Butterfly Stitching

by Shermin Kruse

  “Samira Khanum,” Laleh’s voice interrupted from the other side of the door. “Mr. Olum is here.”

  “Be right there.” Samira put the scarf back in the hat box and returned it to under the bed. Within moments, she was in her tutorial room dressed in a plum shirt-dress with low pumps and pearl earrings. She was only three minutes late, but Mr. Olum, who had arrived a few minutes early, glanced at his watch as if to indicate her tardiness. Her smile melted his annoyance into a grin. It always did.

  “Well, what’s on the lesson plan for today?”

  “Oh, it’s going to be a long day,” he said.

  “How many?”

  “I have at least four on the plan.”

  “Four subjects? In one day?”

  “French, History, Philosophy and Economics.”

  “How long for each?”

  “One and half hours.”

  “There goes my painting time.” Samira sighed.

  “And a test.”

  Samira rolled her eyes. “Really? You still feel the need to test me? Don’t you think every evening out with Davoud’s friends is a test?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, straightening his frayed viridian-striped necktie. “But you are taking a test today that I will grade, and I am more strict than those society figures.”

  “Really you’re more strict than the strictest of schools.”

  “And that’s why I’m your tutor. If Mr. Montazar had wanted you to simply ‘keep up’, it would’ve been easy enough for him to send you off to some boarding school and private university. But then, you would only be ‘keeping up’, instead of staying ahead. That’s the goal, my dear. To stay ahead.” He adjusted the little round glass sitting on the tip of his spotted nose.

  Samira smiled. Over the years, Mr. Olum’s devotion to her education consistently surprised and delighted her. He cared only that she learn and grow.

  “So what are you testing me on?”

  “Hafez,” he said.

  Poetry was a favorite subject of Mr. Olum’s and Hafez his most cherished poet, but he had never tested her on Hafez before. There was not much to test. Samira had memorized most of Hafez’s poems back in Kandovan and Mr. Olum knew this was a particularly strong subject for her.

  “So the test is not on one of the subjects we’re focusing on today? Fine. Hafez is no problem. I’m ready.”

  “The test will be on what other great writers have said about Hafez. Now, I’d like you to write down two quotes about Hafez. One by an English writer and one by a German writer. You have ten minutes.”

  She knew the English often compared Hafez to Shakespeare and an exact quote was on the tip of her tongue. “He . . . defies you to show him or put him in a condition inopportune or ignoble . . . He fears . . . nothing.” Yes, that was what it was. Emerson said of Hafez, “he sees too far; he sees throughout; such was the only man I wish to see or be.” The German one was easier. Goethe, now her favorite German poet, novelist, dramatist, humanist, scientist, theorist, and painter, had said of Hafez that “in his poetry Hafez had inscribed undeniable truth indelibly . . . Hafez had no peer.”

  “Done,” she said triumphantly, well before her time had expired. Mr. Olum took her paper, examined it and smiled.

  At noon, she invited Mr. Olum to join her for lunch. Most days they lunched together at the kitchen table surrounded by the staff. It was safe there because Gita would never step foot into the kitchen and always ate in the dining room (which Samira avoided because it echoed with loneliness) or, if the weather allowed, on the upstairs terrace.

  After lunch, Mr. Olum wanted to delve into the history session he had in mind: nineteenth and twentieth century colonialism in Central America. But Samira had something else in mind.

  “You’d like to know what?” Mr. Olum took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he always did when he was anxious.

  “How Davoud made his money,” Samira repeated.

  “Dear girl, what do such silly questions have to do with the territorial dispute in Kashmir?”

  “It’s not a silly question, Mr. Olum, and you know it. I’d like to know how my husband became so wealthy.”

  “Well, from his investments.”

  “The initial capital. Where did that come from?”

  “Well, he inherited from his father.”

  “How did his father make the money?” Samira persisted, “Mr. Olum, he’s my husband. Don’t you think I have a right to know?”

  “This really isn’t the sort of thing I teach—”

  “I know so much about his current investments, the safest banks, the best commercial real estate developers to contract within Europe. He’s made sure I’m well-versed and able to converse on all those matters. So why can’t I know where the money came from to begin with? I hear people whispering about it sometimes. It’s ridiculous that I’m the only one around here who doesn’t know, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think that it would be appropriate for me to—well, what I mean is that—”

  “I promise he’ll never know you told me.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Maybe you could just give me some facts, and if they lead me to understand where Davoud’s father made his money, then I’ve figured it out on my own.”

  “I suppose.”

  Mrs. Darkan entered with a tray.

  “I brought you both some tea,” she said, always shy around Mr. Olum for reasons Samira had deciphered long ago.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Darkan,” Mr. Olum said, watching her, lingering one might say. Mrs. Darkan smiled at him quickly before pulling back and abruptly leaving the room. He put a sugar cube on his tongue and sucked tea through it. Afterward, he revealed a chain of connections and a rule of privilege.

  It was not a surprise that Davoud’s father had supported overthrowing Mosaddegh and reinstating the Shah. The wealthy protected the system that had made them wealthy. But the extent of his contacts (that he had attended Harvard and had a close friendship with Kim Roosevelt, who had led the CIA’s coup d’état against Prime Minister Mosaddegh) horrified her. Dr. Mosaddegh’s overthrow meant the collapse of any hope for a genuine democracy in Iran.

  “So, Davoud’s father committed treason,” Samira whispered.

  “Some would say. Others would say he helped save the nation.”

  “Where was Davoud in all of this?”

  “I was his tutor at the time. He was only a teenager, and so full of passion for politics and for his father. The house was filled with guards in those days for fear of retaliation.”

  Those days, she thought. As if such dangers are in the past. The economy was falling fast. The clerics’ powers rose daily, despite Ayatollah Khomeini’s exile. Iranian security and intelligence services, or SAVAK as it was called, jailed, tortured and killed without impunity. There were demonstrators everywhere. A political shift could cost Davoud everything. And a shift loomed on the horizon.

  “Now can we please continue with Kashmir?”

  “Of course.”

  Hours later, when she was finally released from her lessons, she found she did have a bit of time to paint after all. She changed into a plain white T-shirt and jean overalls and walked, as she did almost every day, to her studio.

  Before getting out her brushes, she sat at her desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began:

  Bismillāhir-raḥmāni r-raḥīm,

  Maman joon,

  I write full of love for you and Baba, and a longing for home. Baba’s loud snores and you brushing my hair at night. The way the meadow runs into the valley that leads to the river behind the farm, and the loops and patterns of the tablecloth that hang over the table in the sitting room. I miss all of it.

  Thank you for sending me the new mohre. I think of you every time I pray.

  —But I don’t pray anymore, she thought. Then continued writing:

  Life here continues to be full of riches, and I continue to learn more and more, about everything. I have no excuse
s for not seeing you in so long, but I do have some news. No, I’m not pregnant. You know how I long for a child, but Davoud is a stubborn man.

  —Oh how I long for a child, she thought. Something of my own. Someone of my own making. Someone who I love to touch every moment of every day—

  My news is that I am coming for a visit! To visit you after so long—I can hardly wait! I know I have become foreign to you, and that you miss me.

  —It’s true. They don’t even know me anymore—

  But you will see that I have not abandoned my roots, and you will be proud of me again. It was quite difficult to convince Davoud to concede, but he has, and I am coming on the fourteenth of Tir and will stay for several weeks at least.

  —Home. Home. I’m coming home—

  Please tell Mammad, who is undoubtedly reading this letter to you, that I send my regards to him and Mrs. Taherie too. And give Baba a big kiss and hug for me.

  With All My Love,

  Your Daughter,

  Samira.

  This visit will be different, she promised herself. Every day of my life, I’m bathed, plucked, pummeled and polished. This time, I won’t let these things set me apart from them. My family. My past. Because I’m not this polished woman they see. I’m the girl they remember. I’ll dress as they dress. I’ll have Jafar drop me off at the bus station and walk home instead of arriving in a huge black Mercedes. Take with me only the clothes Maman gave me the last visit. No nail polish, makeup, lace or perfume. Just my sketchbook and some pencils. My headscarf and my prayer mohre. Rescued from the hatbox prison under my bed. I’ll put on the scarf as soon as Jafar drops me off. Practice my prayers beforehand so I don’t forget them. Davoud would never have to know. How could he figure it out? He’s never home during the days. I’ll get my hands and face dirty milking cows in the barn. Run through the rolling hillside instead. Forget the asphalted Tabriz streets. Be a child again. It wouldn’t feel like pretence. I’d find a common experience with my family. With my past. I have to. Because Davoud with his icy penetrations takes me with him. He never puts back what he takes. There’s little left of me. And what’s left lingers on Baba’s dirty shirt and Maman’s sewing needle and the udder of the cow and the green of the meadows.

  She felt the tears roll down to her chin. Salty. She clutched on to the inspiration rising up within her and looked around the room for the perfect canvas. This one, over here. And this brush. Onyx paint mixed with some pearl white. She gave her brush all the tenderness she felt, but moved it in short, fast strokes. Like chalk on the white canvas. Maman’s face. The brush caressed its contours. Rounded chin. Melancholy lips. Creases of skin and intense eyes that beamed with kindness. Step away to examine the lines. Knock on the door. Samira jolts up.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s your afternoon tea, Samira Khanum.” It was Mrs. Darkan’s voice. Samira did not mind the interruption. Mrs. Darkan would often agree to stay in the studio for a few moments, take tea with her, and talk about the paintings. She could discuss how Maman’s portrait was coming along. Mrs. Darkan always offered great insight.

  “Come on in.” She smiled at Mrs. Darkan as she walked in. “Mrs. Darkan, when will you sit for me again?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Why not? You’ve done it before!”

  “Yes. I did it once and that was enough.”

  “Oh, but I know you enjoyed it! And you liked the painting, right?”

  “Well, yes. Of course. You’re very talented.”

  “You’re a terrific subject!”

  “Samira Khanum, you know Mrs. Montazar wouldn’t like it if she found out.”

  “That didn’t stop you before. Besides, we’re not doing anything improper. Am I supposed to paint the mistresses of Davoud’s friends for the rest of my life? Because if that’s the case, I may as well throw out my entire palette and only paint in beige.”

  Mrs. Darkan laughed.

  “And anyway, how would she ever know?” Samira smiled conspiratorially.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s at the beauty salon three times a week. We know this because she comes back with styled hair and perfect nails each time. Right?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And there’s the twice a week croquet games.”

  “Sometimes those are here!”

  “But almost every time they’re at Mrs. Mohsenin’s house.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And there’s bridge club on the fourth Wednesday evening of every month. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the rest of the time, she’s usually out shopping! We wouldn’t be doing anything improper!” Samira insisted. She knew that breaches of etiquette were appalling to Mrs. Darkan. But she was also desperate for some kind of companionship that did not involve Davoud or the bejeweled plastic wives and lovers of his friends. “I would just be painting, which we both know Davoud encourages. And you would just be sitting. Just sitting!”

  “During my off hours?”

  “Well of course! Yes. During your off hours. So instead of sitting in your room, you’re sitting in my studio.”

  Mrs. Darkan reluctantly agreed. And they began to spend hours of time together, every week.

  5

  “I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Me either.”

  “Will you miss me?”

  Maman stopped sweeping the barn to look at Samira with wet eyes. “Every moment of every day.”

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  “Now finish collecting those eggs.”

  Samira looked at the dirt beneath her fingernails, her basket full of fresh eggs, and smiled.

  “Khoreshte fesenjoon for dinner tonight,” Maman said. “It’s been sitting in the slow cooker since yesterday!”

  “How do you like the cooker?”

  “Oh Samira,” Maman said as she wiped the sweat off her brow. “It’s the best gift you’ve sent home in the ten years you’ve been gone.”

  “You mean, the hair sprays and perfumes didn’t come in handy?” Samira laughed. So did Maman. “Or the silk scarves?”

  “The funniest was when you sent that big electric oven that short-circuited half the village!”

  “But you liked the television, right?”

  “Well sure, once we figured out that the side room in the mosque was the perfect place for it!”

  “You know, there couldn’t be a better home for that television. Brilliant idea, Maman!”

  “I thought so! No one ever went in that room. No one even went through it—everyone always went through the main door during prayer time. Now there’s a couple of couches there, and all the kids gather around on Fridays for cartoons. And a bunch of us get together for the news every so often. We all feel connected to what’s going on around the world.”

  Funny how things worked out. Samira’s basket was full and the floor was spotless, so the two of them began to make their way to the main house.

  “I’m wondering about something, Samira.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Woman?”

  “I keep seeing the same woman in your sketches now. An elderly woman. With the funny chin.”

  “You mean Mrs. Darkan? You met her.”

  “Mrs. Darkan? Oh! My goodness yes! The housekeeper!”

  “That’s right. Don’t you remember her?”

  “Well, child, that was ten years ago.” There was pain in Maman’s voice. Understandable. She had never been invited back into Davoud’s home. Not after the wedding. It ached Samira, too, and she imagined how it might feel to be excluded from your daughter’s life like this. But Samira had no choice in the matter. She looked down with shame and tried to change the subject.

  “I like to paint her. She’s a very interesting subject. You know, she hasn’t had it easy. But she’s made a nice life for herself.”

  What Samira did not tell Maman is that Mrs. D
arkan had been raised by an aunt after losing both of her parents to pneumonia. That she herself had been very ill as a child and had never forgiven herself for surviving that which killed her parents. Samira learned a lot about people who sat for their portrait and even more from those who sat repeatedly.

  “But she’s not just an interesting subject, right?” Maman asked. “You care for this woman. I can see it in your work.”

  Samira stopped and looked Maman in the eyes. “It’s very lonely there, Maman. At least she is someone to talk to who is more like me, you know?” Samira could see that Maman knew. Then, picking up on what Maman might be feeling, Samira said, “She could never replace my own family. Of course.”

  “Yes. Sure. I know that. And how’s Shabnam?”

  “She didn’t visit at all this year. Not even during Eid. Gita took the kids to Tehran to visit her brother.”

  “I don’t understand how a man can go without seeing his daughter for so long. I suppose it explains why he doesn’t understand our need to see our daughter more often.”

  “Maman . . . I’m so sorry—”

  “Is she coming home for the summer?”

  “Yes. In a month.”

  “Will you spend much time with her?”

  “I like her very much. But her mother—”

  “Her mother doesn’t like you spending time with her daughter.”

  “I wish I could just come here for the whole summer.”

  “Now wouldn’t that be something? I do worry about you, Samira joon. You’re so lonely there. But it’ll all change when you get pregnant. Oh, I know. I know. But it’ll happen sooner or later.”

  “Sooner or later.”

  Smile. Smell the freshness in the air. Arrive home. Put the eggs in the fridge and stir the stew. Kiss Baba as he comes in from the fields. Throw your arms around him. Eat outside by the fire. The three of you. A glimpse of childhood. Gone in a flash.

  6

  Mrs. Darkan wore her finest blouse. A hand-painted rose and sapphire flowers pattern. A soft-blue headscarf framed her face, slightly pushed back to show off her silver bangs. She held a cup that Samira had borrowed from Gita’s precious imported collection. Samira focused on her eyes. She stared at them as her brush moved on the canvas. That look of a suffocating and unkind past, conquered with patience. Hard worker? Showing that would have to be in the hands. They are elegant, but worked. And her integrity, her character; that was all in her nose. Samira delighted at each revelation as the painting progressed.