting married. Losing something. Her virginity to her husband. Her headscarf to modernity. Her village to the city. Why could it not be that woman-ness meant gaining something? Control. Wisdom. To operate and understand her own world. Woman-ness should be that. But it was not. The ultimate woman-ness was loss.

  The wedding day arrived. The night before, terror took hold. She tried to sleep. Found she could. Then found she did. And then there was dawn. She awakened and rolled to the side. Autumn leaves fell from the trees outside her window. Sudabeh walked in. Bathed her. Anointed and dressed her. Bra and panties, stockings and shoes, underpinnings, gown and veil. No headscarf. Maman could stay in the room but she was not allowed to help. They said she got in the way.

  Mrs. Darkan yelled because Baba had saved for months. Bought his own suit. Green. Second-hand. He must wear the selected tuxedo, not the ratty old suit. Black. He must wear black. Finally convinced, he did what he was told. So did his daughter. More and more staff arrived, one by one. Guiding her through the house and giving her to Davoud. He touched her cheek. Shudder. Handed off to photographers. Stand here. Smile. Sit there. Arm here. Around him. Over here. Wider smile. Eyes open. Why can’t you smile? Hold it. Hold it. Good. Another one. A bewildering and blinding stutter of lights and commands pushed and pulled her like a doll on a stage. The unfamiliarity of all that cloth rustling around her, the guilt of such luxury, the fear of what was to come. And then the ritual. They entered together. Walked through incense. “Lililililililili,” roared the crowd. Both of them seated, the sofreh spread before them. The most elaborate sofreh. Ornate mirror. Candelabras. Gold. Silver. Pearls. Entire trees carved out of rock sugar. A small Qur’an dwarfed by the book of Rumi poetry. So many new faces all around. Men and women mixed. They should not have been. Davoud liked it this way. Maman scrubbed together two large sugar blocks above her head. Sprinkled sweetness. Careful not to let her chador fall in front of the men. Faces Samira did not know who held the cloth above her and Davoud’s head. The cloth to catch the sweetness from the sugar cubes. These should be her friends, holding the lace. People who loved her. Dip your finger in honey and feed your husband. Now take his honey. “Will you take this man . . .” she did not answer. That was the custom. She was to be asked three times before saying yes. A symbol of her modesty. Her chastity. Words and actions bound her to a man old enough to be her baba, that made her stepmother to a girl her own age. Elaborate meal in the garden. So many new faces, all of them the same. Dew beads and brightly colored fall leaves. Walk around to the smiley people. Shake their hands. But avoid the pomegranate and mulberry trees. They’ll stain the gown. The gown painted with luxury. The paint bled onto Samira’s own skin. Dance. You must dance. Stop touching your veil. Stop covering your hair. Stop hiding behind Maman’s chador. Who wears a chador to a wedding? Three-thirty in the morning. Finally they were all gone. Maman and Baba were gone, too. There was just the staff. And Davoud. He was there. Her eyelids half closed, her feet were numb, but he was not leaving. He said he had a gift. A surprise. He tied lace around her eyes. Guided somewhere, seeing nothing. A door creaked open. Walked in. Click clack of her shoes—hardwood floors. Cold in here.

  He removed the blindfold.

  “What is —”

  “This is your studio!”

  “Studio?”

  “Art studio!”

  Samira gasped.

  Davoud continued. “No one else, not even me, is allowed in here without your permission. It’s yours to come to whenever you wish to be alone, whenever you wish to draw, sketch or paint.”

  “Paint?”

  The studio was larger than the entirety of her living room and kitchen back home. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced north and overlooked a small fish pond. The floor was oak. Blank, pre-stretched canvases lined the left wall. On the right wall were some of Samira’s own pieces.

  “I had someone bring them in from the village,” he said by way of explanation, “as I promised I would. You should have your work here, with you.”

  There was a compartmentalized desk next to the blank canvases, each drawer filled with paints and brushes. Three beautiful easels, made for three different sizes of canvas, so attentively crafted that Samira felt she had to touch them. A large bookshelf in the corner of the room had very little empty space for new books.

  “Oh, the books!” Davoud noticed her looking in that direction. “There’s a bit of everything. Let me show you. Lots of art history here. You’ve got your renaissance, your impressionists, your modernists. And these ones are instructional books. Technique and how to use different tools. You’ll need these, now that you’ll begin painting! And anything else that you want, any kind of art supply, all you have to do is ask.”

  She felt like the child she was, incapable of responding to his excitement.

  “Well?” he asked. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” she answered. She smiled at him, really and genuinely, for the first time since their meeting. His excited eyes softened. The silence that su
rrounded them comforted Samira after the whirlwind day she had endured. She wondered if the makeup covering the pimple on her chin had worn off. A pimple. She still had those. Did he mind? And again, she returned to the same question she had asked herself a million times. Why was she here? Why did he want her? Maybe, she thought, her heart filling with a little bit of confidence, I should just ask him.

  “Why . . . why did you want to marry me?” An obvious question. But she was surprised that she asked it. He did not seem taken aback. In fact, Samira thought he appeared relieved. A chance to explain why someone of his supposed modernity would take two wives. And why it would be her, an uneducated village child.

  “I loved you before I met you, you know,” he said. “Every time I was in Kandovan, Jamshid, or the other villages, and saw one of your pictures, I fell deeper in love with you.” He looked into her eyes with so much force that she felt uncomfortable keeping his gaze. She refused, however, to be the first to look away. “Your work was everywhere: in restaurants and side-of-the-road cafes, in farmhouses, even in small village banks and local offices. You were everywhere: your faces, your trees, your children, your sunsets, your streams, your hands, your horses, your colors, your women, your fears, your heart, your life. Age wasn’t a factor. Station wasn’t a factor. I thought of you all the time. Some might say too much. Even in my dreams, you were there, as Jaja Khan had described you. I dreamt of you.” He closed his eyes. “Lips. Red. Untouched. Skin. Soft, white as snow.” Eyes opened. “Even your headscarf. Moving with the breeze. I saw it all in my mind. I loved it . . . love it . . . all.”

  She thought he sounded unstable, even crazy. It unnerved her. Too much emotion. All of it in his mind. His imagination of what she would and should be.

  “I’d never seen your face, but I knew it’s every contour,” he went on. “And your scarf just barely on your shoulders, giving the impression that it, and perhaps everything else on your body, might fall down. I’d never met you, but I understood you. I understand you. You’re meant for greater things than marrying some village man and bearing his children. You’re meant for . . . for me.”