Scent of Butterflies (22 page)

The sight of my garden seems to disgust Aziz. He murmurs that he has never seen such
harjomarj
mishmash of plants and flowers thrust together.

“But it's adorable.” Butterfly's eyes sweep the landscape in wonder. “All the different flowers and butterflies living in harmony.”

I smile agreeably because I don't want to admit to the sleepless dawns, the long hours of work, the love and hatred I've raked, planted, and watered into this foreign soil. Don't want to admit that I like what my garden has evolved into, the lewd excess of raging colors, overpowering scents, and dizzying array of butterflies reminiscent of a whore's den. A violent kaleidoscope of climbing jasmine overwhelms the gazebo. Rodents nestle in dense bushes, water lilies in ponds, mites in blossoms, and grasshoppers on the birds of paradise.

And at the farthest end of the grounds, I like the lush eucalyptus grove that, despite being struck by a second plague—this one at midnight like a guilty thief, the drone of invading wings startling me awake and sending me to the grove with Mansour before the pests had a chance to inflict much damage—continues to be a haven for devious Monarchs.

Yes, I like the thorny patches and tangled branches, like the climbing philodendron, the floating nightshade in the fountain, and the entire family of screaming flowers that reflect the shape I'm assuming.

But above all, I like the grave that occupies its own lonely space in unassuming grandeur at the end of the eucalyptus grove, unaware that a companion is on the way.

What I don't like is the strange silence of my Bird of Reason. She has abandoned her throne on the monkey tree in the courtyard and flown into the garden to perch on top of the entrance to the gazebo, regal, silent, and still, as if cast out of some type of mottled alloy. I whistle three times to announce my presence. But instead of evoking the usual flurry of acknowledging flaps before she comes to land on my arm or shoulder, she remains motionless. Dignified. Grand. Disapproving.

Aziz and Butterfly take the path to the eucalyptus grove, and I enter the gazebo to prepare tea. From my vantage, between the branches, I watch them stroll among the trees. Monarchs flutter above them like sunny halos, as if to bless their union. But no rabbi, priest, monk, or ayatollah would officiate such a wedding.

They must be exchanging impatient love-complaints, their first chance to sneak away alone. He, lying that he did not and does not want to make love to me, begging her to be patient. She, reassuring him that I suspect nothing, whispering under her breath that she will die if she doesn't have him to herself.

Bowls of fruit, dates, rock sugar, and pistachio are set on the wrought-iron table. A silver samovar gurgles on a side table. A jar full of Amorphophallus tea stands next to a box of Darjeeling tea bags. Three cups are carefully arranged on a tray with arabesque carvings. Two gold teaspoons lie at an angle on two saucers, one for me and one for Aziz. A silver one in Butterfly's saucer.

Mamabozorg reminds me that no matter where I am in the world, I shouldn't forget that I am Iranian and that it is important to steep and serve tea properly.

“In my many years of experience,” Mamabozorg says, “I've never been involved in a business, the signing of an agreement, the promise of marriage, or made a vow, affirmed a friendship, or shared a secret without holding a cup of tea in my hand. For us, Soraya, a cup of tea is like a trusted friend between two hands. Use it to advantage, sip or stir slowly when you need time to think, add sugar when the news is not good, click the cup on its saucer when the need arises to startle.”

My friend ambles among the Monarchs, seeming childlike and pure, yet rich with mystery and deceit. She has experienced her own form of metamorphosis, managed to survive the rigors of the last two nights and days, cast off her skin, and evolved into a seductive butterfly.

But I am not deceived. I recognize Butterfly for what she is: a poisonous caterpillar that has invaded my habitat.

I pry the jar of Amorphophallus tea open. A loud hiss and, with it, the masking aroma of rose petals. Do toxins expand when left unattended?

Fine tea, Mamabozorg believes, is like premium wine. The color and bouquet are important. When held up to the light, tea must not be too weak so that light passes through without exposing the character, nor too dark to conceal the cognac gleam of its heart.

Aromatic leaves of the highest quality are selected, preferably from the mountainous regions of Ceylon or Darjeeling where the plants grow slowly, allowing time for the complex flavors to develop. A multitude of herbs and spices—cardamom, ginger, black currant, mint, jasmine, or rose petals add a pleasing aroma.

The process of brewing is a delicate art of precision and control that requires the proper accoutrements. Water in a silver samovar must reach a boiling point before being poured over tea leaves in a china pot. Once the leaves are submerged in hot water, the teapot is filled to three-fourths and placed on the neck of the samovar to brew for no less than twenty minutes and no more than half an hour. Otherwise, the color will turn muddy and a thin layer of foam will appear on top that would render the entire mixture worthless.

Narrow-waisted glasses with filigreed holders are preferable, and handles are essential to avoid burning the fingers. The glasses are set on small saucers with miniature spoons placed on the right of the glass. Glasses must be arranged in perfect order on a tray, the handles facing guests, the tray held low and at a comfortable serving level.

“Always serve tea in transparent glasses, Soraya, always. Tea that reveals its shade and character speaks of an open-hearted hostess. Those china cups with tiny rose designs on them are good for the British, who have a lot to hide. Never, ever serve lukewarm or cold tea. You want the warm liquid to soothe your guest's throat and stomach as it's sipped through a sugar cube. And never refuse a cup of tea. It's rude, unless, of course, it's offered to you by your enemy.”

Butterfly's laughter, loud and carefree and shameless, reaches me all the way from the eucalyptus grove.

It was over mint tea years before that Butterfly disclosed her affair to me.

Later, I went through a list of possible candidates in my mind, single or divorced, friend and family, but failed to come up with the right fit. I wondered why she would keep her lover's identity a secret from me, wondered how any man could have so swiftly and completely infatuated her. I pressed her to tell me. She would not. Years passed. In time, whoever he was in my mind transformed into a mythological being, a romantic hero larger than the Romeos and Majnoons of classical literature.

Then, I found him with his eyes closed shut and his mouth glued to hers, on my sheets, surrounded by my photographs, my bedroom pulsing with notes of “The Blue Danube.” They didn't notice me. Of course, they didn't. The Devil himself might have carried them off to the bowels of hell, and they wouldn't have broken their tight hold.

So began the deadly struggle to reconcile the ideal lover I had seared in my imagination with the traitor in my bed, who came inside me the very next day after I discovered his betrayal.

I take my sweet time to separate and remove the dried rose petals from the Amorphophallus leaves, a last-minute decision to render the tea more potent, then fill the teapot with hot water from the samovar and add fresh tea leaves. A drop of the dark liquid spills on the tabletop and I blot it with my forefinger.

I summon my steadiest voice and call out, “Tea is almost ready!”

Their approach transports the menthol scent of eucalyptus leaves. Despite their attempt to readjust their expressions, their hooded eyes reveal more than they can imagine. Yellow powder from the wings of Monarchs has settled on Butterfly's cheeks. Aziz dusts the powder off with his handkerchief.

Such a simple act. Such an intimate act.

Let him stroke her one last time, if he must. In the end, he belongs to me. I am the one he will need once the tears, the remorse, and the appeals for forgiveness spill out.

We occupy the chairs around the table, drop napkins on our lap as refined guests must do. Aziz takes my hands and, finding them cold, blows on them. His expressive face is sad under the shadow of afternoon stubble, his lower lip is curled like a question mark. I raise his palm and study his heart line, the straight and curved grooves that speak of deceit and betrayal, a heart line that ends below the index finger, reflecting a nature easily shaped by others, easily hurt by others. Poor Aziz. Hard times are in store for you, but I'll be there to love, nurture, and console you.

“Look, Aziz, this line stretches uninterrupted. You'll live a long life. I wonder if other lines might predict the quality of our lives. Are we going to be happy? Content? Or sad and miserable?”

“I don't believe in this nonsense,
Jounam
. If the old you comes back, my life will be just fine.”

“Old me!” I grin, making light of his comments. “What's wrong with me now?”

A hesitant moment passes. A bee buzzes its way in and lands on Butterfly's shoulder. I flick it off. The samovar lets out a series of burps. I check my watch as if nature is holding her breath and there's a deadline for what is about to occur.

“Read mine,” Butterfly interrupts, reaching out an open palm that smells humid and demanding like the water hyacinth. The day Mamabozorg warned me about the “green plague,” the beautiful, but voracious water hyacinth that strangles every growth in its path, she must have known that the green menace would follow her beloved granddaughter all the way to the edge of the world. Shape your own fate, she advised. God holds back His blessings from those who allow their lives to go to waste.

I run my thumb the length of Butterfly's lifeline. She is not wearing her wedding band. Whereas I continue to sport my two wedding bands that were meant to strengthen my love bond, now a constant reminder of my failure. I stroke the grooves of Butterfly's crooked palm. Not a straight line to her name. “I can't find your lifeline.”

She snatches her hand away, spits to her right and left, and murmurs incantations under her breath. “Bite your tongue back, Soraya. Don't invite bad luck.”

I glance up through the jasmine branches to find my Bird of Reason perched on top of the gazebo outside. I clap twice. Whistle a Persian tune. I want her to come inside. I want her to keep me company.

“Have you seen her owl?” Butterfly asks Aziz. “It looks exactly like Mamabozorg's owl.”

“That owl?” Aziz nods and gestures up as if to say that he has seen the bird somewhere out there. “It's not as handsome as Mamabozorg's owl.”

“Time for tea,” I announce.

“Can you buy Persian tea in America?” Butterfly asks.

“Everything can be bought here, from
shireh
morgh
to
janeh
adamizad
—chicken milk to human life.”

Butterfly claps happily. “It's almost like home.”

Her kitchen in Iran, on Africa Avenue, was our living room, dining room, and therapy office all in one. This was where we gossiped and cried and laughed and sipped tea. I can still conjure up the taste of her elaborate recipes, even to a sprinkling of cinnamon on top of her rice custard
shirberenj
and a pinch of saffron in her
halva
, to the taste of her chickpea cookies with slivers of pistachio, and grape leaves stuffed with nuts and dates. I can still hear her say, “A man's desire begins in his stomach.” I did not agree with her then. Yet, she proved the clever one, after all. Did she seduce my husband with her cooking, too?

I lift the teapot from the neck of the samovar, tilt it high above the cup, and observe the liquid, deep amber and laced with potential, pour from the spout and form a rich puddle in the cup. “Dark tea for you, Butterfly.”

I drop English Darjeeling tea bags in cups for Aziz and myself. She knows that Aziz and I are not tea drinkers in the traditional sense and that we prefer light tea prepared with tea bags. I place Aziz's cup on the table in front of him.

A blade of sunshine makes its way through the branches and glints on the samovar. A lizard falls off the overhead branches and lands at my feet. I give the animal a gentle shove with my shoe.

Butterfly reaches out for the sugar bowl, drops two sugar cubes in her tea, and stirs absentmindedly.

With a great swoosh of spread wings, my owl glides through the branched archway and into the gazebo, raising a faint scent of wet feathers. Silently, gracefully, she settles on the table next to the grumbling samovar. She shifts from one leg to another, puffs up her chest, her bespectacled eyes boring into me.

The phoenix brooch on my collar feels heavy, weighted down by much more than precious stones and metals, the smooth pearl in the center, the cold diamonds on the wings, one hundred and thirty six carats of brilliance. A token of his regret? A gift to assuage his own guilt? No!
Baksheesh
money to shut me up. But it is time to speak, to suffer together as we hear accounts of years of betrayal. Once intimate details are voiced, digested, and absorbed, we will all be irreparably damaged together.

I disengage the pin from my sweater and attach it to Butterfly's jacket. Her breath smells of the odorous, buttery substance civet cats secrete when in danger.

“Soraya!” Aziz growls. “What are you doing with my gift?”

Butterfly unfastens the brooch from her coat and drops it on the table as if it's burning her hand.

“I saw the two of you together in my bed,” I whisper.

“Saw who?” Aziz demands.

“Saw you, Aziz, with this whore, copulating in my bed.”

He lifts his hand and bangs it on the wrought-iron table, rattling the china cups. “What the hell are you talking about? You've gone mad, Soraya!”

“
You
are the crazy one!” I cry out, jumping to my feet and holding onto the table, afraid the teacups will break and render everything useless. “I saw everything, Aziz. The candles. The wine. Heard the music.”