Scent of Butterflies (20 page)

Freshly shaved and with wet hair combed back, Aziz ambles into the drawing room. He winks conspiratorially, raises my chin, and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Slept well?”

“Better than in a long time.”

“And you, Butterfly?” he asks. “Did you sleep?”

“Not really,” she replies shamelessly.

“Jet lag,” he murmurs, turning away to observe my crocodile high-heeled shoes that add extra centimeters to my height, my silk skirt and sleeveless blouse that make me look even slimmer than I am. He runs his palm down my bare arm. “My sexy wife.”

“Doesn't she look beautiful?” Butterfly interjects. “I love what you're wearing, Soraya.”

“I'll help you dress like this.”

“But I'm not you, Soraya. It won't look good on me.”

“Don't be silly,” I say, checking her chocolate brown, custom-made pantsuit, her braid tucked into her blouse. She left her
chador
behind, but further coaxing is required for her to discard her
manteau
and headscarf. “Take your kerchief off. It's ugly and it's hot. You don't need the
manteau
either.”

She quickly discards her kerchief and coat, happy to be rid of the unnecessary confinements the authorities force upon her back home.

“You have beautiful arms, Butterfly. Show them off. Leave your jacket behind, too.”

“But it's sleeveless. I can't remember the last time I walked out like this in public.”

“You're not in Iran,” I remind her.

“But I am going back,” she protests as I unbutton her jacket and peel it off her back. A sly expression slithers across her face, and I know that it will not require a great deal of convincing to strip off the rest of her façade and expose the temptress underneath.

Aziz throws his hands up. “Parvaneh is right, Soraya. Don't forget you're going back to Iran, so don't get too used to these freedoms. Anyway, ladies, what are you two up to?”

“Going shopping,” I reply. “Care to join us?”

“Not really.”

“Please come,” I say. “It'll be fun. We'll go to Rodeo Drive.”

“Fun, it won't be,
Jounam
, but go enjoy yourselves. I'll meet you later for a drink.”

I reach out and press one finger to his lips. “Stay close, Aziz. You promised to catch me if I faint again.” I study his expression, his silent indifference and boredom, and wonder if he will walk away and abandon us to our wiles. And then, I nearly slap myself awake. Of course, he will stay near. He will do this for her. I rest a hand on his shoulder because a storm of raging emotions—anger, indignation, disgust, but most of all anticipation—has rendered me speechless and faint.

He takes my hand and presses his lips on the back and then, with a grand flourish of his arm, he bows low from the waist. “If you insist, Madame.”

***

Butterfly is fascinated by the impeccable landscaping in Beverly Hills, the elegant architecture, and the extravagant women, tanned legs, exposed breasts, leopard-print and leather miniskirts, tattoos.

White orchids, mink bedspreads, and gold-handled guns are displayed in the Aria Boutique window. Photographs of the designer, his ex-model ex-wife, and his present-model girlfriend look down on us from among the meticulously displayed shoes, negligees, clothing, and giant perfume bottles. Aria's yellow Mercedes, parked in its usual spot on the street in front of the store, is reflected like a luxurious mirage in the window. Our reflections, too—mine, Butterfly's, and Aziz's—flicker and quiver in the window, connecting and disconnecting illusions.

“I'm thinking of Aria's Yellow Orchid Boutique,” Butterfly says.

The Yellow Orchid in Tehran was where the two of us spent hours selecting the approaching season's wardrobe. Then, the revolution happened and Aria was forced to abandon his boutique.

“Aria's story is unbelievable,” she says. “A dream comes true.”

“That's America! You can realize your dream, too.”

“Me?” she asks, attempting to arrange her face into a detached expression. “I don't have any! Mine all came true.”

Aziz squeezes my arm, slightly too hard. “This isn't for me,
Jounam
. Take your time. Meet me at the Beverly Wilshire bar when you're done.” And, to my surprise, he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Is he upset?” Butterfly asks.

“Bored,” I reply, certain that it must not be easy for him to witness his wife and mistress exchanging memories.

A stiff-necked doorman ushers us into the plush opulence of Aria's boutique, with its winding double stairs, glittering chandelier, and crystal perfume bottles.

A tall, lanky salesman, clad in a navy striped suit, discreetly follows us. He dabs at his upturned nose with a large, checkered handkerchief.

Aria studies us from the landing at the top of the stairs, dressed in a single-breasted, cream-colored suit with a yellow dress handkerchief in his breast pocket. He approaches the banister, rests two hands on it, and offers us his famous smile.

“Will he remember us?” Butterfly whispers.

Before I have time to wonder, Aria is descending the steps and walking toward us, his capped teeth flashing under the light of the chandelier.

The salesman discards his haughty attitude and stuffs his handkerchief in his pocket as Aria directs him toward a cane-brandishing middle-aged man decked out in cowboy boots, sequined vest, and heavy gold chains.

“Soraya! Parvaneh!” Aria exclaims in his heavy English accent. “My good friends! Welcome, welcome. How are you? How is the family? How long have you been here? Come, come, let me give you the VIP grand tour.”

We exchange pleasantries, thank Aria and assure him that we will come back another time for the VIP tour, then solicit his help in updating Parvaneh's wardrobe. Designer shoes, perhaps, high-heeled sandals, something she won't find back home.

“I am your man,” Aria exclaims, turning on his heel and returning with a tower of shoe boxes. He kneels down and hugs Butterfly's foot in his lap as if it belongs to his beautiful mistress herself. One after the other, he removes sandals from boxes and holds each pair up for us to assess. I shake my head in disapproval again and again, until Butterfly announces that she is in an adventurous mood and would like to try red shoes.

On one palm, Aria presents a pair of open-toed, sling-back, stiletto-heeled sandals with rhinestone-studded buckles.

Both of us nod our approval.

She struts around the store, waltzes from one mirror to another, pirouettes, glances down and behind, and then parades in front of me in the impossible-to-walk-in, attention-seeking sandals. Her lashes flutter in mock coquetry and her hips swing in rhythmic sensuality, giving life to her other shameless self. “Oh my, my! I really like America.” She raises her foot for my benefit. “Tempting?”

“From all angles,” I reply.

We laugh at a shared memory. Her belief that it is essential for whatever we wear to tempt from every observed angle.

Our differences, Butterfly's and mine, brought us closer with the passing years and with each experience, especially when it was an important endeavor such as purchasing a pair of shoes. She was practical, refusing to waste money on any article of clothing that could not be used as bait. She believed that since we were forced to cover ourselves from head to toe, surrendering the advantage of manipulation with the lure of flesh, what we chose to wear had to call attention to our sexuality by creating an aura of mystery.

Today, we are of the same opinion. She likes the red sandals that represent her newfound freedom. And that serves me well.

“I know the perfect dress to go with your special shoes,” Aria exclaims, leading us to the back of the store.

He walks toward a rack of clothing and holds one up, a black evening dress with lace sleeves. I point to a transparent shell to replace Butterfly's long-sleeved blouse. He pulls out the spaghetti-strapped, low-cut shell and holds the see-through lace up to the light. “A museum piece, I assure you! Hand made in Italy. Especially for the House of Aria.”

“You can't be serious!” Butterfly protests. “I refuse to wear this flimsy thing in public.”

“But it is all the rage this season, this color and style,” Aria coaxes. “A special order for Princess Caroline of Monaco, but I'd rather see it on your beautiful figure. Do try it, my dear. I'll bet on my beardless face that you'll fall in love with it.”

Butterfly giggles. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

I offer Aria a grateful smile as he leads us to the dressing room, where I peel Butterfly's blouse off, facilitating her transformation. Then I roll the delicate fabric of the shell down over her head and slanted shoulders, smoothing it around her breasts. I feel her warmth, the tender flesh Aziz caresses, where the material clings like second skin, her lace bra peeping out from around the swell of her breast, the dark nipples and the slant of the humid armpits he licks.

Wiping off her morning lipstick, I am all love and encouragement, taking my time to apply a coat of Coco Red lipstick, emphasize her mouth with dark lip liner, powder her cheeks with Violent Blush, and thicken her lashes with two coats of mascara. As I remove the elastic hair band, it breaks with a painful ping against my fingers, which get to work with added fury to undo her braid and fluff her curls about her shoulders.

She steps out of the dressing room to assess herself in a different mirror, pouts her lips at her image, adjusts her breasts in her bra. She likes her transformation.

She gestures toward the salesman, who is on his knees, in the process of hemming the cane-flourishing customer's trousers. “Remember when Aziz kissed your feet on your wedding? He is so special.”

“Do you love him?”

She gulps in a large dose of air and begins to cough. Could one choke on one's secrets? Mamabozorg believed that lies lodge in the throat, turning into
badeh
yoman
, a coil of black wind that swells up until it eventually suffocates.

I pat Butterfly on the back to dislodge the longing in her throat.

“Love?” she manages to spit out, at last. “Who?”

The tips of my fingers are thermometers at the small of her back, five sensitive lie detectors recording her emotions. “Aziz. I asked if you love him.”

“Of course, I love him. Like my own brother.” She rummages around in her purse, searching for something, a weak ploy to hide her true emotions. She finds a tissue and wipes her mascara-smudged eyes.

I wrap my arm around her shoulder, the fragile birdlike bones and naked skin. “You look beautiful, my friend. Let's go face America!”

She squints against the harsh sunlight outside. “Are you sure Aziz won't mind the way I'm dressed? I don't know, Soraya. This is a mistake. You go. Have a good time. Mansour will drive me home.”

“Why should Aziz mind, Parvaneh?”

“I don't know. He's Iranian, after all.”

“Suppose he does. Do you care?”

One artificial dry laugh breaks out of my poor friend. “Why does it feel as if I'm being questioned on Soraya's witness stand?”

“Don't be silly. Come! I'm not going without you. What happened to the adventurous you? You're here, you know, away from home and can have any man you want.”

“I love Hamid. I don't want anyone else.”

“Liar.” I smile and tug at one of her curls. “What about your lover? You want him, don't you?”

“My lover? Oh, him!
Tamam
shod
. He's over! Done! Finished. That's that, and I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

“Not even to me?”

“No, Soraya, not even to you. I can't even think of that time without burning with shame. Do you understand?”

I want to cry out that I
do
understand, understand better than she could imagine. Instead, I attempt to push away the image of her with bits of my flesh between her teeth, snap my purse open, fish out my handkerchief, and sneeze my rage into its lace folds.

“Are you okay, Soraya?”

“I'm allergic to something around me.”

“Want to go back inside?”

“It won't make a difference.” No, it won't. I am allergic to her sharp teeth and to her lies and to the boutique we just left and to this ostentatious street and this suffocating smog. I don't want to be here. What I want is to be back home, serving tea the way a good hostess must, scalding hot and steeped with aromatic petals. Yet, I've been taught that nothing worthwhile will come to fruition without the patience of Job and the diligence of Rostam.

I've been taught that justice is hard to come by, but if and once it comes, it is as sweet and tender as love itself. The echo of Baba's stern voice rings in my head: Don't forget yourself, Soraya. Remember that even the harshest of sentences must be handed out with a respectful bow and velvet-gloved hands.

So, once again, I slip into the role of the wiser friend who initiated Butterfly into adolescence, into womanhood, and now coaxes her into the throbbing, smoke-filled Beverly Wilshire bar. The tinkle of glasses punctuates the surrounding chatter. The inviting gurgle of wine, champagne flowing into crystal flutes. The humid scent of aroused bodies, expensive perfumes, apple and cinnamon and passion. The notes of a piano can be heard from somewhere close by.

Aziz observes the two of us as we approach his table. Soraya, tall, lean-figured, and blond; Butterfly, petite and dark-haired—a diverse feast indeed.

Butterfly settles in the chair on Aziz's right. He studies her through narrowed eyes: the deep color of her mouth, the pink cheeks, the provocative attire. He directs a look at me. Is it questioning or reprimanding? “A stiff drink is in order,” he announces. “What about you, Parvaneh?”

“A glass of wine, please,” she replies.