Butterfly Stitching

by Shermin Kruse

  “It’s true that none of the usual indicators are there, but—”

  “Unless there’s a peasant uprising,” Mr. Mansouri interrupted. “You think the villagers of Iran will rise up against the Shah? He’s the one who abolished feudalism, nationalized the pastureland, and created a free educational system!”

  Since Mr. Mansouri had never lived a day among the peasants nor worked for a moment of his life as a farmer, he did not understand the utter failure of the Shah’s attempts. He did not know, for instance, that land reform had only resulted in large numbers of independent farmers who labored eighteen hours and held no allegiance to the Pahlavi Crown. Samira knew, because that was what was happening in Kandovan. Iran’s wealth was not trickling down to the peasants. Every day the elite grew richer, and more of the poor went hungry. Education may have been free, but anyone who lived in the farmlands knew that it was still vastly unavailable. Illiteracy still scarred Kandovan, as it did the nation. Samira did not say any of this aloud. She had to be careful of any critique she made of the regime. There was a SAVAK agent at the table, and even her own husband would not allow such talk. Davoud was fiercely loyal to the Shah.

  “I don’t think farmers were ever a real threat to the Shah,” Samira said instead. “Right now, when you look at the demonstrators, you see the intelligentsia and middle class. Their numbers grew when the unions and independent newspapers were shut down. And now their numbers are doubling because they’re embracing that other group of increasingly vocal people—women.”

  “Really, what is the problem?” Mr. Bahmani asked. “The Shah was the one that gave women the right to vote! What more do they want?”

  We want true democracy, Samira thought. Women, like men, wanted to vote not only in referendums with ineffectual results, but for or against their rulers. This the monarchy would not provide. She did not say this either.

  “Let’s get back to the clerics,” Davoud said. “Samira, do you really think they have any power?”

  Samira could not believe the blindness of the table. They could not see what strong motivation religious freedom could be for revolution. How could they, when it was exactly people like these that supported the secularism of modern Iran? These were the people who applauded when the Shah’s father forbade Islamic clothing and tore chadors off women who resisted the ban in public. Indeed, Samira’s own husband demanded that she unveil, even though doing so felt to her like shedding her blouse or her skirt and walking about naked. These men and women, despite their education and intelligence, could not understand the anger in the hearts of those denied their religion. But the clergy could, and did.

  Since she could discuss none of this, she only said, “I’m just telling you what I know. Talk is everywhere.”

  “Where? Where’s the talk of revolution?”

  “Samira’s main source of information is our household staff!” Davoud said, somewhat mocking. Several of the dinner guests chuckled.

  “That’s true,” Samira admitted. “I think maids and drivers are in a better place to know what’s being said in the teahouses and mosques than mayors and diplomats.”

  “Actually, I think the young lady is right to be concerned with such things,” Mr. Fardust said. He had been mostly quiet until now. Likely disinclined to speak of politics among a new group. He only joined in the conversation once the rhythm of it was measured and definitively resolved by the other men.

  Samira thought he seemed undisturbed by her presence in the conversation. She knew exactly the kind of man he was. Accustomed to intelligentsia circles abroad with participation by one or two exceptional women. So, since the other men treated Samira like such a woman, he did the same.

  “I’ve heard similar rumors,” Mr. Fardust continued. “More and more demonstrations. These people. Our people. So ungrateful.” Despite his height (he was a short man), physique (a protruding stomach and flabby neck) and hair (there was more on his eyebrows than on his head), he spoke with a kind of arrogance and an unexpected stutter that was both comical and oddly attractive.

  It was unclear what Mr. Fardust meant by rumors, but his statement sent a chill down Samira’s spine. Given SAVAK’s virtually unlimited powers of arrest and detention, operation of its own detention centers and its routine torture of detainees, Mr. Fardust and his underlings must have ways of getting information not generally available elsewhere. Samira had heard whispers that one of the tasks of SAVAK was the surveillance of Iranians abroad. If there was serious talk of a revolution, SAVAK would know of it.

  “Well, what I want to know more than anything else is what is in Mr. Bahmani’s pipe and whether any of it will do my art any good!” Samira changed the subject.

  Everyone laughed, mostly just relieved by the sudden lift in conversation. The table, quickly transformed by the rapid buzz of ordinary conversation, did not return to the subject of politics for the rest of the evening.

  Later that night Davoud was hungry for sex but Samira lied and said she was ovulating. He went to Gita’s bed instead. She wished he would visit Gita’s bed more often. Or take Gita to the occasional dinner party or social event. Gita existed almost entirely in the background of the life Davoud and Samira shared. Samira was her husband’s only public wife, masking the taboo of polygamy. Samira did not quite understand why he would not just divorce Gita. Perhaps he was accustomed to having her in his life. Perhaps he simply wanted to keep a close eye on the mother of his children.

  Enjoying her break that night, Samira roamed the hallways of the mansion to look at family pictures. There was an old one of Gita in the sitting room in the east wing, showing off a once-pretty (albeit simple) face upon which middle age and disappointment had carved lines. Gita had never received the sort of education that Davoud had given Samira, had never been taught to paint or speak English. Gita and Davoud had wed when they were both very young, before the death of Davoud’s father, to ensure a business alliance between their parents. Not long after their marriage of convenience, Gita’s father had died and it was revealed that he was heavily in debt. Gita’s mother blamed the royal family for the loss of their fortunes and hated Gita and Davoud for the senior Mr. Montazar’s betrayal of the democracy. Then, perhaps frightened to death by the thought of living without their wealth, Gita’s mother died of a heart attack.

  Samira was the only bride that Davoud had really chosen for himself. It had come after his father’s death, after his inheritance of the fortune, and at a time when Davoud was first beginning to understand the power that his money could yield. Samira could not stop looking at the lone picture in the sitting room, dwarfed by multiple portraits of him and Samira.

  “Do you think he still loves her?”

  Samira, startled, turned and found Mrs. Darkan in the doorway, her arms behind her, her typical perfect posture. There was a familiar space of certainty between them. Neither of them belonging in their respective roles. Neither of them knowing how to be.

  “Yes, but his love for her is of an ordinary sort,” Samira answered.

  “Not the extraordinary love that he has for you?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Samira was very unsure of Davoud’s feelings for her, but she felt certain that they could not be described as extraordinary love.

  “Well, then, what do you mean?”

  “His love for me is a sickness. The perfection that he sees in me is unsafe. Such perfection only exists in the illusions of men too arrogant to question their own blind imagination. It won’t, and shouldn’t, persist.”

  “Maybe, but it isn’t any less real to him.”

  “I know.”

  “And it has persisted for eleven years.”

  “It has, hasn’t it?”

  “And how about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  Samira wanted to answer that she was nothing. She did not exist. She was the creation of another’s will, drowning in the false image that life’s mirror had unpredictably forced in front of her. She
was the reflection of her unreal self in Davoud’s eyes. A lovely image, for sure, like a finely tuned antique piano that had a particularly unique sound.

  “I’m his wife,” she managed to say.

  “Well, I don’t know much about these things, but I think you were something before that. If you’ll excuse me, Khanum, I must retire for the evening.”

  “Of course, yes.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Yes. Goodnight.”

  Samira thought back to the figure she had been before Davoud’s chisel had carved her into something without any sharp edges; the daughter she had been before her loneliness had lost its depth; the river she had been that flowed unpredictably and wildly as though there was always a storm.

  She walked quickly to her studio, flicked on the lights and moved toward the stacks of paintings along the walls. The more recent paintings were in the front of the stacks: plastic portraits of the pampered people with whom they socialized. People without dirt beneath their nails or fire in their eyes. Behind them, however, was painting after painting from before. Maman. Riri. Jaja’s wife. Here she could see herself. She was suddenly overwhelmingly excited about her next trip home.

  8

  Samira had just returned from a jog when she noticed the handbag on the bench by the front door. Gita would never leave any personal belongings by the door. It had to be Shabnam’s. Yet she was so rarely home, and it was not a holiday. Sweet laughter came from the music room and Samira decided to follow it, forgetting for a second her sweaty shirt and running shoes. Gita and Davoud sat on the couch with their backs to Samira. Shabnam faced them, quite engaged in retelling a story. As her hands gestured about, Samira noticed one of her fingers twinkling. Her ring finger. And to her left sat a young man with a funny-looking beard.

  “Samira!” Shabnam exclaimed.

  “Salam Shabnam joon!” Samira answered. Gita and Davoud turned, and both looked Samira up and down, immediately reminding her of her improper attire. “Oh—yes—I’m sorry. I just heard Shabnam’s voice in here and came right in before changing. It’s so good to see you!”

  Samira could see that Shabnam was trying to tame her smile for Gita’s sake, but was hardly able to do so.

  “Samira, this is Ali. Ali Pouri.” The young man stood for the introduction. Tall. Athletic build. “We met in school. Well, his studies weren’t classical. He’s an engineer like my dayee! He just asked Baba for my hand and Baba agreed!”

  “Well, how wonderful! Congratulations!” Samira looked at Ali. It must have taken some courage to come to this house and face Davoud for his daughter’s hand. And indeed, Mr. Pouri did seem full of courage. Or at least confidence. “Congratulations, Mr. Pouri.”

  “Oh please, call me Ali,” he said eagerly, looking at Davoud the entire time. “Mr. Montazar is so kind to accept me into this incredible family.” Ali looked around the acquisitions in the room rather than at his bride, obviously far more enthralled by the wealth and social connections that accompanied his match. Shabnam, whose twenties had not rid her of her short figure and whose rounded nose was not much helped with surgery, looked like a teenager in puppy love.

  “Well, I couldn’t be more pleased,” Davoud said. “Shabnam has completed her studies and is at the perfect age for marriage to an accomplished young engineer!”

  Shabnam was twenty five years old. Eleven years older than Samira when Davoud took her as a bride. Oblivious to this fact, Davoud looked very pleased indeed. An educated young man, anxious to please his bride’s father, what could be better from Davoud’s perspective?

  Gita gave Samira a dirty look. “Your sweat is dripping on the rug. Shouldn’t you go and wash up?”

  Samira felt embarrassed. Gita was right. In any event, this was a family moment for them to share and which Samira could only ruin. “Yes, of course! Well, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Please do join us for dinner tonight!” Shabnam’s tone was heartfelt.

  “I’ll do my best,” Samira lied. “It was very nice to meet you Mr. Pouri! And congratulations again! Really!”

  Samira darted out toward her room, bathed, and went directly into her studio where she planned on spending the entire night. She painted as the sun sank low into the sky, and ate the dinner delivered by Laleh by the windows overlooking the fish pond.

  A knock at the door interrupted her.

  “Yes?”

  “Samira?” Mrs. Darkan shuffled in with evident distress.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “There is—”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mrs. Darkan said nothing, but handed an envelope to Samira. It was still sealed.

  “The messenger boy who delivered it . . .”

  “He told you what was in the letter?” Samira had not even heard the bell.

  “No, but . . . it’s a telegram. Not a letter.”

  “This time of night?”

  “It’s marked for urgent delivery.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll leave you to yourself. Oh, you poor child.” No one, other than her parents, had ever called her child before. She liked it. But feared the reason behind this sudden intimacy. Mrs. Darkan continued. “Please, if you need anything, please . . . ring the bell. Tea, maybe?”

  “Mrs. Darkan, it’s far too late for tea!”

  “Well, anything. Just let me know.” She left the studio.

  Samira stared at the envelope, daring herself to open it. She walked over to her desk, where the letter she had written to Maman earlier in the day sat un-mailed. She stared at the envelope for a long moment. She finally sat down, and with shaking hands, ripped open the envelope and read the yellow paper.

  CONDOLENCES ON THE SUDDEN PASSING OF YOUR MOTHER, KHANUM MARJAN FAZLIN—(STOP)—MEMORIAL SERVICES 24 ORDIBEHESHT—(STOP)—YOUR FAMILY AWAITS YOUR ARRIVAL—(STOP)—MAMMAD TAHERI

  Time for Samira froze. There was only the telegram and the message she read and read again as if through repetition she could undo what had been done. Eventually, the sun began to rise over the pond behind the studio. Its light shook Samira out of her suspended state, and she found boiling within her a compulsion. Suddenly, she laughed. Convinced the telegram was wrong. It had to be. How could Maman be . . . she couldn’t be. Forty seven years! And healthy! She was healthy! Wasn’t she? She barely took notice of when her laughter stopped, but knew that she wanted nothing more than to scream. She could not. Her throat closed around her voice and nothing came out. Nothing.

  She slowly rose from her seat, put the telegram on her desk, and walked out of her studio and down the hallway leading to the courtyard. She passed the display case of Davoud’s Swarovski crystal birds. She opened the latch on the doors and with large smooth motions of her arm pushed all the birds onto the marble ground, liberating them from their wings, beaks, and legs. They were grateful. She could tell.

  She softly closed the doors of the display case as though nothing in it was disturbed, stepped over the broken crystal, and continued outside to the tool shed in the courtyard. She opened the heavy door and surveyed the shelves. This was only the second time she had been in here. She remembered the metal box full of chalk in the far corner, and just above it was the hammer. She picked it up, felt its heaviness, and walked back inside.

  In the hallway leading to her studio hung a large bevelled mirror surrounded by an ornate mosaic frame that Davoud greatly admired. The frame was a mosaic of black and mirrored glass, mother of pearl, and colorful crystals. She took the mirror off the wall, carried it along with the hammer to her studio, and slammed the door. She pulled a sheet of canvas off a roll, wrapped it around the mirror and set it on the ground. She raised the hammer into the air and crashed it onto the mirror, shattering the pieces within the canvas.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each blow rang with the sound of shattered glass. The shards cut the canvas as she systematically reduced beauty to dust.

  When she was satisfied, she took
the black-and-white painting of her mother she had begun the day before off its easel and placed it directly onto the studio floor where she spread a thick layer of copal medium over the surface. She then unfolded the canvas containing the smashed bits of mirror, glass, pearls and crystals. She took a fistful of the ruptured beauty and splashed it onto the canvas. The shiny tessera scattered like pieces of dead fairy dust against the black eyes and rounded chin. She went over it with varnish. Another layer of copal glaze, more tiny shards of glass and mirror, then another coat of varnish. Then again. And again. The layers built upon themselves like tells. Beneath each lay shattered remnants of the past. And they were beautiful. At some point, she stopped. She felt numb and tired. She wiped the sweat from her brow and looked outside. Judging by the light, it was early afternoon. Half a day had passed. They had left her in there. Undisturbed. They must know what had happened. She looked back at the painting. It sparkled with disconnected fragments. She felt the tears running down her cheeks before she noticed she was crying. Standing was becoming a challenge so she sat down on the floor, then noticed the pieces of paper by the door. They were notes—more like questions, actually—from Mrs. Darkan. Would she like some breakfast? Mr. Olum was here, what should she tell him? Would she please eat the sandwich left outside the door? Davoud wants to see her, can she come out? Can he come in? Will she eat some of the halva Mrs. Darkan herself especially prepared for her? Would she like a book? Or a radio? Or a newspaper?

  She opened the door. Took the tray of tea and halva inside, then closed the door again. The rosewater reminded her of Maman’s apron. The sweetness of the halva on her tongue felt like home. Home. She had felt homeless for so long. Belonged neither in her childhood world nor in her husband’s home. But now, home felt further away from her than ever. Whatever home there was, was in Maman. And Maman was dead. Eventually, Samira fell asleep on the studio floor. It was hard, and cold. Just as she remembered it.