Butterfly Stitching Read online

  “See, Sahar, now they’re talking about the three forevers it takes between the time the Red Alert sirens go off and the time our parents can get to us at school.”

  “Narges, that’s politics too.”

  Sahar looked up at Maman and listened. “With only one car and the twins clear on the other side of Tehran from Sahar, she has no choice but to sit there and wait. That poor girl just sits up against the wall as the world around her shatters to pieces. Last week, Red Alert sounded and I ran around town like a crazy person to get to the boys, then fought my way through insane traffic to get to Sahar, and wouldn’t you know it? The Green Alert sounded before I could even get to her.”

  “Vay Khoda.” Khaleh Malike brought her fingers to her temples. “Ridiculous.”

  “Then, just yesterday, something must’ve hit really close to her because the shockwaves shattered the windows all around her. And she was all by herself, poor thing. But what can I do?”

  “Well, I suppose if you complained about it, the authorities would say some mumbo jumbo about this being some kind of holy war, then suggest that you have the child walk home from school when the sirens ring!”

  “You only live a few blocks from school, after all,” Khaleh Zahra said. “And despite what our beloved government thinks, it might be quicker and safer just to have her walk home than to sit there in the Red Alert zone waiting for her maman.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I should do! Let my daughter walk the streets alone!” Maman laughed with a half-smile.

  “Are the streets unsafe?” Khaleh Zahra continued. “Sure. But generally Iranians are good people and would not harm a little girl. And anyway, the real question is which is safer, having her wait by herself at school, the zone of the Red Alert with no bomb shelter, or having her walk home in ten minutes time? Sahar jan, Narges jan, are you listening?”

  Sahar looked down at the butterflies on her shoes and twirled the matching purple ribbon in her hair, but Narges was too obvious about their eavesdropping and so they had been discovered. Sahar thought she may as well show that she belonged in the conversation. “But I agree the situation is very bad!”

  “Well!” Khaleh Zahra laughed. “The next time the sirens ring, would you rather wait all by yourself for your maman to pick you up at school—and you know how long that takes—or would you rather just walk home by yourself, which would only take ten minutes?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know.” Sahar looked over at Narges but Narges stared back blankly.

  “Well, we’ve decided it’s safer for you to simply walk home by yourself, okay child?”

  “Oh, Zahra, leave her alone!” her maman said.

  “I mean, you’ll be home in no time, right?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to Zahra, honey,” Maman said. “You go on to your room and play with the other kids. Go on, aziz. And, Zahra, why don’t you put that vodka down and get yourself a cup of tea!”

  “Might not be a bad idea. I get far too cynical when I drink.”

  “Sahar jan, go on now and play with Narges,” Maman repeated. Reluctantly, she and Narges joined her brothers in the other room to play.

  “You must be so excited!” Narges whispered to her.

  “Oh, well, it’s no big deal.”

  “I know you’re excited because you’ve got that funny smile that shows your dimples.”

  Sahar beamed with pride. “Yeah, I’m pretty excited. I mean, can you believe it?”

  “Seriously!”

  “The next time there’s a bomb drill, instead of waiting for my maman to come and get me, I’m allowed to walk home! By myself!”

  “Here’s the thing . . . I know they said that, but, Sahar, I don’t know . . .”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think you should walk home from school, especially during Red Alert. You’re not old enough.”

  “Well, I’m older than you!”

  “But listen, are you sure it’s okay with your mom? I mean, you’re only nine . . .”

  “Nine and a half.” It did occur to her that she may have misunderstood. Narges made some sense, after all, and it could not hurt for her to double-check this with her maman. Just then, dessert was announced: fresh watermelon, crème caramel pastries, that heavenly sholeh zard, and freshly brewed tea. Sahar’s sugar-obsessed tooth took precedence over all other concerns as she and the other kids ran to get their plates of sweets.

  After dinner, all of the Afsseus family beds filled with the smaller children, including the twins, who fell fast asleep. The women accumulated in the kitchen to wash the dishes. Sahar helped too, because she was a big girl. There being only one sink, of course, only a couple of people could actually help. The rest were there to make sure not a moment of communal conversation was wasted. Sahar listened to the gossip with pleasure.

  No sooner were the women back in the living room then there was music and dancing. More liquor was poured. The cigarettes and pipes were lit. Amoo Hassan helped Baba move the coffee table to the side of the room to create a make-shift dance floor.

  Children and women filled the floor, moving their hips, twirling their hands with their arms up in the air, and stepping their feet back and forth and around and around. The men’s movements were more from the shoulder. The speakers were big and the sound of the bass made the floor vibrate. Khaleh Zahra and Mahtab Khanum, who had spent a significant part of their childhood in North Eastern Iran, near the Turkish border, fused their Persian moves with Turkish ones. Their arms moved more freely than the more controlled Tehranis, and the flow of their movements soon took center stage as a circle of dancers surrounded them, clapping with smiles wider than Heaven’s gates.

  Her brothers and several of the other children emerged from their games to join the floor, imitating and at times clinging onto their parents like baby monkeys. Khaleh Soroor, eager for attention, unwrapped the snake-print scarf around her hips and whirled it about to the beat, moving into the center of the circle. A few people thrust Sahar into the circle, and the attention delighted her. Her gaze held those of her applauding adorers as she twirled, moving her arms up and arching her back forwards and backwards. Before she knew it, Baba was dancing next to her. He gave her a goofy grin, then picked her up off the floor and danced with her in his arms. He held her right hand as though it were a waltz, and he spun and dipped and twisted her atop the inherited rug beneath.

  Sahar noticed Maman watching her and Baba from the outer circle, clapping her hands and laughing as she pulled more guests onto the dance floor. Any protests were in vain. Even Sahar’s great-aunt (the only one who wore the headscarf indoors) joined the dance, veil and all. As soon as the old lady’s foot touched the dance floor the crowd roared with cheer, embarrassing the shy woman even more and extending her smile so far out that it seemed to Sahar it might jump right out of her face, like the Cheshire cat in one of her brothers’ picture books.

  When the music died down, the singing began. Unlike the modern Persian pop songs they danced to, the live instruments emitted classical Persian music. Khaleh Zahra accompanied the singing with the daff that Baba recovered from the bedroom closet, slapping its side to make the metallic rings on the exterior jingle jangle. Amoo Hassan helped himself to the tambak that always sat in the corner of the living room, expertly playing the animal skin drum-box with the palm of his hand and the tabs of his fingers. Sahar and Narges were old enough to stay awake until the party ended and joined in the songs. Sahar’s favorite songs were the ones that everyone in the group sang together.

  Baroon barooneh, zamina tar mishe

  (It’s the rain that’s raining, dampening the grounds)

  Golnessaa janom, karaa behtar mishe

  (My darling Golnessa, things will improve)

  Doone haye baroon bebarin aroomtar

  (Oh rain, please fall more gently)

  Golhaye narenj dare hamishe par

  (The petals of the lovely orange blossoms are being destroyed)

  golnessaye mano mid
an be shohar

  (they’re giving my Golnessa to another)

  Khodaye mehraboon too in zemestoon

  (oh God, please this winter)

  ya mano bokosh ya oon on astoon

  (kill me, but don’t take her away from me)

  baroon barooneh zaminaa tar mishe

  (it’s the rain that’s raining, dampening the grounds)

  Golnessaa janom karaa behtar mishe

  (my dearest love Golnessa, things will improve

  The real songs, however, started much later, after midnight when everyone was sure that anyone with any possible link to the regime had left. Amoo Hassan’s tambak tapped like a soft rain. Khaleh Zahra’s daff caught up very quickly, and they all gave voice to the song they always sang in secret. A song addressed to a flower, because only it could keep the secrets of their hearts.

  Goleh pooneh, goleh pooneh,

  (Oh, flower pooneh, dearest flower pooneh,)

  Delam az zendegi khooneh.

  (My heart is bleeding from life.)

  Tu in donya-eh varooneh

  (In this mixed-up world)

  Baram hargoosheh zendooneh.

  (Every corner is a prison.)

  Baraye, masty o’ saghy

  (For drunken-ness and bartenders)

  Namoondeh hormaty baghy.

  (There is nothing precious left.)

  To har koocheh, baraye esgh

  (In every street, the reward for love)

  Mohaya, moondeh shalaghy.

  (Is nothing but the lashes of the whip.)

  Afsseus, afsseus, afsseus.

  (Oh, alas. Alas. Alas.)

  Goleh pooneh, goleh pooneh,

  (Oh, flower pooneh, dearest flower pooneh,)

  Delam az zendegi khooneh.

  (My heart is bleeding from life.)

  Kasy jos to nemeedoneh

  (No one but you knows)

  Cheghdre khabam parishooneh.

  (How disturbed my sleep is.)

  Sofoofeh asheghan,

  (The bliss of lovers)

  Peyvasteh

  (Is in the past.)

  Be maslagh meeravan,

  (They walk to the firing squad,)

  Aheste.

  (Slowly. Slowly.)

  Kabootarha hame

  (All the doves)

  As ghombada khaste.

  (Are tired of the rounded roofs of the mosques.)

  Tu in donya-eh varooneh,

  (In this mixed-up world)

  Nagol moondeh, nagol khooneh.

  (There remains neither a flower, nor a flower house.)

  Sare deevare harkhooneh

  (On the wall of each house)

  Faghaght joghdeh, ke mekhooneh

  (There sits only an owl, singing:)

  Afsseus, afsseus, afsseus

  (Alas, alas, alas.)

  Goleh pooneh,

  (Oh, flower pooneh,)

  Mage donya-eh ma khabeh?

  (Is it that the universe is asleep?)

  Nemeebeenee, mage,

  (Don’t you see? Is it that)

  Cheshme Khoda khabe?

  (The eyes of God are asleep?)

  Ke ba esmesh,

  (That in His name,)

  yeky as gardeh rah oomad

  (Someone arrived from the road,)

  Khoda ra yad kardo

  (And in the His honor,)

  eshgho gardan zad?

  (beheaded Love?)

  Gooleh pooneh, goleh pooneh

  (Oh flower pooneh, Oh flower pooneh,)

  Agar emrooz delam khooneh,

  (If today my heart is bleeding,)

  Ommeedam zendeh memooneh

  (My hopes remain alive)

  Kedonyara belarzooneh,

  (And will rattle the World)

  Farda, farda, farad

  (Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.)

  Sahar sang along with everyone else. She saw that many others closed their eyes and swayed their heads from side to side as they sang. Sahar liked to keep her eyes open so that she could watch the stage that was the room and direct the characters to move as she commanded. Their singing was soft, but powerful. Narges walked over to Maryam jan and climbed into her lap. Maryam jan wrapped her arms around her daughter and wiped her tears away. When the song finished, they started it again from the beginning. And again. And again. Sahar felt such sweetness in their harmony. And so much meditative focus. They were lost in the moment, in the music, and in each other’s somber company and full hearts. “Afsseus, afsseus, afsseus . . .” she sang her own last name loudly, the sorrowful expression that was “alas”. She hummed and crooned with the other singer-citizens until their energy was too drained to sing anymore. And then silence filled the room. A pause to ponder, think and hope. And Sahar did. She thought, surely, one day, things would change. She would dance in the streets to whatever songs she wanted, wearing a purple T-shirt with short sleeves and blue jeans with pink ruffles on the cuffs. Maman would display her paintings again, even the naked ones. Baba would write more poetry, about love, and publish it. It was Baba who broke the silence, evidently having decided that this was the ideal moment to tell their loved ones the news that converted a simple dinner party into a goodbye party.

  Sahar thought he deserved a spotlight. Lights, dim. Audience, hush. Funny wrinkles around Baba’s eyes and small movements of his lips, on display. She watched Baba tell their world about their exit visas, and their entrance visas for America. Sahar saw everyone in the room sink a little further into their chairs. Their world’s tears multiplied in a mixed display of sorrow and joy.

  Sahar moved to Narges who vaporized into fog.

  “Make sure to write and visit. And don’t forget you’re Iranian.” Narges’ voice had a bleak melody to it.

  “And dust your maman’s paintings,” Amoo Hassan said from behind her. “That’s your job because she always forgets and your baba is useless in these regards.”

  Sahar wondered if by leaving, they were quitting, like Amoo Hassan had said, or if they were winning, as Baba insisted. Amoo Hassan held her hands as though she were an adult, then picked her up and twirled her as though she were his own. She giggled and saw, from across the room, that Baba, like the others, wept.

  “Well now, let’s forget about our sorrows and play a poetry game!” Maman said.

  “Of course you’d make that suggestion, Samira, you always win!” Khaleh Zahra joked.

  “Now, now, it isn’t my wife’s fault that she’s brilliantly memorized every poem Hafez ever wrote!” Baba flattered.

  “I’ll get us started,” Amoo Hassan said. “‘Last night I dreamed that angels stood without the tavern door, and knocked in vain, and wept; They took the clay of Adam, and, me thought; Molded a cup therewith while all men slept. Oh dwellers in the halls of Chastity! You brought Love’s passionate red wine to me, Down to the dust I am, your bright feet stept’.”

  “Come on, Samira. You need one that starts with ‘t’!”

  “‘That is not the flame of Love's true fire; Which makes the torchlight shadows dance in rings; But where the radiance draws the moth's desire!’ Now give me an ‘e’!”

  “‘Even before you were born,” Maman continued. “He also, being the Divine Creator; Has etched every moment of your existence with His own hand; With the precision and care No artist ever could.’ I need a ‘d’.”

  Her baba jumped right in. “‘Dear ones; Use your own storytelling abilities; To end this tale; In a way that will most; Uplift your heart’.”

  And so they went, quoting ancient poetry, banking the fires of their lives and memories. Later that night, after the last guests had left, Maman finished the clean-up and Baba checked on the twins. Sahar sat by the window and conjured an image of Mr. Glossies. She supposed the widower-neighbor was sitting by the open window in his bedroom directly above her, only half hidden by the velvet curtain to his left, breathing in Tehran’s air. He had, she was nearly certain, spent the entire night at that window, listening to the sounds of song and
laughter and poetry from the apartment below.

  The life of the living—those who still had something to live for—moved like a smell under his abundant, gangly nose-hairs. She thought that if happiness had a sound, Mr. Glossies could not hear it, but maybe he could hear the echo of it. Like when someone walks behind you and you do not see them, but they have the sun behind their back so you can see their shadow and know they are there. She thought that as the sounds grew faint and the music subsided, Mr. Glossies kept his vigil of the courtyard below, watching the Afsseus’ family and friends leave the building, one by one, whispers and giggles, making sure they locked the gates behind them. Maybe if someone forgot to lock the gate, he would yell after them to lock it, or run after them and bolt it shut himself. The women would be covered up again, just like they had been when they had first entered the courtyard. Their stilettos back in their handbags and containers of leftover stew and rice pudding in their hands. The men would be sweaty from their dancing and drinking. They would smell of cigarettes and Turkish coffee. When the courtyard had been empty for a long time, when he was sure the last guest had left and the gates were locked up behind them, Mr. Glossies, with the sockets full of sorrow under his eyes, would slowly walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

  Sahar could almost hear his footsteps, until the sirens interrupted her scene. Sirens, but not Red Alert, getting louder and closer. Real ones—not imagined. A police van pulled up to their courtyard and two fat men shoved their way past the gate.

  “Baba! Maman!”

  “Shh,” Baba whispered. “Your brothers are sleeping.”

  “But the police are here!”

  Her parents were next to her window in half a second and pouring the remainder of their alcohol into the toilet and hiding their record collection behind the sliding shelf in the hallway closet half a second after that.

  But the police were not there for them.

  An hour or so later, because she heard voices in the courtyard again, Sahar crawled out of her bed and sat by the windowsill of the small room she shared with her brothers. The moon was out, shining like a spotlight on the men carrying Mr. Glossies’ fabric-covered body out on a stretcher. A woman who looked like Mr. Glossies, maybe his sister, was talking to some men. Sahar tried to overhear. Broken water glass in the kitchen. Gasping for air. Clutching his heart. They put his lonesome body, the only remnant of his unremarkable life, in the back of a van. His crying sister sat in the front. They drove off.