Butterfly Stitching Page 14

  Later that summer, not more than two months after nature had drawn its first bite of blood, fate unexpectedly revealed her future.

  2

  “No, I will not scrub the chalk off my hands,” she told Maman. “They’re the remnants of the love I poured into painting a woman’s face.”

  “You’re so dramatic! You have a suitor coming! Don’t you understand, you dense child? A suitor like no other! Don’t mess this up. This’ll change your entire life.”

  “Maman, he’s not a suitor. He’s never even so much as met me. He’s here to look at my paintings. That’s what Farhad said, anyway.” Samira tried to convince herself as well as Maman.

  “Well, Farhad is a sweet boy but he isn’t always the sharpest.” Maman walked over to the washbasin and cleaned her hands and feet.

  “You’d think the fancy rich man would’ve given more than two hours’ notice before showing up uninvited to court some girl he’s never met.”

  “Oh, don’t be so impolite, Samira.”

  “Don’t they teach people manners in the city?”

  “You’re so stubborn. You take after your baba, no doubt about it.”

  “Where is Baba, anyway?”

  “I don’t know! I sent Farhad to fetch him two hours ago.”

  Samira laughed at the thought of Baba stinking from a day’s work at the farm and not having time to wash before the fancy city man arrived. The city man had probably never smelled manure. He would be terribly offended and leave right away, leaving Samira alone with her drawings. This was fine with her.

  “What are you giggling at, child?”

  “Nothing, Maman. What do you think he’s doing here, anyway?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I mean, what’s a man like this doing in Kandovan? How does Jaja Khan even know him?”

  “Well, I only know what Jaja Khan said. The city man and some business partners were canvasing farms in the area for months,” Maman answered. “And he saw one of your chalk drawings in Jaja Khan’s tea shop.”

  “And he just went up to Jaja Khan and asked about my drawing?”

  “Samira, azizam, we all know how incredible your work is. It must’ve really stood out in Jaja Khan’s humble shop. So yes, I guess he asked about it. Jaja Khan was pretty excited about the whole thing. I mean, how often does a man like Jaja Khan get to impress a man like this city man?”

  “So who cares if the man lives in a city? Why must everyone bow down to city folk? They’re no better than people around here. No better than Jaja Khan or any of us.”

  “Oh, Jaja Khan said he was very impressive looking. Fancy suit and gold watch and shiny shoes and everything.” Maman stopped toweling her hands and feet and turned to look at Samira. “Did you brush your hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now why don’t you listen to your maman and take off that red headscarf and put on something different? Like your chador? Something more conservative.”

  “If he doesn’t like my colors, he won’t like my drawings.”

  “Vay Khoda. How did I get stuck with such a child? Fine. I’ll put on some tea and you straighten up the sitting room. We may be farmers but we’re just as concerned about cleanliness as city folk.”

  Samira dusted and straightened the tablecloth. “Can we keep Riri in the house?” The pink-gray Persian cat jumped on top of the coffee table, onto the very spot Samira had just dusted, as though he was going out of her way to make Samira smile.

  “Absolutely not. Out you go, Riri, and don’t bother us for the rest of the afternoon. Out you go.”

  “There’s no need to be so hard on Riri, Maman jan. Whoever this impolite man is, he won’t despise my paintings because my cat jumped on top of the table.”

  “You should really stop mocking, Samira. I mean, you never know what can come of these things!”

  “And what will come of it?”

  “Well, you’re not just like any other village girl. With that powder-white skin of yours—”

  “What does my skin have to do with my drawings?”

  “Nothing better can come out of your drawings than it helping you land a good husband in the city.”

  This frightened Samira. She knew nothing of this man or his way of life, nothing of his motives and intentions, not even his name.

  “Now don’t look at me with those eyes. You know all I want is for you to have a better life than I did. Maybe you can go to school and become accomplished. A teacher. A midwife. A nurse! These things are very easy in the city.”

  “I’ve already memorized all of the poems I’ll ever want to hear and you don’t need formal schooling to draw, do you?”

  “That’s enough. I can see there’s no talking sense into you. Come on, throw on a chador.”

  “If he wants to show up like this, unannounced, simply to look at my drawings, what does he care whether I’m wearing a chador or not?”

  “Child, stop focusing on the lack of announcement!” But Samira could see that Maman was taken off guard too. In fact, she was more panicked than Samira had ever seen her. Their lives, after all, were predictably repetitive eighteen-hour-day routines. The sudden visit by the wealthy businessman to view Samira’s art—and perhaps to view Samira herself—was definitely not routine.

  “This man, well, he’s very busy, I’m sure,” Maman said. “The whole thing was spur of the moment. Anyway, it’s our pleasure to have him. Maybe he’ll take one look at you and want to marry you right here and now!”

  “Maman, you’re delusional.”

  “You know what they say about these types of men. They’re very impulsive.”

  It was not long before Mr. Montazar was in the sitting room, watching Samira bring in one drawing at a time. Pencil. Pastel. Chalk. Charcoal. He wore perfectly pressed slacks, a fancy shirt with mother of pearl buttons, and tasseled Western-style shoes. He seemed muscular, but since he did not work the fields and probably sat in an office all day, Samira did not know how he might have developed those muscles. Thicker hair than the other village men that age and pale skin that had seldom seen the sun. He did not look forty years old, though Samira was told that was his age. Soft hands. Like a woman’s. No calluses; no broken knuckles; no cuts or scars; and no age spots. Nails, perfectly filed. And then there was his scent. Mr. Montazar smelled like a jasmine bouquet. Samira had always associated the smell of hard work and the calluses earned through years of labor with what a man was and should be. Mr. Montazar was the antithesis of all of that.

  She sensed his gaze on her as she brought various drawings in and out of the room and held them up for view. She felt unreal, like she was inside someone else’s drawing. The air was heavy. She blinked for clarity and could see that he was taken with her. He remarked on her headscarf, something about how the color of it reminded him of a dream he once had. And he pointed out the chalk stains on her fingers too, how he had never seen anything so poetic and free. It was as though Samira’s entire existence, the dimly lit home, her modest life, her conservative and excitable maman, even her smelly baba, were scripted for this man. He seemed to expect all of this. More than that. He seemed to desire it. Why such things would please the biases of his imagination, Samira did not know.

  While Mr. Montazar was foreign to his surroundings in every way, he was the most comfortable person in the room. His confidence struck Samira. Maman spent much of the visit fiddling with her chador, the one with the pale pattern of pink and yellow roses. She was trying to fold it just right at the bottom to hide the small saffron stain that would not wash out. She sat next to Baba who, as predicted, had not had time for a full wash and still wore his stained and stinking work shirt. He fidgeted too and kept flaking bits of dust from his shoulders.

  Of course, there was also Jaja Khan, sitting right next to Mr. Montazar. Samira looked at Jaja Khan’s hands, tightly clenched, and the sweat beads on his forehead. He was definitely nervous. But he still beamed from ear to ear like a proud child. He was the one who had made the introductions, presenting
everyone by last name only. He retold the story of how he met Mr. Montazar and Mr. Montazar’s interest in the portrait of his late wife.

  “You know it was supposed to be a secret!” Jaja Khan told Mr. Montazar.

  “We were plotting against him, Shahla Khanum and me!” Samira said. Mr. Montazar looked at Samira with interest, so she continued. “We’d wait until Jaja Khan left for the shop, then have secret visits in her room.”

  “The cancer, you see. It was the cancer. Confined her to her bed.” Jaja Khan said, looking at the ground. “She was going to give me the drawing on our anniversary. It was a month . . . only a month away . . .”

  “Their anniversary was only a month away when she passed,” Samira helped. “With the drawing still unfinished. I worked for three days and nights straight to finish it. I gave it to Jaja Khan the day after her funeral.”

  “I wept aloud,” Jaja Khan said, surprised at his own candor. “Then put it up, proudly, on my teashop wall!”

  “You know, that’s the last time I saw you, Jaja Khan,” Samira said. “The day I gave you the drawing. You should visit more often!”

  “Yes. Well, life has been fast since then.”

  Samira lowered her head, embarrassed by her insensitivity. Jaja Khan changed the subject.

  “So then, out of nowhere, this man walked into my tea shop.” Jaja Khan pointed at Mr. Montazar. “He demanded to know the artist who drew the portrait! And I told him. Well, if you’ll forgive my candour, I told him of the beauty that lived not too far away, in the village of Kandovan! And of course, of the talent that poured from her fingers!”

  “He even mentioned the headscarf you’re wearing now,” Mr. Montazar said. “I guess people around here like that you wear it.”

  Samira gave Maman a triumphant look. Maman pretended not to notice.

  Mr. Montazar went on. “He said you were a goddess of color.”

  Samira did not blush.

  “Well, I tried to describe you,” Jaja Khan said, even more uncomfortable. “You know, the way you looked. You know. Because he was curious about the artist, so I described you. And of course I asked about him, too. What an honorable man! The sort of man with means to support more than one wife!” Jaja Khan said.

  More than one wife?

  “Any girl should be lucky to end up with such a man.”

  Samira expected Mr. Montazar to respond to the praise with something polite and humble. He only smiled and took a sip of tea.

  Samira thought of how exhausting it must be for Jaja Khan to keep up the pretence that he understood Mr. Montazar’s world. For her part, Samira maintained a blank expression that did not betray her worried heart. No one observed her clammy palms. Nor did Jaja Khan or Maman and Baba notice the two times she “unintentionally” came across Mr. Montazar’s eyes, keeping her gaze on them for a whole two seconds before releasing them. He looked at her in a way that she did not understand, and did not like.

  After having seen and complimented them all, Mr. Montazar proposed a price for three of the drawings (all images of local women). It was a ludicrous sum. In a year Baba could not earn that much money. Her parents laughed, caught themselves. Jaja Khan ran his spotted thumb through his sparse hair and smiled. Samira told herself to remain calm, and politely thanked the stranger for his interest in her work.

  Jaja Khan said that this purchase confirmed Mr. Montazar’s generosity, and continued to talk more about him. “He lives in Tabriz. Only a few hours away, and the second largest city in Iran right now, you know! And his other children are around Samira’s age! Oh, I’m sure she’d have much in common with them! And he lives near many schools where a second wife could get a formal education! Perhaps formally study poetry! Mr. Montazar, did you know Samira can orate more poems than anyone else in Kandovan?”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Yes,” Baba said. “Although we couldn’t send her to school, she can read and write and has memorized and can orate hundreds of verses.”

  “Yes, well, she’s still young. Plenty of time for school,” Mr. Montazar replied, mistaking Baba’s expression of pride at Samira’s relative advances for an apology for her lack of formal schooling.

  “Mr. Montazar is a great lover of poetry, like any good Iranian, and has a particular gift for oration. Won’t you recite some Hafez for us now, Mr. Montazar?”

  “Oh no—I couldn’t—we’re here to appreciate Samira’s talents,” Mr. Montazar said. But when Jaja Khan persisted, he quoted:

  “O pious of the heart, I am lost in a love, so great, that pain the hidden secrets will become open debate. Shipwrecked we just float, o’ favorable wind arise, so that we may one more time gaze upon that familiar trait. Passage of time and the stars, are but what we fantasize, for compassion and kindness, it was never too late. In the circle of wine and roses, nightingale’s song was prize, with the aroma and the wine your senses satiate.”

  “Excellent!” Jaja Khan said. “Just superb! No wonder our civilization is so advanced! We have the most beautiful poetry in all the world! Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Montazar? Our poetry has no equal.”

  “Well, there are many great poets in the world. Writers about which an artist such as Samira should learn. Words that would inspire her to draw. But for our own poets, I, like all Iranians, have the deepest respect for them.”

  “Yes, yes, most definitely.”

  “Come now, my friend. It’s time for us to take our leave. It’s getting late.”

  “Won’t you recite one more poem, Mr. Montazar?” Maman asked, then looked at Samira and raised an eyebrow. She thinks his knowledge of poetry will help me like him, Samira thought.

  “I will,” he said, and then confessed his heart:

  “The bright moon reflects your radiant face.

  “Your snow-capped cheekbones supply water of grace.

  “My heavy heart desires an audience with your face.

  “Come forward or if you must return, your command I will embrace.

  “Send a bouquet of your face with the morning breeze.

  “Perhaps inhaling your scent, your fields we envision and trace.

  “May you live fulfilled and long, O wine-bearer of this feast.

  “Though our cup was never filled from your jug or your vase.

  “My heart was reckless, please, let Beloved know.

  “Beware my friend, my soul your soul replace.”

  Samira kept her gaze on the ground. As he was leaving, Mr. Montazar asked her parents’ permission to come and see them again. The door opened. Sunbeams tickled Samira’s cheeks. He moved into the doorframe and his shadow cut the light. Her parents quickly consented to another visit. Samira’s hands tightened into a fist. A fist to squeeze out the incessant pressure of his shadow. She felt dizzy and focused her attention on not collapsing. It seemed like forever before the door finally closed behind him. Forever before his next visit a month later. And when Maman informed her that he had proposed, she was standing outside, by her favorite apple tree, working on a drawing of Baba. She looked up at Maman, as if to say something, but there was nothing to say. The words that the proposal was already accepted left Maman’s mouth but reached Samira very slowly. As if they were worms that had to eat their way through all the apples before catching up to Samira’s ears. Riri was by her feet, curled up into a ball of fur and cuteness.

  “What’s the matter with you, child?” Maman asked. “Aren’t you excited?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Of course you should! This is wonderful news! You’ll have everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

  “He already has a wife.”

  “Well, polygamy is not easy.”

  “No one does it anymore.”

  “Oh, it’s perfectly legal. Less common, yes, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s someone like him! So powerful, and perfectly able to care for two wives.”

  Samira was silent. She did not know a single woman who shared a husband. How would she share this man’s house with his oth
er wife and his other children? She assumed that Mr. Montazar’s house would be bigger than her house now. She had seen large farmhouses and so had a vision of what her future home might look like. So there would be enough room for two wives. She supposed each wife would get her own room, although that seemed to be awful waste of space. Why not just have one wife and live in a smaller house that was easier to manage? She wondered how their life would look, day to day. Would they eat at the same table? Who would do the cooking? Perhaps Samira would cook breakfast and the first wife would cook dinner? Yes, dinner must be reserved for the first wife, since she would be older and therefore demand more respect. What about the other chores? Would his other children help? Would they tell her what to do? Where would she put her drawing supplies?

  “All I want is to draw. Why can’t I just do that here?”

  “Child, you cannot just stay in your parents’ house forever, a spinster behind an easel.”

  “I—”

  “I can’t believe this has happened to you. This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in Kandovan!”

  “Maman, he’s so old!”

  “But looks so much younger than his age!”

  Mr. Montazar had talked about education so maybe he would send her to school. She wondered what it might be like to go to school, to wear the uniform she had seen the children of wealthier farmers wear and to bring your own lunch and eat it and gossip with the other girls in the schoolyard. To learn mathematics and history and geography. To attend a real art class. With a real art teacher. She would certainly be behind the rest of the students and would need to catch up. They would think her an idiot, a stupid village girl. They would all be smarter and cleaner with polished fingernails. They would all have houses of brick and mortar. They would all have brand new pens and pencils every day and perhaps be even better at drawing than her. After all, was it not a girl just like the ones in the school who had callously left behind the very watercolor set that was Samira’s? How much wealth must you have to just leave your paint set behind without a care?