Butterfly Stitching Page 18

  She was terrified now. There would be no escaping this man. No way would he send her away to school. He would not let her out of his sight. She was trapped. She saw it now. Forever.

  “I warned myself this was crazy,” he continued. “But my warnings just increased my desire for you. My goddess of color. The goddess of the Village of Kandovan. I’m rescuing you from a lifetime of mediocrity, do you see that?”

  Rescued only to entrap. Samira felt the cold air closing in on her, choking her. She brought her hand to her throat. Davoud took no notice.

  “I stayed awake those nights, knowing I had to meet you. One night, I looked outside my window and saw a skinny, starving pigeon trying to fly and failing. I knew it was time to come to you. To get you out of there, and into here.” He motioned to the room, or perhaps the house, or perhaps the world all around him. Then he asked her, “Do you love me, too?”

  Respond. She had to respond. Last summer flashed through her mind. Not yet thirteen. Met a boy in the market. Thin. Wild hair. Weird little chin. A kiss behind the barrel of oranges he was selling. Wet and exciting. Not like right now. Now towered a man. No excitement for him. Just fear. No barrel to hide behind. No hiding at all, ever again. Looked around. Canvases. Paints. Easels. Some comfort in these treasures. She still said nothing.

  He said, “If you don’t love me now, you will. Later. When you understand better.”

  And then she was in his arms, his lips opening hers. Sudden. What was she to do with his tongue in her mouth? Stop. She felt sure she would suffocate if he did not stop. Finally he pulled away. There was the smudge of her lipstick on his face, his eyes glittering. Whiskey. She wanted the whiskey Sudabeh had promised her for her nerves. There was supposed to be whiskey. And Sudabeh would undress her and there was a nightgown for her. Where was the nightgown? With the whiskey, in her room. All in her room. It was not supposed to be like this. But Davoud did as he pleased.

  He reached for her headpiece, gave it a tug and her head jerked. She yelped. There’s a skinny servant girl sitting upstairs, waiting to do all this, she thought. He fumbled with hairpins, let out a growl and reached behind her. Sudabeh, a white negligee, a glass of heat to ease the bitterness. But he moved with too much haste to permit any of that. She did not struggle, but did not help. She just stood still. Empty inside.

  He quickly gave up on the headpiece and reached behind his bride to undo the lace buttons that ran from the collar to the waist of her designer gown. There were so many of them and it was far too difficult to unbutton them still facing her. He put his hands on her hips and turned her around abruptly, gathered his mother’s veil and threw it over Samira’s shoulder and returned to the buttons with committed devotion. But the button holes, having been used only once before, were too tight. He paused for a moment and Samira thought that he would ring the bell and call Sudabeh to come and help him undress her. Instead, he grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer in the desk. How did he know where the scissors were? He must have placed every item in this room in its chosen location. She was paralyzed with fear. The beheaded buttons fell to the ground, one by one, as he cut them. The scissors never touched her skin as they cut the fabric that must have taken a hundred years to make. The inner zipper zipped down easily, and in a second he pulled the dress off her shoulders and let it slide to the ground. He quickly unclipped her bra and threw that to the side. She stood bare-chested. Her back to him. Breathing fast and horrified that she might faint.

  “Shh . . .” he whispered in her ear while stroking her exposed back. He moved his hands around her to cup her breasts. “It’s okay—we’re married. This is a blessing. Now, step out of the dress.”

  Her hands were shaking and her legs were unstable. None of this was in the script. All she could do was do as she was told and so she clumsily stepped out of the dress. Her breasts were exposed and he looked at them. He threw the dress to the side and faced her.

  “You look very sweet, and silly.” His smile spread like mercury. Another kiss. Wet and disgusting. She sensed he wanted her to kiss him back but she did not know how. He brought his hands to her breasts again, then moved them down her body. He took a hold of her lace panties and ripped them off.

  Before she knew it, she was on her back and he was on top of her. The floor of that magical room felt hard and cold. Her veil sat crooked on her head and the white shoes that blended into her white ankles remained on her feet. He was kissing her again. She turned her head to the side, hoping he would stop, but said nothing. His lips took this as an invitation to kiss her neck. Then her shoulders. In front of her was the cut wedding gown, and behind that, one of her drawings. Now he was kissing her breasts. She said nothing. The drawing. Focus on the drawing. It was the one of the old lady who ran the sandwich and soup shop in Kandovan. Samira had ripped her dress. Like the cut wedding gown. Suddenly he was inside her and the shock took her breath away. An immediate rush of stinging pain, but still not as bad as she had expected. Worse than the pain was the smell. Pungent. Revolting. The lady. The drawing. Focus on her. Her eyes. Strong. They were strong. She could feel her insides tearing. How long would this last? The bull would have been finished by now. He thrust in and out, pushing her spine into the wood. The old lady with the ripped dress. He finished with a loud moan and a wet kiss.

  He lay down next to her, and without looking at her, said, “I love you so much.” She still said nothing. A few moments later, he cleaned the blood on the ground with his handkerchief, then carried her, naked except for her veil and shoes, to his room. To his bed. He fell asleep quickly. She did not know whether she was permitted to leave the bed now and go to her room. She did not even know who she was. Relieved that it was over. Sick at the knowledge that it would happen again. She supposed she was a woman. True woman-ness. Torn. And now she was. And her new life began.

  4

  She is eight years old and swimming in the river just up the hill from her parents’ farm. There is a small waterfall a few strokes away. She swims to it, turns her back to the water, and fixes her senses on the sound of the waves as they pummel her skin. She bends her head forward. Her fingers look like paint brushes in the water, and she is a pink flower. Dying. And it is winter. There is a paint brush in the water. She paints her stem black and pulls out her rosy petals one at a time until she is naked. She hates being naked.

  She sits up with a gasp. Her hand to her forehead. A dream. Relief. None of it real. Except that she was naked, as she was most mornings. She could not find any of her pillows and then realized that her face was at the foot of the giant bed. At least Davoud was not next to her. Every so often, he stayed the entire night. Woke up to her painful nightmare groans. Pried out the sheets she was clutching and stroked her hair with his heavy hands. A second or two. And then she was expected to be fully healed. He would fall back asleep and, as the night rolled on, sweat that stank like wet dirty laundry gathered in the dents beneath his muscular chest. But not last night. Waking up alone was a glorious thing.

  There was a soft knock on the door. Laleh, her new maid, had joined them when Sudabeh got pregnant and her boyfriend finally married her. That was five years ago, four years after Samira married Davoud. Samira searched for the sheets so she could cover up before Laleh came in. They were pulled off the mattress and bunched up beneath her, as they were most mornings. Laleh knocked again. Oh, what does it matter? The woman’s seen me naked a million times. And yet it did matter. She did not like being found in the bed like that. Hated the true story it revealed about the night before. Of him being there, breathing all over her. She managed to pull up the sheets to her chest.

  “Come in, Laleh.”

  “Good morning, Khanum.” Laleh walked in with fresh, folded towels and a full bottle of lotion.

  “What time is it?” Samira rubbed her temples.

  “It’s six. Another headache, Khanum?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your bath is ready, Khanum.”

  “It’s ready?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  Laleh must have come in, filled the tub, then left again for fresh towels, all while Samira slept, naked and exposed, smelling of Davoud. She shuddered.

  “Thank you.”

  Laleh waited to be excused, but Samira fell back to bed and could not gather up the energy. At only twenty three, she felt old. Laleh took the hint and turned to leave when Samira said, “Wait, Laleh.”

  “Yes, Khanum?”

  Samira sat up again, hugging the silk sheets to her breast. “I hate this bed.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t like these posts. I’m constantly petrified of bumping my head into them.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “And it’s too big. What I mean is . . . it’s too high.”

  “Too high, Khanum?”

  “It’s too high off the ground.”

  “The bed?”

  “The bed.”

  “Um . . .”

  “I keep on thinking I’m going to roll right off and fall to my death.” The truth was that she kept dreaming that she was falling; off the bed and into the abyss, Davoud smiling at her from the sheets.

  “Oh, well, I don’t think . . .”

  “And it’s too rectangular.” Samira got off from the bed, the lustrous lava-colored sheets now folded around her body.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand . . .”

  “I’d like a square bed. Square. So I can sleep in any direction I want.”

  “But, Khanum, you already sleep in any direction you want.”

  “Still, I’d like a square bed. And I’d like it low to the ground.”

  “Low—”

  “To the ground.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a bed that’s square and short. How short do you want it?”

  “Very short. Barely off the ground. You know, like without these legs?”

  “I’ve never—” Laleh was nervous.

  “We could just cut the legs, couldn’t we?”

  “But, it’d still be this shape . . .”

  “Well then, we can commission someone to make it, can’t we?”

  “Yes, Khanum. I’ll speak with Mrs. Darkan about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  With Laleh out of the room, Samira dropped the sheet, walked to the bathroom, plunged into the bath, and began to scrub his smell off of her. She had slept in longer than usual and would have to hurry if she wanted to get her morning run in. Her night terrors had been so severe that she felt as though she had not slept for weeks.

  She dried her eyes with a plush Egyptian hand towel and examined her face in the mirror. She applied the most recent miracle wrinkle-prevention cream Davoud had brought from his last trip to Paris around her eyelids, then regretted it when she remembered she had not yet run. She glanced at the clock, which read six-thirty. She still had time. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, threw on a T-shirt and wide-fitting capri pants and burst out of the room, nearly bumping into a flustered Laleh who was loitering in the hallway. “Samira Khanum?”

  “Not now, Laleh. I have to go for my run.” Samira jogged down the hall and down the stairs, holding her running shoes in her hands. Laleh tried to follow, struggling to keep up. As she reached the last step and saw Gita, Samira came to a dead stop and Laleh nearly bumped into her. Gita walked towards the stairs, obviously wanting to go up. There was no eye contact, greeting or conversation of any kind. Samira had long given up on the idea of civil chit-chat with Gita. She simply stepped down and out of Gita’s way. Only when Gita was halfway up the stairs did Samira continue toward the back door. Laleh followed. Samira’s mind was still on Gita. She had grown accustomed to the coldness between them, but she continued to wish for a richer relationship with Shabnam. It was nearly impossible, even if Gita had not forbidden it. Shabnam and Hamid both spent the majority of the year away at university and, along with Gita, split their summers between Davoud’s villa up north and their dayee’s home in Tehran. Their dayee, Gita’s brother, was all the family Gita had left. Gita worshipped him and encouraged a strong relationship between him and Shabnam and Hamid. Still, Samira thought, maybe one day I can find a way to become closer to Shabnam. As unlikely as it was, a connection with Shabnam was Samira’s highest hopes for an actual friendship with someone.

  “Samira Khanum?”

  “Yes?”

  “The request about your bed . . .”

  Samira sat on the small bench by the door to put on her shoes and began her stretches. “Yes,” Samira said, focusing back on Laleh. “What about it?”

  “Well it’s just that . . . I’m not sure if there is such a thing, and I’m afraid to discuss it with . . .”

  “Oh, just forget about the whole thing.”

  “I’m so sorry, Khanum. It’s just that it’s not my place to speak with Mrs. Darkan about . . . Maybe if you—”

  “Laleh, I mean it. Just forget it. I’m sorry. I was being silly.”

  “Oh! Chashm! So I won’t say anything to Mrs. Darkan about you wanting a square, short bed?”

  “That’s right. Well, it wasn’t a short bed—it was a low bed—you know, low?”

  “Low . . .”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry again. Forget it. I had a bad night.”

  Laleh blushed as though receiving information that was not her business and Samira propelled herself out of the house.

  Her mind raced at first. To a time without nightmares. When her hair was always covered outside. Now, it was exposed. Tickling her neck. Uneasy nakedness might explain the nightmares. Maybe, one day, she would dream regular dreams. Or maybe never. Maybe she could not dream because dreams cannot dream and that was what she was. Belonging to someone else’s nights. Davoud’s nights. His dream. There could be no change. Unless he woke up. Unless he really saw her. Unless he let her leave. And yet, she had never asked. Her shoes slapped the pavement. She focused on her breath. Even. Controlled. Control what you can, she told herself. Something is better than nothing. The nights were totally beyond her control. Haunted sorrows. Uncomfortable bed. Romantic lace and satin ripped off within seconds. He was insatiable. Hungry. All the time. For his dream.

  She turned a corner. Passing Mrs. Azin. Neighbor with the fluffy dog, Visky. Always reminded Samira of the whiskey she had not had on her wedding night. The whiskey she had now, every night, before Davoud came into her room. Now up a hill and across her favorite park. The tulips were in bloom. He took her veil. Her butterflies. Made her modern, infused her with woman-ness. Cut and tear. Take and steal. Her mind moved inversely to the steps of her feet, calming as she ran faster. And faster.

  She was dripping wet when she re-entered the mansion forty five minutes later. She came in through the back door by the kitchen. The little bell attached to the door rang as she entered. Laleh had left a fresh towel by the door and was waiting for her in her room. A fresh bath drawn. “How was your run, Khanum?”

  “Great. But you know, I’m starving and I don’t think I’ll have time to sit down for a proper breakfast before Mr. Olum gets here.”

  “I prepared a barbari bread and cheese sandwich with a cup of tea.” She pointed to the tray next to the bath that Samira had not noticed.

  “Oh, bless you!”

  Laleh smiled as she left the room, so grateful for the small amount of gratitude that it broke Samira’s heart. With a house as large as this, and a schedule as packed as Samira’s, Laleh was not only a maid. She assisted Samira in everything. The girl got herself sick last winter. During the four days Laleh was off work, Samira was so disorganized that she was late for Mr. Olum every day, had to take two cold baths, and missed four meals.

  After her bath, Samira pulled out a box from under her bed. It was a green hat box that had once contained an exquisite Parisian hat of brown crinoline straw with rosettes of tulle under the brim.

  The hat had since fallen out of fashion and had been donated to Laleh.

  The box now contained Samira’s red scarf with the orange butterfly stitching.<
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  For years the scarf had rested in the top drawer of her dresser where every day she was reminded of her inability to experience the way of being she had been compelled to abandon. The scarf was not alone. She shed prayer itself. And with it, the meditation. The hypnotic power of feeling God through her. Gone. Only loneliness, plated with gold, remained. She ached. Not only her heart. Her entire body. For it was twisted and shaped and molded by him. The “secular Western philosophy” that supposedly urged independent thought was forced on her. The scarf used to drape along her vanity mirror. But when the pain of her amputated past, family, meditation and tradition proved too much, she moved it under the bed. At least the daily reminder was gone. Now she only visited it. When the rhythm of her pulse crawled to a haunting emptiness. When she needed it most. Like today. Whatever charm Davoud had seen in the illiteracy and poverty of Samira’s parents when they had first met did not last. After the wedding, he had not allowed her parents to visit, and discouraged Samira from keeping ties to them. He was ashamed. But she was not, and longed for her past. Still, every day away changed her. Slowly. Distanced her. She ran her fingers along the butterfly pattern. Maman. She missed her more than prayer. More than God. She remembered the smell of her apron. The curve of her smile. She remembered her head on Maman’s lap. Maman’s fingers in her hair. Davoud reluctantly allowed occasional trips home. But home became stranger and stranger to her, and arguments with Davoud over her going harder and harder. It had been two years since the last trip. Two whole years. She went then without hesitation because Maman had written that they had to put Riri down. Poor little kitty’s kidneys were not functioning. She thought of him now. Jumping on the furniture. Rubbing his adorable little face into the palm of her hand. Keeping her company for hours on end as she drew a tree, a bird, or a face. She hated that she had not been there when he died. That she had abandoned him. He must have been so confused. How was he to understand when Samira herself did not?

  “It’ll be a long visit this time,” she said out loud to herself.