Butterfly Stitching

by Shermin Kruse

  She wanted Armin.

  “What are you talking about?” Davoud said.

  “What am I talking about? You took this girl as your second wife. Forced yourself on her at the age of fourteen.”

  “I didn’t force—”

  “Fourteen!” He inhaled sharply. “Forced her to live with a man who already had another wife.” Everyone on the platform turned to look at Gita. Samira felt sorry for her. She seemed frozen in the background, as still as the suitcases sitting next to her, looking at her brother with confusion. Gita opened her mouth as if to say something but nothing came out. Armin glanced at her and tilted his head. Samira thought it seemed like a mild apology. But he quickly continued his attack on Davoud.

  “You robbed her of her youth. You gave her no choices and she still has none. If she did, she’d leave you.”

  Davoud looked beaten, confronted with ideas he had never considered.

  “I rescued her. From a lifetime of poverty. From being married to some ignorant villager and spending the rest of her life wiping floors and babies’ butts! I gave her . . . knowledge. I encouraged her art!”

  Samira looked at Davoud trying to justify taking a little girl as his bride. She could see on his face that he was failing, even to convince himself. Maybe all of these years he had questioned his own conduct. But then he had justified it to himself. So much harder to justify out loud, in front of others. She could see the foundation of his convictions cracking beneath him.

  He turned to look at her.

  “That . . .” Davoud said, his voice falling to a whisper. “What he says isn’t true. It isn’t, right?” His expression so broken. So small. When she did not answer he yelled, “Tell him!” He walked up to her. Clutched her hands. “My angel, my perfect fairy . . .” Samira felt tears stream down her cheeks. Davoud glanced to Armin, back to Samira. “You’d never choose to leave.” And back to Armin. “She had choices. She has choices.” He softened his grip on her hands. Kept his gaze on hers. “You know you can leave anytime you want, right? I am no one’s prison!”

  Samira could tell that he really believed she could leave at any time. So it occurred to her that, maybe, she could.

  “Not according to the backward laws of this country!” Armin said. “For her to leave, she needs your permission. But you’ll never stop forcing yourself on your little girl, will you?”

  “Force?” Davoud whispered. “Force? How could anyone? She consented. And she is the better for it. If I hadn’t—”

  “If you hadn’t what?”

  “If I hadn’t come along, God knows what life would have lain in front of her.”

  “She was fourteen!”

  “Among the people of her village, she was marriageable. I wasn’t early! It was the culture in her archaic village. And she would’ve been married off to someone, even if it wasn’t me. I wasn’t . . . it isn’t true what you say! You slanderer!” She heard his defense, but saw his doubt.

  “Archaic village! So you agree it’s backward and indecent to marry off such a young girl, who scarcely knows the definition of consent, to a man three times her age?”

  “No. I saved her.” He turned to Samira. “Why won’t you tell him? About the poem?” The poem? “Yes. Tell him. I saw the poem.”

  Samira’s breathing stopped. “What poem?”

  “The one in your pocket when you went running. Jafar showed it to me. My Dearest Love, it said. You’re my teacher . . . and the only future my childlike eyes . . . from . . . Your Pupil. The poem. You’ve never written one for me before. I gave you the world and you love me for it, just as I’d always dreamed! Full circle. Only God knows what would’ve become of you if it weren’t for me. And now it’s come full circle. Tell him! Say something!”

  Samira felt the blood drain from her face. Armin’s elegant penmanship, she realized, could look like a woman’s writing. The letter wrote of a taboo love—which Davoud had thought was the polygamous marriage—not Samira’s adulterous relationship.

  And as she thought this she watched realization slowly appear on Davoud’s face though his words had not yet caught up. “I gave it to Jafar to give to Mrs. Darkan for you. I didn’t want you to think the surprise was ruined! You were saving it . . . saving it for our anniversary, right? Right?”

  She said nothing.

  “The letter,” he spoke very slowly. “It had, deep fold creases. It must’ve been opened, read, and refolded again many times.”

  What was she to say?

  “You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t do that to a letter you had written . . .”

  Silence.

  “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t written by you. Was it?”

  No, it was not written by her.

  “It was written for you.”

  And when she looked away and down, Davoud leapt toward Armin, fists slamming into Armin’s face, blood spraying from his nose. As Samira looked up, Armin reeled and toppled to the gravel of the platform.

  “How dare you?” Davoud got down onto his knees to keep Armin pinned to the ground. “You bastard!”

  Samira screamed.

  Davoud pummelled Armin again, his knuckles bloody. Armin cried out in pain. His face tearing and bruising. “You seduced her with the very poetry I taught her!”

  “Davoud, please stop!” Samira begged, but Davoud did not hear her.

  He grabbed Armin’s collar, lifted and shook him violently. Armin hung from Davoud’s hand, warding off the blows to his ribs.

  “You took the girl that I rescued . . .”

  Samira’s knees were shaking. Davoud delivered another punch.

  “From that disgusting village of hers.”

  And then another punch.

  “I was wrong in marrying her instead of letting some . . . nitwit village farmer turn her into some kind of procreation machine?”

  Another punch.

  “Yeah? Then you’re reaping the benefits of that, aren’t you! The benefits of my wrong!”

  Samira wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Stop it!” she thought she shouted. No one seemed to hear her.

  Davoud threw Armin to the ground, stood up and kicked him in the ribs. Armin turned his back to Davoud, curled to the side, and groaned.

  “Davoud, stop it!” It was louder this time.

  “Now that the girl is educated, and accomplished,” Davoud circled around Armin, “running in the most elite intellectual and political circles this country has to offer, and at the appropriate age for a city boy, you want to take her!”

  “Please!” Samira begged.

  Davoud kicked Armin’s spine which immediately arched back. Armin let out a painful screech.

  “You would never even have known her if I hadn’t taken her first. You would never have seen the promise I saw in her. But I saw it!” He kicked again. “I saw it before I even met her.” His voice shook and, for the first time in all their years together, Samira saw him cry. It broke her heart. Suddenly she became aware of the crowd’s silence. Felt their fear and concern overtake their curiosity. Davoud was about to kick again. He might kill Armin, she thought. He might kick him until he dies. How can I stop this? And then, another voice called out.

  “Davoud, please.” Gita’s cry, barely above a whisper, projected through the silent crowd. “He’s my brother. Please. Stop.” Davoud looked back at his aged, first wife. Then down at Armin again.

  “You would never, you would never have loved her, never would have loved her if not . . .” He suddenly stopped. Samira watched as he looked at his bloody fists, at her, at Gita who pleaded in whispers, and then back down to the broken figure of Armin. “And she—she loves you. She would never have loved you . . . would never have . . . if not for me.”

  Samira thought, in many ways, this was true. She would not have even met, much less gained the love of Armin had it not been for Davoud. They owed him their love. Davoud looked at her. He just looked. There was such loss in him. She had never seen him more human. More real. She had never cared for him more th
an at this moment. He walked to her. He seemed lighter, as though he had shed a huge weight.

  “You seem so tall. Taller than I realized.” He brought his hand to the mole on her cheek. “This spot of God . . . it’s a bit out of place, isn’t it? I thought it was perfect, but now I see it for what it is.” He brought his fingertips to the wetness around her nostril, then looked at his fingers. “You’re free to leave, Samira.” She held her breath, uncertain as to what she had just heard. “I mean it,” he said. She looked up at that face which had become so familiar. She knew him, both as adversary and benefactor. And now she saw how he struggled to give her one more gift. One that would cost him more than his wealth could encompass. Seeing that, she also felt his grief. “You’re free to do what you wish. Leave and marry another. If you wish it.”

  Do I wish it? Now that it seemed she might actually get to choose her own destiny, she was terrified of making a mistake. She felt totally unprepared. She understood that Davoud’s claim of her body was not intended as harm, but was rather the natural result of his vanity, pride, arrogance and, strangely enough, what he perceived to be his love for her. He had, after all, given her a great deal and in his own way marked a future for her that was better than that she would have had, had she never met him.

  But the conclusion that such a future was not meant to be had with Davoud was inescapable. Despite all that he had given her, he had also ripped her, as Samira had ripped the clothing in the portrait of that old woman from her village so long ago. In doing so, he had transformed her into something deeper, maybe better, just as Samira had transformed her painting. Such things were not consequence-free. He had hurt her in a way that had prohibited her from ever loving him the way he loved her, or in the pure way she loved Armin.

  “Do you wish it?” Davoud whispered.

  The train whistled and pulled out from the station, but Samira felt all the world’s attention on her and the decision to be made hovering above her. When the train had gone and all was quiet again, Samira finally responded.

  “I do wish it.”

  Two men sighed: one on the ground, the other facing her. Without saying anything more, Davoud turned away from her and walked toward Gita, who stood stricken. He called to the porter to take their bags. Mumbled something about taking the first train back home.

  Samira looked at him as he walked, now side by side with Gita. Maybe this frees him, too, she thought. Illusions carry a heavy burden. Perhaps his could now wash away. Perhaps.

  Gita took out her handkerchief and wrapped it around Davoud’s knuckles. She turned back to look at her brother, who was slowly getting up with Samira’s assistance. Samira could not decipher the look, but thought she detected a kind of peace.

  Samira recalled the day she sat for the wedding portrait that hung over the fireplace of the music room. Davoud was seated and his child bride stood behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder. It was weeks after their wedding and her dress had to be repaired. He was beaming with pride during the entire sitting. She did not know how he could stand to sit still for such an extended period of time. She fidgeted from side to side awkwardly. Refused to fake a smile.

  “Make sure she’s smiling in the portrait,” Davoud instructed the artist.

  “Of course, sir,” the artist had replied. “It can be a tedious exercise, standing for a portrait for so long. I’ll make sure the portrait reflects the true happiness that a woman who’s the bride of a man such as yourself certainly feels.”

  Samira heard Davoud remark about the elegance of Samira’s smile in that portrait many times. How the artist brilliantly captured the inner joy of his bride. Each time he did this, she shuddered. Even thought his delusion to be pathetic.

  Now, as he walked away from her, she found herself reaching out for him. Before she could say or do anything, Armin took hold of her outstretched fingers and brought them to his bloody lips. Gentle kiss.

  She turned toward him.

  Broken nose, swollen eyes, cracked ribs, bruised back, bloody mouth, but spirit intact.

  And just like that, she stepped into another life.

  ***

  Their divorce was swiftly finalized. It was all about how much one bribed the judge, and Davoud made great efforts to get it over with as quickly as possible. Along with the final documents, Samira received a box from Davoud. There was no note. It contained the red scarf with the butterfly stitching Samira had requested, a few of her smaller paintings and drawings, and much to her surprise, her music box. The letters were still inside. She wondered if Davoud had opened it. Found the letters. Read her falling in love with another man. She felt his pain. She wondered if it were her finding love letters between her beloved and another, if she would have sent them as he did. No. She would not have. Maybe he had not opened the box. Not seen the letters. She hoped that was the case. But she did not think of any of this as she sat next to Armin in a small ceremony at the mosque near his apartment. Instead, she dipped her finger in honey and fed it to her new husband. Her baba was in the room. A smile on his face. He wore his green suit. Above her and Armin’s heads, a swarm of Armin’s aunts and female cousins ground the sugar cubes together. Samira wished for Maman, but was sure she could feel her special brand of sweetness sprinkling down, catching in the silk. The elders whispered prayers for eternal love and healthy children in their ears. Children, she thought. At least two. When the Mullah asked if Samira would take Armin as her husband, she did not wait to be asked more than once.

  “Baleh,” she said.

  Armin smiled with surprise.

  ***

  That night, passion spent, they lay curled into one another, a breeze sighing through the tilted blinds. She watched Armin, kissed him on the forehead, stroked his back. Realized she was sober. Not a shot of whisky before bedding Armin. She could not remember a time, other than her first, when she had bedded Davoud completely sober. Her thoughts wandered onto her paintings and her studio. She pictured the curtains drawn, the doors locked. Cobwebs and dust bunnies ruling the walls. Blank canvases and the fragmentary faces of half-finished paintings thinning the haunted air. She missed the view of the pond in the garden. The oak floor beneath her feet. But she did not mourn the loss. No one will ever love, or hurt there again, she thought.

  “Hey, guess what?” she softly whispered.

  “What?”

  “I like this moment, right now. I really like this moment.” She felt him tremble under her fingers.

  “Why is that?”

  She inhaled, and with that came the scent of the jasmine tree outside their window. “It feels real.”

  “What do you think is real about it?”

  “I don’t know. It just feels real.”

  She smiled playfully and kissed him. The morning dew slipped in through the window.

  Ten months later, only two weeks after Samira lost Baba to cancer, she gave birth to their first child. A girl with compelling eyes. They named her Sahar, meaning dawn.

  PART III

  “The Ordinary Story of a Refugee”

  Written By: Sahar Afsseus

  ESTABLISHING SHOT, TEHRAN, 1988, EVENING

  INT. BEDROOM, EVENING

  A floor lamp dimly lights the room. SAMIRA’S eyes are red and puffy, and it is obvious she has not slept. She paces around her bedroom, without any hejab. Outside the walls of her bedroom, the world can be heard: her children being fed by other family members; prayer aggressively bouncing off the walls; pervasive noises of loss among the sounds of life with its mundane everyday needs.

  CUT TO:

  INT. KITCHEN, EVENING

  HASSAN, ZAHRA, SAHAR, REZA and RAUMBOD are in the kitchen. HASSAN is at the stove, vigorously stirring, on a very high heat, a big pot of halva. Such a heavy pot of halva requires the strength of a man to stir the flour until it browns. The window is open to cool the hot room. SAHAR has turned a chair around to face the wall, and sits by herself. HASSAN glances at her, but mostly concentrates on the halva. REZA and RAUMBOD have ful
l dinner plates in front of them, but have no appetite and mostly just play with their food. ZAHRA refills REZA’S water glass. She is dressed in black and wears no makeup. Her hair is uncovered.

  HASSAN

  It’s ready.

  ZAHRA understands that he means it is time to add the previously made rosewater-saffron syrup. She grabs the end of the syrup pot’s long handle. Both HASSAN and ZAHRA lean as far away from the hot pot of halva as possible while ZAHRA adds the cool syrup. THERE IS A LOT OF SIZZLING AND STEAM. SAHAR turns to take a look, then returns to the wall. After a few seconds, the steam settles and HASSAN stirs again, slowly at first to blend the flour mixture into the syrup, and then vigorously as everything binds and creates a thick and heavy paste.

  HASSAN

  (breathes heavily)

  You should check on her.

  ZAHRA

  I know. I thought if I waited a little—

  HASSAN

  She won’t come out on her own.

  HASSAN puts down the spatula, picks up the large pot by its handles, and shakes it from side to side. The thick pasty halva ROLLS AND PLOPS from one end of the pot to the other. ZAHRA leaves the room.

  INT. BEDROOM

  SAMIRA sits on the bed, stroking the sheets with her fingers. The sweet smell of freshly made halva fills the apartment, except that it does not smell like halva to SAMIRA. To her, everything reeks of gunpowder and ash.