Butterfly Stitching Read online

  Butterfly Stitching

  by Shermin Nahid Kruse

  First published in the USA in 2014

  By Water Bird Press

  Copyright © Shermin Kruse 2014

  ISBN: 978-0-9960502-2-7

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

  No reproduction without permission

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Shermin Kruse to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.

  Marketing and PR by Alpaytac Public Relations/Marketing Communications

  Author Photo by David Anthony

  Cover Images by BigStockPhoto.com

  Cover Design by Piquant Productions

  Graphics Editing by Reena Patel

  Manuscript Proofed and Formatted by LionheART Publishing House

  International Acclaim for Butterfly Stitching

  “A land hidden from view for decades is revealed in this searing novel about the joys and struggles of Iranian mother and daughter throughout a turbulent period of history. Played against the tapestry of Persian culture, we are given a window into a world that has been veiled to outsiders, and suppressed within Iran itself. This book will leave you yearning for a sequel, a triumphant return to a land which we hope will soon be re-emerging onto the global stage.”

  Lyric Hughes Hale - Commentator, Yale Books Blog

  “Shermin Kruse has written a mesmerizing book, which allows you to fall into a particular time of history, and very much like a shadow, follow two women and lose yourself in their journey.”

  Camelia Entekhabifard-Contributor to New York Times, Associated Press and Reuters; and Author of Camelia: Save Yourself by Telling the Truth.

  “Shermin Kruse's BUTTERFLY STITCHING is the gorgeous, intricately woven narrative of two heart-strong women who show us the beauty of ritual and custom as they clash with crisis and oppression in an old-world order. It is a rich, true-love tapestry.”

  - Theresa Schwegel, Edgar Award winning author of The Good Boy

  “Butterfly Stitching is a simply stunning novel and a beautifully written, in depth account of what it means to be a woman growing up and maturing in Iran. Touching, profound and at times shocking, you cannot fail to be moved by Butterfly Stitching and I cannot recommend it highly enough – the stories of Sahar and Samira will stay with me for a long time to come.”

  Karen Perkins - Bestselling author of Thores-Cross & The Valkyrie Series

  “Startling and innovative, Butterfly Stitching could be called Love in the Time of Morality Police. In an Iran few in the West have seen, Kruse's deft narrative is two women's stories of love and lost innocence. The reader, too loses innocence as we better understand the conflicting pulls of love and obligation, faith and individuality. Terrifying from the first. Compelling to the last.”

  Robert Chazz Chute - Author of This Plague of Days

  Dedicated to my parents, Amir and Nahid, for teaching me how to love and how to think, and thus setting me free.

  And to my Stuart. Because when our children see a Chagall rendition of love, they think of us.

  Contents

  International Acclaim for Butterfly Stitching

  Contents

  Prologue

  The Ordinary Story of a Refugee

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  PART II

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  PART III

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Hijri Calendar, 1430, Gregorian Calendar, June 2009

  Chicago, Illinois, USA

  I lie in bed, watching them protest on television. They are in the streets of Tehran in the hundreds of thousands. Chanting in peace.

  You are the thorn, the riff raff.

  I am the aching lover and blazing light.

  You are the oppression, you who is blind to the truth.

  You are the black halo, without light.

  I am the fearless fighter.

  I am the rightful owner of this land.

  Knowing that my son is likely among them, I can hardly continue watching. Knowing what will happen to him if he is arrested. Knowing that the cancer in my breast will not allow me to see him before I die.

  “I’m coming with you today,” I say, although it is difficult for me to breathe.

  “No, you’re not, Maman.” My daughter lifts her gaze from her computer screen. “You can barely move.”

  “I have the chair now. You can help me.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “I’m coming.”

  She is irritated and concerned but does not quarrel. She knows my mind cannot be changed on this matter. If he is out there in Tehran, the least I can do is protest in solidarity from the comfort of my American freedom.

  “Edmund,” she calls to her husband in the other room. “Can you please bring in Maman’s wheelchair?”

  “She’s coming with us?”

  I hear the roundness of his vowels, the diphthong that marks him as a native-born American.

  “Yes,” she says and then turns to me. “But, Maman jan, we have to finish this scene first.”

  I look into her wide eyes; they are her baba’s. The scarf, faded into a soft pink by soap and time, loosely drapes her hair. She twirls the fabric around her finger and traces the butterfly pattern the grandmother she never knew had hand stitched.

  “Must you finish the scene right now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “But you’re wearing your scarf. You seem ready to leave.”

  “That was before you decided to come.” She takes off the scarf, revealing the wild curls she inherited from me, still thick and dark with youth. “You’ll be too exhausted after the rally to continue. So let’s see if we can’t finish before we leave.”

  “Won’t Reza be waiting for us?” Reza, the son I still have with me. The older one. By fourteen minutes. I remember those minutes well. More like fourteen and half, really. They were both head down and ready to come into the world. But with his brother out and all of his newfound space, Raumbod turned back and had to be pulled out by his legs. They did not have epidurals back then.

  “We’re almost done. Just a few more minutes. Can you go on?” she leaned in to my good ear to ask, then moved the vase full of birds of paradise onto the windowsill. I still marvel at the ready availability of the spectacular tropical flowers in Chicago.

  Her dissertation is a screenplay, or modified screenplay as she calls it, a combination of a screenplay and a novel. When it is complete, her PhD will be in film and moving image studies. All that remains is the first scene—the only scene of which she has no personal memory. I must tell her how it happened. This degree is her dream. So many other dreams are dead, but I can help give her this. So I must remember events I have worked hard to forget.

  I look around the room for courage, breathing in the paintings that cover the otherwise gloomy walls of this death chamber, looking for my husband to leap out from my brushstrokes. In a short time I will be out in the rally, surrounded by the liv
ing, punching my fist into the air from my wheelchair, my son and daughter by my side, chanting:

  No More Violence, No More Blood.

  Down with Dictatorship.

  Down with Ahmadinejad.

  No More Violence.

  No More Blood

  I will be full of shame because I am here and not there, in Iran, in my native Persia. But I will chant with pride and tears:

  My brother be not afraid. You are not alone.

  My sister do not cry. We are all together.

  My son, we shall never part.

  My daughter, you shall never die.

  A people,

  United,

  Will never be divided.

  A people,

  United,

  Will never be divided.

  No more blood!

  No more blood!

  No more violence!

  No more violence!

  “I can go on for a little longer,” I tell my daughter.

  I remember his face, that he had no mustache. The man who destroyed my family was too young for facial hair.

  The Ordinary Story of a Refugee

  A Modified Screenplay by Sahar Afsseus

  Draft

  FADE IN

  INT. INTERROGATION ROOM, TEHRAN, LATE EVENING

  The small and brightly lit room contains only a table and two chairs. SAMIRA wears a black rupush and headscarf tied tightly around her face. She is seated in a blood-stained chair that smells like vomit and cat urine. Her hands and clothes are stained with blood. For the last several hours, since he was killed, she has been having difficulty hearing.

  INTO FRAME: POLICEBOY, a young member of the MORALITY POLICE, enters the room. He is fifteen or sixteen years old, with pimples on his chin and a large weapon holstered at his side. He walks up behind SAMIRA and startles her.

  POLICEBOY

  (leaning into SAMIRA’S ear)

  Do you know why you’re here, sister?

  (beat)

  Can you hear me, sister?

  They told me you couldn’t hear for the last little while. Can you hear me?

  (beat)

  Here, I’ll get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.

  He steps out briefly and returns with a glass of water and slams it down on the table.

  POLICEBOY

  Here you are. Some water for you.

  SAMIRA does not touch the water.

  POLICEBOY

  Sister, umm, I guess I should first tell you that it wasn’t—well, it wasn’t my intention to shoot him . . . He was running away and he didn’t leave me any choice. You were there, you saw it. I’m—I’m very sorry for your loss . . . But he wasn’t a man of God. He wasn’t. Now you’ve got to ask yourself if you’re a woman of God.

  SAMIRA

  What do you know of God?

  POLICEBOY

  Sister, I am a man of God! I’m on His mission!

  SAMIRA

  (under her breath and barely audible)

  You’re the ones that killed our love for Him.

  POLICEBOY

  Now, you’ve gotta worry about yourself and what remains of your family. You must think about your heavenly souls.

  SAMIRA

  What?

  POLICEBOY

  (loudly)

  Your soul.

  SAMIRA

  My soul? Was that what you said?

  POLICEBOY

  Yes, sister.

  SAMIRA

  You think I ought to worry about my soul?

  POLICEBOY

  Yes, sister. Your immortal soul is in danger if you helped him with his crimes.

  SAMIRA

  Crimes?

  POLICEBOY

  Yes. Crimes. Now, it’s possible you didn’t know what he was doing. We accept that possibility because women usually don’t know such things and that’s normal.

  So, do you know—?

  SAMIRA

  (reaches for his arm)

  Please . . . I beg you . . . please let me go. Let me go to my children.

  POLICEBOY

  But there are some women who—well—who aren’t typical. Artists tend to be the type who aren’t typical and we know you’re a painter.

  SAMIRA

  They’re all alone . . . all alone.

  POLICEBOY

  So you, you look like you could be one of those women.

  Now, do you know why you’re here?

  SAMIRA

  They’re so little . . . you have to let me go.

  POLICEBOY

  We will, but you’ve gotta answer our questions first.

  Do you know why you’re here?

  SAMIRA

  (slowly)

  You’ve just torn apart their family, murdered him in front of them.

  His body, it’s still there.

  It’s cold . . . and sad . . . and dark . . .

  lying there . . . on the living room floor.

  Please, let me go so I can tend to his body.

  POLICEBOY

  Sister, we’ve taken care of all that.

  SAMIRA

  Lying there . . . right where you killed him.

  POLICEBOY

  The situation with his body—

  SAMIRA

  Have you no respect for the dead?

  POLICEBOY

  We’ve called your sister and she’s with your children and taking care of the body and all the other issues.

  SAMIRA

  What? My sister?

  POLICEBOY

  Yes. Your sister is taking care of all that.

  SAMIRA

  I don’t have a sister!

  POLICEBOY

  Well—

  SAMIRA

  Who did you call?

  POLICEBOY

  We’ve called someone . . . in your family. I assumed she was your sister because—

  SAMIRA

  What?

  POLICEBOY

  (louder)

  Listen, the point is that’s all taken care of. Someone you know, someone in your family is taking care of all of that. Now let’s move on.

  SAMIRA

  How old are you?

  POLICEBOY

  What?

  SAMIRA

  Fifteen? Sixteen?

  POLICEBOY

  I don’t think—

  SAMIRA

  What would your mother think if she knew what you’d done?

  POLICEBOY is silent.

  SAMIRA

  If she knew of the suffering you’ve caused? Of who you killed tonight?

  POLICEBOY

  My mother is proud of me.

  SAMIRA

  If she is, then she doesn’t know you.

  POLICEBOY moves his hand to the holster of his weapon and rests it there

  POLICEBOY

  Now watch yourself, sister. I’ve shown you respect until now, because of your loss and all, but I won’t allow this kind of behavior.

  SAMIRA

  (to herself)

  So much to tolerate. Pretend and concede. Pretending is safe. But no more.

  POLICEBOY

  Now . . . we’ve established that someone in your family is taking care of the body, so we can move on from those issues.

  Let’s move on.

  Now, do you know why you’re here?

  SAMIRA

  Who taught you how to use that gun?

  POLICEBOY

  All you need to know is that I know how to use it.

  I asked you if you know why you’re here.

  SAMIRA

  I can’t imagine that it was too difficult to learn. You point. You pull. You kill.

  POLICEBOY

  I’m warning you, sister—pay attention!

  SAMIRA

  Beetarbiat! Show some respect to your elder.

  POLICEBOY pulls out his weapon and points it at SAMIRA. His hands shake.

  POLICEBOY

  I do not owe you any respect. You don’t know what I’d do, sister, if it wasn’t for my orde
rs . . .

  SAMIRA

  What orders?

  POLICEBOY moves his gun to the left of SAMIRA and shoots the wall, a few inches away from her.

  POLICEBOY

  Silence! If you don’t cooperate, you’ll regret it.

  Now—uh—quiet.

  I know you’re upset. They told me women would be harder to deal with than men. I’ve never shot a woman before but I’m not afraid of shooting you if I have to. Now . . .

  Umm, okay.

  Okay.

  Do you know why you’re here?

  FADE TO BLACK

  PART I

  Hijri Calendar 1408, Gregorian Calendar, January, 1988

  Tehran, Iran

  1

  “Marg bar Amrica. Marg bar Amrica,” Sahar chanted in unison with the other nine-year-old schoolgirls.

  It was a Wednesday. She stood in the tar-paved schoolyard, hidden, like the hundreds of busy girly bees around her. Her rupush covered her body, hiding curves that had not yet arrived. Underneath it she wore a red shirt with a picture of a fat tiger that she wished she could show everyone around her. Her veil covered her thick long curly hair with unruly bangs that she refused to let Maman cut. This way, whenever a curl ‘accidentally’ slipped out of her veil, she could take pleasure in the phony apologetic manner with which she only half-tucked it back in.