The Street of Butterflies Page 2

  Sunshine lit the living room suddenly, as if warning Sara this day would be different from other days. She got up, collected a few necessary things in a small bag, changed from her nightgown into a light summer dress, pulled on a black chador over her head, and then climbed down the stairs hurriedly. She was partway down when she heard the distinct sound of a car parking by the door. She stopped, held her breath, and waited. Time stood still. For a moment, the silence was deafening. She strained to listen. Would she hear the sound of a key turning in the lock, of the door opening, and see Nozar appear on the threshold with his happy, warm smile? Or would the doorbell ring loudly and insistently, as it had eight years before?

  American Chocolate

  WHEN I WAS IN GRADE TEN I had the worst New Year’s holiday I’d ever had. The first day of the school holiday was fine. I spent it with my immediate family, along with my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other close relatives. We had gathered at my grandparents’ house, as was the custom, to honour my grandparents, the oldest and most dignified members of the clan. But my two younger brothers got sick that day and after that, for the rest of the holiday, I had to stay home to look after them.

  The Iranian New Year is celebrated on March 21, which coincides with the first day of spring, so we were observing the revival of nature as well. It was unfortunate that I had to spend the holiday confined indoors with two sick brothers. I should have spent the time outside, enjoying nature, and playing with my friends.

  Hamadan, the city where I was born and raised, is in the west of Iran, at the foot of the Alvand Mountains. Hamadan, historically, is reputed to be the first capital of Persia, the ancient name for Iran. The only remainder of Hamadan’s magnificent history is a stone lion that sits in a deserted area far from the centre of the city. Before the Arabs invaded Persia and destroyed all its glories, the stone lion had been located atop the city’s gate. It is said that the stone lion has the power to make wishes come true. I always felt pity for the poor stone lion, forced to witness the desperation of people for whom God did nothing. But during the holiday, I often thought about going to the lion and wishing for freedom from my sick brothers!

  Finally, the two-week school holiday was over. When it was time to return to school, I was like a bird who’d found a way to fly out of its cage.

  To get to my school, I had to walk along Booali Street and past the monument of Ebne Sina, a famous physician and scientist-philosopher from one thousand years ago. The monument is a symbol of pride for our city. The peak of a tall and magnificent minaret that stands next to the monument seems to touch the blue sky. These were a soothing contrast to my dreary New Year’s holiday spent inside, catering to the demands of my brothers.

  When I entered the schoolyard, I saw my friend Mina, a classmate since grade one. She ran over, hugged me, and handed me a parcel: “It’s for you.” Mina began pouring out the story of her trip to Tehran, the capital of our country—a place I dream of visiting once in a while. I opened the parcel. It was a tiny, silver bird hanging on thin chain. I’d never had anything like it before and thanked her profusely.

  The first class was history. As our teacher lectured us in his coarse, husky voice, the door to the classroom opened and our janitor popped her head in. The teacher stopped talking, angry at this unusual intrusion. The class sat immobile; we were in a state of suspense and fear.

  Ignoring the teacher’s irritation, the janitor scanned the class, obviously looking for someone. Surprisingly, her eyes landed on me and she told me that I had to go to the office. In that moment, I thought my heart was going to stop beating.

  Being called to the office usually signaled a death in the family, an accident, some kind of bad behaviour, or a very bad report card. For the grade ten students who were eligible to marry, it sometimes meant a suitor, a very impatient one, unable to wait for a few hours to see his presumptive bride when she got home from school. All these possibilities crossed my mind as I followed the janitor to the office, my heart hammering in my chest. Even when I noticed the exhilaration on the face of the vice-principal, I never imagined there might be extraordinary news for me, news that could change my whole life as abruptly as the wind takes a feather to the sky.

  The vice-principal gently placed her hand on my back and led me to a chair. Assertive and open-minded, she was a strong believer in women’s education and liberation. Whenever she had the chance, she advised us not to yield to our parents’ will to marry before finishing our education and instead to get a degree or a job that would allow us to be independent.

  The vice-principal’s voice, like a glass of cool water, calmed my racing heart. She was wearing a navy jacket over a sky-blue shirt and a pale grey skirt. I could smell a trace of delicate lilac perfume. Sitting in front of me, she looked like a movie star.

  “My dear girl,” she said, “you have been chosen from among all the grade ten students in Hamadan to go to Beirut to study at the American University. Your marks and your behaviour have been remarkable over the past few years. The principal, your teachers, and I, believe that you are the best candidate for this scholarship. We know that you wish to continue your studies and pursue an education in medicine at the University of Tehran, so we referred you to the committee and they have selected you.”

  Before I could digest what I was hearing, she continued, “These opportunities are part of the American plan to educate the citizens of the Third World countries, and improve their quality of life.”

  I had heard the term “Third World countries” from American visitors to our school. They usually came in pairs, a man and a woman, or two women, and often showed us a short film about American lives, American children, and American plans for the underdeveloped countries.

  Frankly, the term offended me. I didn’t like to hear it from the vice-principal, who had taught us to be proud of our nationality. Deep in my heart, I couldn’t believe that Persia, with its glorious past—one of the oldest monarchies in the world before the Islam invasion, a land with more than three thousand years of history—would be considered a “Third World country.”

  The vice-principal’s words left me speechless for another reason. Since grade seven, when I started to read novels and poetry, I had been captivated by literature, and one of my dreams was to become a famous writer. Study medicine? I’d never expressed that intention to anyone, although it was my family’s wish for me. Even so, I knew that being invited to attend the American University was an opportunity beyond my wildest dreams. Going to Beirut was like a gate opening into heaven.

  I jumped in my chair when the bell rang for recess, still not quite trusting what I’d heard. The vice-principal repeated her words even more fervently, and congratulated me again on my bright future. Then she pointed to a box of chocolates on her desk, and invited me to take one. “It’s American chocolate,” she smiled. “They brought it for the school to celebrate your achievement.” I took one and put it in my mouth, startled by its pungent flavour. I left the office with the bittersweet taste of chocolate filling my mouth.

  Mina and some other students had gathered by the office door to wait for me. They encircled me, asking excitedly what was going on. I couldn’t answer them; I was still stunned by the news. Was it true? Was I really going to go to Beirut, a city described as the “Paris of the Middle East” on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea?

  Mina pulled me aside, sympathy in her eyes. “What happened? Tell me,” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, swallowing the last of chocolate. Its acrid taste was still bothering me.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you going to get married?”

  “No,” I said, offended.

  “What is it then?”

  The other students gathered around us. My eyes met those of Pooran. She was standing a little apart, as if she didn’t care what might have happened to me. She was a self-important girl from a wealthy family who competed with me in many
subjects. But her marks were never as high as mine. She was tall and slender, with long braids falling down her back. I looked at her directly. “They’re going to send me to Beirut.”

  The students crowded around me more closely, their eyes full of surprise and envy. “Beirut? For what purpose?”

  “To study medicine,” I said loudly, to be sure Pooran would hear.

  Returning to the classroom, I felt weightless. Happiness engulfed me like a thick cloud. The vice-principal’s words had finally sunk in. I passed the rest of the day in a state of ecstasy. My classmates stared at me as if I possessed a special nobility. I smiled at them, grateful to my lucky star.

  The news lit the gloomy atmosphere at home with hope and pride. My fear that my parents would be against the idea vanished as soon as they realized the scholarship would bring me prosperity. That their young daughter might study at an American university was beyond their imagining, and the fact that I had been offered such a golden opportunity transformed me into their genius child. From then on, whenever we heard a plane crossing the sky, my little sister called me, imagining that the plane had come to take me to Beirut.

  For the next two months, I was the centre of attention at home and at school. There wasn’t a single day when my friends didn’t talk about my good fortune. My older brother had given me a pamphlet about the American University that featured photographs of smiling girls and boys with piles of books under their arms. Their happy faces populated my fantasies.

  Two weeks before final exams, again, during history class, the janitor appeared at the classroom door and asked me to go to the office. Waiting there were two strangers, Americans. I was mesmerized by the man’s big body, his bulging blue eyes, and his nearly bald head. The woman, tall and slim, fixed her inquisitive black eyes on me as I spoke. They questioned me about my family, and I did my best in my broken English to answer. But when I told them about my father’s job—an accountant in a construction company—and his income, they seemed to lose interest in me. I was perplexed. After the bell rang for recess, my classmates gathered around me, wanting to know what had happened. Pooran was among them, staring at me with her large, dark eyes, her braids curled on the top of her head, fixed with a shiny green barrette. Then the janitor came out into the yard and this time called Pooran to the office. Afterward, she didn’t say a single word to anyone about her summons, but I worried that the Americans’ might prefer to give the scholarship to her. Pooran’s father owned a large pharmacy in the main square of the city. Her family had been wealthy for generations, and their roots were spread all over Hamadan.

  It seemed obvious to me then that Pooran was the preferable candidate for the American university, not me. But I couldn’t easily abandon the dream of going to Beirut. One day I went to the barren area where the stone lion lay down on the ground, looking lonely and miserable in the late spring afternoon sunshine. I put my hands on the stone and cried desperately, beseeching the lion to make my wish come true.

  I waited until the very last day of school, although I was burning to my bone to know what had happened to my scholarship. Finally, I went to the office and knocked on the door. The vice-principal opened the door and came out into the hall. She was wearing a flowery dress with short sleeves. Her face looked tired and her hair was a little dishevelled. Her lipstick had faded.

  She put her hands on my shoulders, and began, “My dear girl….”

  She didn’t need to continue. Her sympathetic eyes and pitying voice clearly communicated her news. I had not been chosen by the Americans. She and the principal had done their best to convince them that I was more intelligent than Pooran, but they had not been successful. The vice-principal encouraged me not to give up hope, to study as hard as I always had. I would stand highest in my entrance exam for the medical faculty at the University of Tehran, she predicted, and I wouldn’t need to go far away to a foreign country or beg Americans for assistance. After almost fifteen minutes, I came to my senses and thanked her for her words. Her hands were still on my shoulders, and her compassion touched me. “Don’t worry. You’re young and there will be many opportunities in front of you.” She wished me a relaxing summer and suggested I forget about the American university.

  I said goodbye with a lump in my throat, then rushed to the washroom to hide my tears of humiliation from Mina and the others. I came out only when I was sure no one was in the schoolyard and walked straight home. I chose to go the long way, through the alleys, not along Booali Street and past the monument of Ebne Sina. I didn’t want him to observe my tears either.

  A few weeks later, as I sat on our veranda having tea with my aunt, my mother, my younger brothers, and my sister, a plane appeared in the blue sky. A sharp pain in my chest brought tears to my eyes. Everyone in my family had been careful not mention the scholarship. But my sister was too young to realize what had happened. She pointed to the plane and said, “Look, it’s coming to take Mehri to Beirut.” My mother slapped my sister’s hand, told her not to say that ever again. My sister started to cry. By then, my own tears had already taken shape and were streaming down my face.

  The following fall, when I started grade eleven, I was astonished to see Pooran in the yard, talking to Mina. I hugged Mina and then reluctantly hugged Pooran, too. I was wondering whether to ask her about scholarship, but then, I couldn’t stand it anymore and blurted out, “Why are you here? What happened to the scholarship?”

  “My father wouldn’t let me accept it.”

  “Why?” I asked, stupefied.

  “Because it was rightfully yours and….”

  I didn’t hear the rest of her words. I hugged her again and we walked into the classroom together.

  Inexplicable

  ZINAT WAS SITTING ON THE SOFA, watching television, and Taher, as usual, had taken refuge in his own room after having had a light dinner. Zinat didn’t remember how long it had been since they had started sleeping in separate bedrooms. It might have begun when they moved to this apartment and she got into the habit of staying up late at night. When Taher would ask her, “Don’t you want to go to bed?” Zinat would say no timidly and without looking at him, as if going to bed with her husband was a sin. She never told him she was waiting for Mahan, but Taher could see in her eyes that she hadn’t lost hope that Mahan would come home, and that maybe he would arrive late at night. He would shake his head without saying a word, pick up the newspaper, go to what used to be their bedroom, and quietly close the door. Then there would just be Zinat and the TV. She would turn the volume low so as not to disturb Taher and as she watched the images on the screen, her thoughts would wander. Sometimes she would fall asleep on the sofa without turning the TV off. Then she would wake up startled, turn her head to look at the apartment door, waiting for Mahan to open it and come in. After a while, she succumbed to a deep depression, sighing helplessly and muttering to herself that he wouldn’t show up that night, either. She would turn the TV off, go to Mahan’s room, spread a sheet over his bed and lie down, covering herself with a blanket and falling into a deep asleep.

  Waiting for Mahan, her thoughts often went back to when they were living in their previous house. Their bedrooms were on the second floor. The room she had shared with Taher, and Mahan’s room, faced the front yard, but Parastoo’s room looked out on their backyard and the neighbours’ house.

  Parastoo bedroom’s walls had been covered with posters of actors, actresses, and singers. Zinat remembered one of them very clearly, though she’d forgotten his name. Parastoo said he was a black man, but in the poster he looked like a white woman with long black hair.

  Mahan’s bedroom had two big posters: Chegoara, on the back of his bedroom door, and the other one, a tall black man aiming a ball at a basketball hoop; it looked as if a strong wind had lifted him up, his arm and shoulder muscles bulging as he holds and aims the ball. Zinat was familiar with Chegoara’s name, as she’d heard it often and had seen his photograph everywhere.
There was also a book in Mahan’s room about him, with the same photo on its cover.

  During those times, Parastoo was busy with a bunch of girlfriends coming and going. When she finished high school, she took the university exam but failed. Then she fell in love with the neighbours’ son. They married, and during the war between Iran and Iraq, they left Iran for Germany to continue their education. They finished school, but preferred to live in Germany; they came back to Iran only for brief visits.

  Mahan was a university student in those days and was hardly ever at home, even though the universities were closed. Mahan disappeared a few months after Parastoo’s departure for Germany. He had left the house one day as he did every day. He never told Zinat or Taher where he was going, but he always came back, sometimes late at night, sometimes early the next morning.

  Zinat had forgotten the actual date that Mahan had left the house for the last time, but he had called home a few days later. Zinat had gone shopping, so when he phoned Taher had answered the ring. When Zinat returned, Taher told her that Mahan had called and said that he’d be back within a few days.