Scent of Butterflies (8 page)

I pull the brim of my hat lower to shade my eyes against the sun and enter the glass-paneled atrium. Humidifiers and heating lamps adjust the temperature here. Not too dry, nor too hot or too cold; otherwise, the Corpse Plant will wither and die. I study the sweating stalk, the intense groping of the cabbage-like leaf, and the thermometer at the base of the root. Study the variation in the freshly unfurling leaf, no part exactly alike in color, texture, or feel.

The ravages of time and insects are beginning to show even on such a young leaf, discoloration at the tip, a slight drooping at the edges, holes created by the larvae of ghost moths that, if left alone, will munch and chew and grind until the leaf is rendered as fragile as a stretch of antique lace. Nature is restless, in a hurry to diminish and blemish, to assert her footprints.

I am startled by the screams of a bird. A certain familiar barking. I glance beyond the glass dome, searching for the source. A series of sad hoots follows, as if a group of women are crying out in terror. My heart flips with joy. I know this bird sound. I know it well.

I am back in Iran on a warm evening at the beginning of summer; the golden disk of a full moon is sailing above the plane trees. The air is fragrant with the scent of rose and jasmine. Water trickles in a brook nearby, and Mamabozorg is pouring tea from a samovar. Another bird cry! The dream is shattered.

I tiptoe across the atrium so as not to frighten the bird.

Locking the atrium door behind me, I step out into the courtyard in search of the bird. Despite the Santa Anas, it's easier to breathe here. I shade my eyes and gaze around. Don't even blink in fear of scaring the bird away. There's a slight rustle among the branches of the monkey tree, and before I have a chance to take a good look, the bird flies out and wheels out of sight. I stand there, disappointed, sending out a silent invitation for the bird to return and settle here because I recognize these mournful hoots that were my grandmother's companions for many years.

Close by, a turnip moth shudders. I send it off with an irritated flick. Butterfly is all around me, in the eucalyptus grove, on the lavender petals of nightshade in the fountain, and among the yellow lantana, violet aster, and lion's tail that provide nectar and larva food to these insects. A grasshopper leaps up and lands on my shoulder. Such an ugly creature.

From the midst of the nectar plants—purple coneflower, coreopsis, and black-eyed Susan—a brilliant, phosphorescent cloud explodes and separates into frenzied wings that take flight and scatter around the courtyard. The annoying nuisances lack a sense of time.

I turn my attention to a butterfly perched on a banana leaf, hopeful that a Glasswing has finally found its way here. No! Not a Glasswing. It is a large Peacock butterfly. What horror!

With the four circular designs on her wings, the Peacock is the most ghastly of all butterflies. Four eyes to hold evil. Four eyes to annihilate with.

“Believe in the Evil Eye,” Mamabozorg advised. “Every time you encounter someone with protruding eyes and a stare that makes you cringe and crawl into yourself, spit to your right and left, toss a fistful of salt in water, and burn
espand
seeds of rue. Then, and only then, murmur, ‘
Cheshmeh
bad
dour
may the Evil Eye keep its distance.'”

The Evil Eye has assaulted my courtyard.

A leaf blower comes to life somewhere behind me. The noise does not scare the Peacock butterfly away. Are butterflies deaf? I bend closer, hopeful it is not dead because I do not want to be robbed of the adventure of the hunt. I pluck the butterfly off the banana leaf, detect a slight pulsing of the wings. Carrying the butterfly, I turn around and walk back into the house and straight into the kitchen.

Eight days ago, the real-estate agent had passed a loving hand over the stove here and had said that food for hundreds could be prepared on this. Yes. My chef in Iran did prepare food for hundreds. I enjoyed the task of decorating the desserts with edible flowers—day lilies, calendula, pansies, and chive blossoms. But entertaining here any time soon is not an option. I can hardly bear the presence of Oni and Mansour, who know to vanish when I'm around, let alone invite guests.

I turn the knob on the gas range. Blue flames burst into life and cast convoluted shadows on the metal backsplash. I find a set of barbecue tongs in one of the cupboards and secure the butterfly with them. The wiry legs wiggle, the worm-body twitches, the antennas shiver. I blow on the erogenous zone on top of her head. She is alive, all right.

How long after death do butterflies maintain their luster, these blunders of nature that, once past the larva stage, flutter away and disappear, these helpless creatures that lose the protective dustlike scales on their wings when handled intimately?

Oni shuffles into the kitchen, the soles of her slippers sweeping the marble floors. Her eyes narrow into shocked slits. She hesitates at the threshold, balancing herself hesitantly on the tips of her slippers. She crumples a note in her fist. Her gaze travels to the ceiling, past the circle of light from the oven, and returns to land on the tongs in my hand. Her mouth opens and it seems that the slightest encouragement will help her talk.

“Yes, Oni, tell me.”

Her lips struggle to form words she is incapable or unwilling to voice. And then, she gestures toward the butterfly and mouths the word “help.”

I wonder who she thinks needs help here, Oni herself or the Peacock butterfly. Perhaps she is one of those activists who have nothing better to do than save creatures that are on the brink of extinction. I wave the tongs in front of her eyes. “See this butterfly? It's evil! And it doesn't need your help.”

Oni's hand flies to her mouth as if she didn't expect such a reply. She takes a few steps away, turns around, and hurries toward the door.

“Come back, Oni! Give me the note. What did you want?”

She takes cautious steps and puts the note on the counter. I read her note and am surprised by her willingness to risk her job by maintaining that she and Mansour have taken the liberty of stocking the pantry with food because I need help.

“Help! What makes you think I need help?”

She fumbles in her pocket for her pen and scribbles two words on the back of the note: “help cooking.”

“Thank you, Oni. This one I'll cook myself.” I want to comfort her, even hug her, assure her that I don't intend her any harm. No, not at all. On the contrary, I respect her stubborn willpower and the way she continues to uphold her principles, but by the time I form a reassuring smile she is fleeing the kitchen.

I hold the butterfly over the flame.

Peacock kebab.

Why is it that we humans, who have an appetite for every moving creature on earth—dogs, frogs, snakes, octopus, even monkey brain—do not consider butterflies delicious? We could steep their carcasses in boiling water and brew butterfly tea of a myriad of scents and flavors. Create colorful vests, soft slippers, and delicate ornaments from their rainbow fluff. Diminish their population, endanger the species.

I snatch my hand away from the flame. Not yet and not so fast. I have all the time in the world in this paradise of butterflies. Swift actions result in regret and discontent. Scores must be settled gradually and patiently. To savor the sweet nuances of dessert, we must allow it to slowly melt on the tip of the tongue.

I cross my bedroom suite and enter my darkroom, still holding the butterfly in the tongs. Here, flanked by shelves of film and two counters with my photography paraphernalia, I am struck by renewed sorrow. Surrounding me are remnants of my other life, fragments of my shattered dreams. I hold the butterfly's wings between my teeth to free my hands, taking care not to suffocate the creature. Her antennas wiggle against my upper lip. I stifle a sneeze.

I gently remove her from between my teeth. Squeeze the thorax between thumb and forefinger. A flutter. A sigh. And the insect goes limp. I lay her on a translucent plexiglass sheet, curved at a ninety-degree angle, and carefully spread the wings and legs wide open. Place her inside a tent of white fabric to light her up and create a seamless white background.

I know exactly how the image of this Peacock butterfly, with four depraved eyes, will abide in my archive.

Click!

I load the roll of film into the developing reel, place it in the developing tank, and shake, twist, and twirl my wrist in a graceful dance to evenly coat the film in chemicals, so as not to cause air bubbles. I don't want to lose my precious images. Next, I pull out the reel, unroll the film, and wash it in water to rinse off the chemicals. After cutting the film into strips, I slip them in the negative carrier and the enlarger, exposing the paper.

My heart flutters around my chest, impatient to witness the birth of each contour and curve, each black wing, the grayish shades of fluff around the edges. It will not take long. The paper is immersed in developing chemicals. The image is shaping, rising from the foul-smelling chemicals like an embryonic ghost. Under a layer of stop bath the color of bile, one evil eye emerges on the wing, now three others darker than sin, then the two antennas and helpless legs surface as if floating in midair in the eerie red light of the darkroom.

The fully formed butterfly stares up at me with four greedy eyes that harbor lofty ambitions.

I immerse the paper in developing chemicals. Just before the image is fixed, I turn the light switch on and off for a deeper, grayish effect. Only a second or two. Enough for the image to slightly burn at the edges. Solarized!

The Peacock butterfly, wings wide open, stiff legs splayed in a stance of permanent solicitation, is immortalized.

I return to the drawing room, where I keep my collecting paraphernalia. A clear plastic box with my killing jars. At the bottom of each jar, a folded piece of paper towel saturated in ethyl acetate to relax the butterfly into a more pliable state and prepare it for mounting.

I secure the Peacock butterfly in the center channel of a spreading board, then step back and examine her with added curiosity, the beady eyes in the small head, the evil eyes on the wings, the wiry legs. And the brilliant colors of her fluff. I've read somewhere that it is possible to discover the sex of butterflies by examining their genitalia. What strange creatures, these insects are! Needling their vagina yields their secrets. I insert an insect pin through her heart. Then gently raise the wings with forceps, join the edges, and attach the wings with a drop of glue. In a few days, once she is dry, she will be ready for labeling.

I am in my darkroom, alone but no longer lonely. Aziz is here. In the neat stack of film rolls lined up on the uppermost shelf, my memories are sealed in every black plastic cylinder, images I honed and heightened with white backgrounds, lamps, and filters to create the most dramatic effect.

I weigh one canister on my palm. Leave it alone, Soraya. Do not uncap the canister. Don't open it. Don't unwind the past and peel off the yet unformed scabs. There's only so much you can tolerate. One roll at a time. This I might tolerate.

The surrounding darkness is all consuming. The negatives are drowning in chemicals. My olfactory buds rebel against the stench of acid and deception. The thought occurs to me that the foul-smelling processing solutions might succeed where my camera failed. Erase all traces of humanity from the last picture I took of my husband's lovely face.

I hang the negatives to dry, cut them into strips, and place them in the negative carrier inside the enlarger. Then I switch on the light bulb for a few seconds, expose the photographic paper to light, and transfer the image. Now, the process of submerging the papers in developing chemicals. Ah! The pleasure of watching his image float in a bath of chemicals, the shade of blood in the eerie safelight, watch his image take shape and assert itself, then cease to develop once immersed in stop-bath, and finally establish itself permanently in chemical fixer. In the future, nothing—not even the harshest light of day—will succeed in altering the memory of this moment. Unless I decide to do so.

I abandon the embryonic night of my darkroom and walk across the hall to my studio. The cruel light hurts my eyeballs. I squeegee the wet prints and lay them on the drying rack, then pass the magnifying glass over each photo.

A kaleidoscope of lies parades in front of my eyes.

Photographs taken on my last trip to Mehrabad Airport. Aziz at the wheel while I once again marveled at how Iran had changed since the 1979 Islamic Revolution. A hamburger stand called McAli stood at the corner of our street. Stores were allowed to carry cosmetics, Walt Disney videos, and sad, Middle Eastern music tapes that had passed the government's moral tests. Outdated American magazines were back, although alcohol ads and “inappropriate” photos of models in revealing Western clothes were cut out or censored by heavy-handed ink strokes.

While the majority of anti-American slogans were gone, one remained plastered on the side of an eight-story building. Skulls replaced the stars of the American flag, the stripes missiles aimed at Iran. “Down with the USA,” it announced. Now, a generation after the American hostage crisis, American tourists stood at the foot of the building and stared up in wonder and perhaps disgust. Some women wore hats instead of the head covers, and long pants and shirts rather than the
manteau.

“What happened to the dangers of Westoxication?” I asked Aziz the day he drove me to the airport.

“I don't give a
goozeh
khar
donkey's fart about Iran,” he murmured. “What I'm worried about is that you'll become Westoxified in America.”

I almost believed him that day, believed he might miss me, believed he felt protective of me, believed he regretted signing my exit papers. But no! The instant I stepped out of my home, Butterfly must have stepped in.

The magnifying glass exaggerates a photograph of her. The deceiving smile, the noxious pose that appears as virginal as the woman in Reza Abasi's portrait,
Youthful
Lovers
. Did Aziz take this picture? I inspect the background. My blurry image peers from behind Butterfly's right shoulder. Even then, I was nothing but a faceless obstacle in the tapestry of their love.

I deface her features with a red marker. Toss the photograph aside. Check another under the light. Aziz and me in bathing suits. On a summer vacation in Ramsar, in northern Iran. The two of us are spewing seawater out of our mouths.

Dusk is the most beautiful hour in Ramsar. Shadows lap against shore, moonlight splashes the sea amber, and stars punctuate a melancholy sky. A beam of moonlight slices through the sea where Aziz swims, his thighs brushing against mine as he thrusts his head under, rises to the surface, and holds me in his arms, pressing his mouth to mine.

—Share the sea with me,
Jounam
—

I taste salt, sweet coral, and lush vegetation. I taste Aziz. I will always crave his taste. This is my punishment. For what? For loving him more than anyone has a right to love, perhaps. Or trusting more than sanity dictates. Or for a sin that will be revealed one day.

I enlarge the photograph. Cut myself out. Selecting the most delicate cat-hair brush from among brushes and acrylic paint of all colors lined in a row on the counter, I exaggerate the grain, deepen the shadows, thicken the eyebrows, paint the eyes acidic green, the complexion jaundiced yellow, and the mouth dripping blood. Scrape off a part of his luscious lips with the stub of a larger brush; distort his dreamy eyes, the drooping eyelids. Perfect! Taut facial muscles, acrimonious eyes, dark and cavernous nostrils, mean, spiky hair, and murderous teeth. Gothic mug shots. Gone and dead are the days when photography was a healing process.

Gone are the days when I prided myself on manipulating the camera, cajoling the lens, and battling with it to produce my own sensual style—the exquisite evanescence of a shy glance, the youthful recollection of a flirtatious hand, the sexual yearning of a tight-lipped cleavage, the sensual tang of a bloody strawberry, or the visual eroticism of a saliva-dipped banana. This is different. It is ferocious fare. But art, nonetheless.

I hang the photograph on the line and with felt-tipped pen scribble on the left top corner:

Wanted alive and competent to stand trial.