The music room was, after her studio, Samira’s favorite. Bookcases filled with musical theory, biographies of musicians, and pages and pages of sheet music. An old and mostly forgotten antique gramophone and a few dusty records sat on a side table near one of the windows. Above the fireplace stood a sadly posed wedding portrait of Davoud and Samira. They looked very much more like father and daughter than husband and wife.
Ali Pouri stood in front of the window, looking out, visibly bored with Shabnam’s playing. He huffed and puffed his overpriced cigar, discernibly unaware that it was crude to do so before dinner and especially unacceptable in the music room. For once, Samira wished Davoud were there so he could scold the presumptuous man for his callous disregard of Shabnam’s playing. Shabnam did not seem to notice her husband’s slight, or perhaps she had accepted his habits as ordinary. Even the most shocking of behaviors could appear normal to those who experienced them every day. She had gained weight that showed in her cheeks, but Samira still found her to be delicate in her vulnerability.
“I see you have the privilege of listening to Shabnam interpret Beethoven,” Armin turned to Ali, accepting his extended hand.
“Yes,” the young man said with subtle sarcasm. “She’s a delight.”
Shabnam blushed. “Oh, both of you stop! I know I’m awful!” She turned to Samira with restrained enthusiasm. “Salam, Samira jan.”
“Salam.” Samira took the seat opposite Gita and nodded a hello to her, as well.
“There’s nothing awful about a woman who plays from her heart,” Armin said, extending Shabnam’s wide smile for at least a few minutes.
“It took you a long time to get back,” Gita said.
Armin walked over and put his hand on Shabnam’s shoulder. “The protests. We were stopped in the middle of the street for some time.”
“Speaking of the protests, how’s everyone in Tehran?” Gita asked. “Hassan . . . and everyone else?”
“Oh, you know, Hassan is as militant as ever! Marching with the rest of the demonstrators, of course, against the monarchy which makes me really worried.”
“Keeping out of jail?”
“In and out.”
“Nothing major I hope?”
“One night stints. One time they kept him for a week. The poor boy was whittled down to nothing by the end of it, but was back on the streets within a couple of months after that.”
“There’s no keeping people inside,” Samira said. Gita gave her a dirty look for including herself in a conversation that she clearly viewed to be private. But Armin smiled.
“That’s right. There’s no keeping them inside.”
“Anyway,” Gita said, turning her back to Samira. “I’ll say a prayer for him.
“Shabnam,” Armin said, “please go on now and finish your sonata before we’re called to the table. I’m sure Ali will be disappointed if you don’t.”
“Yes,” Ali said. “Very disappointed.”
***
Samira averted her gaze from Armin throughout dinner, all the while guiltily longing for him. She had scarcely touched him and yet felt like his lover. She reminded herself that she was married. She knew, because she was no fool, that Davoud’s Parisian mistress was likely with him this very moment. He spent several weeks a year in Paris and kept an apartment there. While Samira hardly ever traveled with him, she had seen the signs: a blond hair caught in the hinges of the bathroom mirror or his occasional refusal to pick up the phone when Samira was in the room. Samira believed, in fact, that she had met this woman at a garden party last May. She had seen the way this woman looked at her, with jealousy, and the angry way Davoud had whispered to her when he thought Samira was not looking.
That Davoud had a mistress did not disturb Samira. Sharing Davoud with another woman was the way their marriage had begun. Besides, it was, she understood, expected of a man in his position to have a lover on the side. Frankly, as far as Samira was concerned, the more people there were servicing Davoud’s appetite, the less work there was for her. She imagined him with the woman now, in his bed or in hers, and wondered if this excused the feelings she had for the man sitting across the dinner table from her now.
“Samira?” Shabnam’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Hm?”
Ali smirked. “Where were you just now?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve been thinking about Shabnam’s birthday present.”
Shabnam eyes lit up, but she did not dare reveal too much excitement in front of Gita. “Oh, you didn’t have to buy me anything!” she said.
“I didn’t,” Samira said, both women understanding that not “buying” anything meant Samira was painting something for Shabnam. Shabnam could not hold back her smile. Samira noticed that Armin was staring off into the distance and humming absentmindedly. She wondered what he was thinking of. She hoped it was her.
“Anyway,” Ali went on. “I was just asking you about Paris and if you read any of the Ayatollah’s interviews.”
“Samira was just telling me that she brought with her a copy of last month’s Guardian.” Armin said.
“Oh, did you?” Ali asked. “I’d love to see it.”
“Certainly.”
After dinner, everyone retired to the living room to watch the evening news and take turns reading Samira’s Guardian. On television, news of nationwide protests was interrupted only by World Cup updates. 1398 (or 1978 in the Western calendar) was a particularly meaningful year for Iranian football fans as it was the first year that Iran had made an appearance in the World Cup. Iran had already lost two of its three games against the Netherlands and Peru, but had managed to create an upset by drawing one-one against Scotland with a late Danaeifard goal. Even Samira, who cared very little about football, was pleased. She imagined the jubilee that would surely fill the streets after that amazing goal, with bakers and restaurateurs offering tea and pastries to strangers in a show of ecstatic solidarity. But she could not concentrate. Not on the state of her nation and certainly not on football scores. She felt very aware of her every movement to make sure she appeared normal rather than nervous, but her usual confident smile had been replaced with lips that did not know what expression to make. She actively avoided looking or even glancing at Armin.
“Excuse me. I’ve had my fill of politics and football tonight. I’m going to my studio. Goodnight, Shabnam jan.”
“Goodnight, Samira,” Shabnam stood to give Samira an awkward hug goodnight. Gita raised an eyebrow.
“It’s wonderful to see you,” Samira said. “You should visit more often.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Ali. Gita. Armin.” As she said goodnight, Samira tried not to look at Armin any longer than she looked at the other two.
***
She made every attempt to focus on her painting. She put her hair up in a ponytail. Took it back down again. She walked to the door, opened it to see if there was someone on the other side. On surveying the empty hallway, she walked back to her canvas. The painting, she thought. Just focus on the painting. There was a shadow under Ali Pouri’s left eye that needed some work. She picked up a brush and dabbed it with some gray. Armin would not come. Why would he? There would be no sense in it, even if she had said that he could, which she had not. She had specifically said he could not. Right? He frightened her. And yet, her fingers still tingled from his touch and her mind swirled with the kindness in his gestures and the timbre of his voice. She jumped at the opening of the door. Realized she had only imagined the door opening. Went back to the shadows of her mind.
Then he knocked.
She wanted to invite him in and opened her mouth to do so, but found herself incapable. He entered anyway. Perhaps her voice had somehow reached him. Perhaps he simply knew what she wanted him to do. And they were alone in her studio for the second time. It did strike her as ironic that she should have been working on another portrait of Shabnam. It was as though they were given the chance for a new first encounter to paral
lel all of the new beginnings that would come their way.
Almost as soon as she put down her palette and stepped away from the canvas, she regretted having done so. With nothing to hold in her hands now, nothing with which to busy herself, she was left with the difficult task of keeping herself composed, completely unsure how to behave. She knew she could not simply leap into his arms. Though that was the command every bone in her body received from her confused brain. But should she touch him at all? Shake his hand? Well, that would be absurd. But if not that, then what? She decided to let his behavior guide hers and so observed him meticulously.
He walked smoothly and seemingly without hesitation. She saw he had taken off his dinner jacket and was now wearing a collared shirt that showed off his eyes. She thought an overwhelming sense of integrity emanated from him, walking as he did, with his hands behind his back. He was having trouble looking at her directly, which she thought was a sign he was at least a little nervous. It comforted her to know she was not the only one. It was late and the soft glow of the evening’s moon cast shadows on the shrubbery that decorated the courtyard, visible from the large glass doors framing Armin.
“I have something for you,” he said, and withdrew his hands from behind his back. He held a stunning burgundy box with gold trim. “It’s a music box.”
She did not have one. He took a key and unlocked the box, then opened the lid and wound up the knob on the side to reveal mechanical pins and wheels turning to Beethoven’s Für Elise.
Over the years, Samira had received many gifts from Davoud. Designer perfumes, couture gowns, expensive jewellery and European vacations. At first, these things had confused her. At only fourteen and plucked from her village, she did not even understand the concept of high fashion. Now, she understood, and she played the game. A sad and very lonely game. More importantly, she understood that all of these luxuries were given in exchange for something. Or to make up for something already taken without permission. Armin, on the other hand, had taken nothing from her. Indeed, with each moment of knowing him, she felt richer. She choked up with emotion as she took the box from him.
“You’re blushing,” he said.
“Am I?”
“I rather like you blushing.”
“Thank you for this.”
He smiled.
Samira replayed the bagatelle in her head and stared lovingly at her box. Armin did not take his gaze away from her.
“May I see it?” he asked.
“What?”
“The painting—the one you’re painting for Shabnam’s birthday.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She tucked her bangs behind her ears and moved to allow him to come around to the canvas.
Samira had posed Shabnam and her husband in a manner very similar to the portrait of her and Davoud hanging in the music room: Ali was seated in a grand chair, while Shabnam stood behind, resting her hand on his shoulder in a traditional and frozen pose. But Samira had taken several liberties. The chair was smaller than its actual size. And Ali’s head was disproportionally large for his body. Her license did not quite take the painting into caricature, but it did create a sense of disturbance. In addition, through the manipulation of light and shadow, Ali’s slightly larger head became the focus. Everything else dissolved into the background. In her mocking of Ali, she wondered what she was saying about Shabnam.
“Do you think she’s losing herself to this man?” he asked, understanding the piece.
“To this man. To marriage.”
“To marriage?”
“Yes. She’s fading into the shadow he casts. As do most women who enter marriage.”
“Will he be offended?”
“I think he’ll love it.”
Armin smiled and nodded. “And you? Are you in the shadow?”
She looked away from him but answered. “I was lucky enough to have my personality split in two.”
“Half in his world—”
“And half in mine. In his world, I retreat into shadow.”
“Oh, but you shine through his shadow.”
“He made sure of that, yes. And in my world, here, in my studio and during my studies, or when I’m running, I take off the costume.”
“The jewelled costume.”
“Then I’m my ordinary self.”
“There is nothing ordinary about you.”
Samira smiled. Nor you, she thought. They were both silent for a while after that. The silence felt normal. As if they were watching a beautiful performance. Then she looked at him, the music box still in her hands, and asked, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He took a step closer to her. She felt her knees shaking and worried that he could tell, or that they might give up on her and she might trip in front of him.
“I came for Shabnam’s birthday.”
“That’s not what I meant. What are you doing here.”
“I came to the studio because you invited me.” He took another step toward her. Oh God. He was going to touch her. She impulsively took a step back and positioned the music box between the two of them.
“I didn’t invite you.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“I could’ve sworn—”
“No. Anyway, that’s not what I meant, either. What are you doing here?”
“In your studio?”
“In my world.”
“I don’t understand it, either, Samira. This feeling. What it means. What we’re supposed to do with it.”
Samira. The sound of her name flowed out of him and bloomed in the air, sending waves down her body. She felt exhilarated, but also dazed and unsure of herself.
“This must be false,” she said in an effort to convince herself as well as him. “It must be a dream or a confused desire. Yes, just a confused desire. Lust. Although I’m surrounded by them, I’m not a fan of illusions, you know. I’ve always been a realist and mocked those who do to their worlds what I do to my paintings.”
“Create them?”
“Falsify them with unreal colors. Create deceptive daydreams they want to pretend are real.”
“Like your husband?”
She nodded. “I’m not like him.”
“No, you’re not. But, Samira, what if this isn’t an illusion? What if this is the real thing?”
“You can’t really care about me, Armin. You don’t even know me.”
“I feel like I’ve known you for centuries.”
She was silent.
“You must admit that it’s at least possible this is something real,” Armin said with hope. “Come on, you have to admit love at first sight is possible.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, that it might be real,” she said.
“Only one way to know.”
“How’s that?”
“We have to explore our feelings. Let them wash over and through us and see what happens.”
“That’s out of the question, Armin. ‘See what happens?’ I’m married, may I remind you?”
“I hadn’t forgotten.”
“Well . . .”
“You’re married to another man with another wife.”
“Your sister!”
“She deserves a husband with only one wife.”
“So, what? You want to break apart my marriage so your sister’s husband returns to her?”
“You know that’s not it all. You know it’s not.”
“And anyway, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I’ve never . . . never been with anyone else.”
“Then let’s not be together,” he said. He took the music box from her, sat down cross-legged, and put the box next to him on the ground. “Sit with me.”
She did not hesitate long. She sat and pulled the box over to herself. Wound the knob all the way to the beginning. Armin put his arm around her as they listened. A rush of emotion. Unexpected comfort. Still, she had a difficult time trusting her feelings for a man she barely knew. But there he was. Sitting next to her on the hardwoo
d floor of her studio, not too far from the spot where her innocence had first been taken by Davoud.
“We have to believe, Samira. We have to believe it’s possible.” Reading her mind, he put his arm around her and squeezed her tightly into him. She felt his warmth surround her. It was wonderful. Like home. She tilted her head to lean it on his shoulder, where she found the sweet tickle of his breath on her neck.
“You take my breath away,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“That’s what I would’ve written.”
“Written?”
“If I’d written to you. Those are the five words I would have written: ‘You take my breath away’.”
In that moment, Samira felt as though she could see a glimpse of what it really might be to be happy with a man. To breathe him in. To feel her insides expanding. To be found, at last, drinking after a lifetime of thirst. The mere thought of it quenched her. She closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, Armin was gently stirring her to wake up. She looked around, and realized that at some point, they had lain down on the floor and fallen asleep. They both giggled.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at dinner?” he asked.
“And after dinner,” she said, feeling her dependence on her husband fade into the horizon of her past.
“And the next night.”
“We will sit here.”
“And talk. Every night.”
“Well, until Davoud returns.” She could not very well stay up all night in her studio with Armin when her husband was home. Not with evening appetites like Davoud’s. He would surely know she was missing from her bedroom.
“Yes, right. In fact, I think I will leave when he returns.”
“But then you’ll miss Shabnam’s party!”
“You don’t understand. I can’t stand . . . I don’t know how I could possibly stand to watch him touch you.”
11
“Why is Mr. Afsseus sending you a letter?”
Samira accepted the letter, hearing Mrs. Darkan’s tacit disapproval.
“What?” Samira said as she ripped open the letter.
“Samira, you really should try to contain yourself.”
Butterfly Stitching Page 24