“We have to finish—”
“And prepare for dinner, I know, I know,” Samira said. “Oh how I love our nightly family dinners of silence. At least Gita’s frosty glares have melted into ambivalence.”
“No, dear, you’re invited to dinner at the Bahmani house tonight.”
“Vay Khoda, I completely forgot it’s Thursday! What time is it?”
“You have time to get ready but you should probably head upstairs now.”
“I was really enjoying this piece.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday. Mr. Olum is off and you’ll have all day to paint. And one more thing,” Mrs. Darkan said. “There’s a new tape.”
“There is?” Samira nearly dropped her brush. “Since when?”
“I heard it at the mosque during today’s noon prayer.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Samira was frustrated. “You promised me you would tell me about the next tape as soon as it was smuggled in!”
“I know you’re not one of his supporters . . . I didn’t want to upset you.”
“What did he say?”
“You know, the usual. Lecturing against materialism and blaming the West for corrupting the rulers here in Iran.”
“You have to give it to him. The man is a genius.”
“The Ayatollah Khomeini?”
“Absolutely. The Shah exiles him to Iraq. When he’s still trouble, the Shah pressures the Iraqis to get rid of him and the Ayatollah ends up in Paris. Now he’s in a free country and can lecture and sermon as much as he wants! No matter what the Shah does to censor him, there’s nothing he can do to stop his followers from smuggling in taped sermons. Nothing he can do to prevent the mosques from playing them during prayer time. What’s he going to do? Shut down mosques? Even he wouldn’t go that far.”
“I don’t know, Samira Khanum, but I think the Ayatollah is making some sense. He’s right—in Islam there’s no place for royalty and excess. And you of all people should appreciate his calls for freedom to practice your religion. It took you years to get used to living without your veil. Frankly, I don’t know if you ever got used to it.”
Samira longed for the days when she could freely express her faith and tradition. But it was one thing to preach freedom of religion, and another to practice it once in power. Samira worried that the Ayatollah’s promises were just that. Empty promises. No religious zealot had ever led a free people. Samira feared that the Ayatollah would be no exception. His rhetoric aside.
“Maybe,” was all Samira said.
“Now go on. You’ll be late for dinner. I’d guess Laleh is already up there.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Darkan. What would I do without you?”
“Always be late to dinner parties,” Mrs. Darkan said plainly.
When Samira entered her suite, Laleh was just finishing laying out newspapers. She knew Samira’s habits. Samira would be encouraged to express her opinions regarding whatever topic the men discussed, from the factors that led to the French revolution to the price of cars on the European market. Her understanding of subjects that normally dominated the realm of male privilege was impressive to most, offensive to a few traditionalists, and a great source of pride to Davoud. Catching up with the news she had missed, therefore, was a must.
“What do you have there?”
“The New York Times, Kayhan, Le Monde, and the Daily Telegraph. All dated last Thursday, except for the Kayhan which is dated yesterday.”
Samira flipped through the papers. “I’ll take The New York Times. I’ve read the rest. Thank you.” Samira skimmed through the paper while Laleh drew the bath. “Look at this, Laleh.” Samira smirked.
“Yes, Khanum,” Laleh said without stopping her work.
“Look at how strange the American media is! On the cover of the paper is ‘the Raiders defeat the Vikings, thirty two to fourteen’.”
“Yes, Khanum?”
“That’s American football, Laleh. It’s the score for the championship game.” Samira went on, mostly for her own amusement. “That’s on the front page. You actually have to flip to the second to last page of the paper to read an article about the massive amounts of military and financial aid the Americans are giving to the Shah. You see what I’m saying?”
“Your bath is ready.”
“Hm? Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Shall I come back to help with your hair, Khanum?”
“No, thank you. I’m just going to wear it down.”
Laleh left the room and Samira stepped into her bath. Closed her eyes. And thought. The Ayatollah would say the military aid is to prevent an uprising. But no one really thought there would be an uprising. So why the aid? She opened her eyes, took the woven washcloth, and began to wash. To strengthen Iran. That’s what it’s for. A key American ally. Against who? “The Soviets,” she said aloud. “A shared enemy. So this is why the article is in the back of the paper!” She found the “news” more and more amusing every day. “Strengthening an ally against the Soviets isn’t nearly as important as who won the Super Bowl!”
She stepped out of the bath and applied her body lotion. Davoud liked her soft and supple. She rubbed lower back, inner thighs, stomach and breasts. Then she sat in the armchair in front of the vanity mirror and brushed her hair. What was it about the way that Maman brushed her hair that was so much better than how she herself could brush it? She wished Maman was with her right now. That she did not have to powder her face right now, or apply mascara on her lashes. She opened up her lipstick. Vermillion. She preferred the peach. But this shade was Davoud’s favorite. She applied it. The new silk mini-dress. Lavender with a scoop neck.
She wondered if she should have a new conversation with Davoud about picking up the headscarf again. She could choose a silk fabric. Something modern. A complex pattern. Something with a foreign label on it. Wear it with big sunglasses and look like a movie star.
No. He would never concede.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Shoes. She needed shoes. The silver ones with the strap across the ankle. She was in the mood for comfort tonight and they were the lowest heels in her closet.
There was a knock at the door. Laleh had a message.
“Yes? What does he want?”
“He wants you to wear the black shoes he brought back from Paris last week.”
“He sent you to tell me what shoes to wear?”
Laleh nodded.
“But they don’t look . . . with the dress . . .” Why must he do this? She screamed inside her head. Control everything. Even my goddamn shoes. “Fine.” She slammed the door. Take off the silver. Put on the black. But wipe off the lipstick. Peach tonight.
One last look in the mirror.
How pathetic, she thought. My greatest rebellion is the shade of my lipstick. She said, “No,” to nothing. “Yes,” to everything. She had not even gone through with her plans to restart praying. Something he would never even know. Something she could easily do in secret. She felt like a coward. Moments later, Samira descended the staircase to the music room. The folded doors were open and Davoud could be seen downing a glass of scotch by the wet bar in the corner.
“My dear, you’re stunning.” He put his hand on her hip and moved his finger up her waist. “Love the shoes.”
“Thank you,” she said, adjusting the clasp of her earring and refusing to look into his eyes. He traced his finger back up to her breast and hooked it around the strap of her dress. It was obvious that he was thinking of slipping it off and taking her right then. The thought made her sick. She still refused to look into his eyes.
“A drink before we head out?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m not—”
“I’m glad I caught you before you left!” Gita flew into the room and walked up to Samira as Davoud released her.
“What’s going on?” He scowled.
“Well, I was just wondering, must the housekeeper spend her days sitting for portrait sessions?”
Oh dear. How did she f
ind out?
“Mrs. Darkan?” Davoud said with surprise.
“Seriously. I think the woman ought to give up her modeling career to return to actually keeping the house.” Gita gestured as if tempted to order Samira away but stopped herself, knowing she could do no such thing. Samira wondered if Gita had snuck into Samira’s studio and seen the paintings? Maybe the new maid had told her.
“Samira, does Mrs. Darkan sit with you during her working hours?” Davoud poured a small amount of cognac into a snifter.
“It isn’t like that, Davoud,” Samira said, now looking directly at her husband. “She has these soft lines . . . she’s interesting, for God’s sake. And no, it’s never during work hours.”
Davoud sipped his liqueur. “Samira, it’s important that we know our staff are performing the jobs for which we’re paying them. It wouldn’t be fair to the other staff if Mrs. Darkan spent all day in your studio now, would it?”
“That’s absurd, Davoud. All of us here know what a hard worker Mrs. Darkan is. She just sits for the occasional portrait, for me, because I ask her to. It’s part of her job, really. I need someone to paint, after all, and who else am I going to find around here?”
“Well, actually, it is not part of her job,” Gita said.
“Alright, alright, calm yourself,” Davoud said.
“Davoud, I’ve had a very bad day. I went to the hair salon this afternoon, except with the ineptitude of electricians nowadays, the whole place had been set on fire! On fire! Something about the wiring, or the fuse, or the circuit, or something. Whatever. I just don’t understand why people can’t get it together. So I’m having a terrible day. Anyway, the point of that is I come home and want to speak with Mrs. Darkan about some staffing issues we’ve been having lately and she’s nowhere to be found. So I ask the new maid, what’s her name? I forget. And she says that ‘Mrs. Darkan often spends hours in Samira Khanum’s studio’. Hours! ‘What are they doing in there,’ I ask? ‘I don’t know much, ma’am,’ she says with her villager accent, ‘but I think she paints in that room’!”
“Was anyone hurt?” Samira asks.
“So I walk toward the studio and I see Mrs. Darkan coming out, closing the door behind her. ‘What were you doing in there?’ I ask. And she lies straight to my face and tells me she was just taking Samira her afternoon tea. It was six in the evening! Really, who has tea at six in the evening?”
“She was bringing me my tea. Now, please tell me, was anyone hurt?”
“What?”
“In the fire. Was anyone hurt in the fire?”
“Oh—well, how would I know?”
“Jafar’s niece works in that salon.”
“Of course, you would know this! The help are all your best friends! Ha! All this tutoring and she makes best friends with the housekeeper! Tell me, Samira, how many portraits have you painted of the housekeeper?”
“A few,” she said, pitying Gita’s aging body.
“How many?”
Over the last two years she had painted more than twenty portraits. Sketched many more. But she would not admit this to Gita. Thankfully, Davoud broke in.
“That’s enough. Now, Samira, I’m sorry but Gita’s right.” That came as a shock. Samira always won against Gita. “It isn’t appropriate. Let the woman do her job. If you care for her, don’t jeopardize her productivity. And if you need a model, we’ll hire people to sit for you.”
Decorum, above all else, Samira thought. Let us keep up appearances.
7
Mr. Bahmani, a distinguished Persian rug exporter whom Samira had never seen without his pipe, had a full table of twelve that evening. Dinner was three different entrée dishes. While Mrs. Bahmani made some remark about their “wonderful cook”, it was obvious she had made the dishes herself. None of them tasted very good. The civil resistance all around them was bad for business, and Mr. Bahmani was just as hurt as any other. He must have fired the cook. There was a worker there, however. Cleaning up the plates and serving the tea. But she did not know her way around the room, nor did she seem even sure of her employers’ names. She must be a temp. To maintain the charade. Signs of decaying wealth did not stop there. Samira noticed, for instance, that Mrs. Bahmani was wearing the same sapphire ring that Mrs. Mehramnia had worn at the last dinner. Samira had heard of women selling their jewellery to the brokers, then renting jewellery back from the broker, perhaps the same pieces they had sold, when the occasion called for it. Perhaps the ring belonged to a third party not present at the table that night and both ladies were renters, but since Mrs. Mehramnia’s eyes would not leave the ring, Samira guessed it used to be hers and had either been rented or purchased by Mrs. Bahmani. Mrs. Bahmani, for her part, seemed oblivious, as she was to most things including the fact that her husband’s new mistress was actually at the table that night (chaperoned by her uncle).
The table was intimate. A man named Hussein Fardust was the only new face, though Samira knew his name well. She had come across him in articles for the last two years. He was a former classmate of the Shah, and had been appointed deputy director of SAVAK (the secret police). He served SAVAK well, leading teams of men who repressed dissident movements through intimidation, exile, imprisonments, assassinations and torture. A deputy director’s appointment was a notable accomplishment, even among Davoud’s circles. It must have come with a great deal of power, but Samira was not certain whether Mr. Fardust still held the post. He blended well with the rest of the table and seemed to enjoy the warmth of the conversation.
“Davoud, why don’t you have children with this goddess?” Mr. Bahmani asked, lighting the pipe that Samira suspected contained more than mere tobacco.
“Oh, so I suppose this means we’re moving away from discussing Chopin’s love affair with George Sand,” Samira said, hoping to deflect him. “You know they just unearthed one of her letters to him?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Sayooni from the other end of the table. “I just read that . . . where was it?”
“Le Monde.” Samira sipped her champagne.
“Yes!”
Mr. Bahmani refused to surrender. “Come now, I’m serious. George Sand . . . or Armandine Aur . . . whatever her real name was—”
“Armandine Lucile Aurore Dupin,” Samira answered.
“Right. Armandine—”
“And later, the Baroness Dudevant.”
“Baroness Lucile Aurore Dudevant and her love letters to Chopin will still be there in a moment.” Mr. Bahmani insisted. “I want to know why Davoud isn’t having children with this intoxicating wife of his.”
“Well, let’s see,” Davoud answered. “I already have two children, Bahmani. I desire no more.”
“But it’s a shame for there to be only one of her, don’t you think? You owe it to her to get her pregnant, man! That porcelain skin! Besides, doesn’t she want children?”
“Why, of course she does,” interrupted Mrs. Bahmani. “Every woman wants children.”
“Not every woman,” Davoud said. “Some women desire education and advancement more than childrearing.” No one seemed offended by this insult. “She’s devoted to her studies, her music and her painting. Perhaps someday, after her studies are completed. She’s still young. Only twenty five. Plenty of time.”
“Twenty five is not young. And even if it was, you’re getting old, my friend,” said Mrs. Bahmani, who perhaps had understood the insult and was jabbing back. “You don’t have plenty of time.”
The table tickled with laughter. As Samira did her best to appear amused, her heart sank. A baby. Especially a baby girl. Her own blood near her. Reminding her of what was real. What mattered. Davoud continued to refuse. Producing a litter of children that would take you away from your talents is exactly the kind of destiny I’ve rescued you from. Do you want to be like everyone else? Do you want to be ordinary? Of course not. Trust me. This is the best thing for you.
She had to change the subject. Anything was better than her barren womb. Politics was always a
good distraction.
“Anyway, who can bring children in this world? Our country is in a state of turmoil.”
“As you know, my family and I have provided a great deal of support for the Crown, put our lives at risk, in fact, to ensure its survival,” Davoud said, obviously eager to change the topic too. “I’m loyal to it. But this country isn’t without its problems. The people aren’t imagining their poverty and unemployment. The best thing for the Shah would be to recognize the pains of his own people.”
“I agree,” Samira said. “Tudeh is gaining strength.”
“Those communists won’t be happy until all our businesses are bankrupt!” said Mr. Mansouri. Indeed, he stood to lose a great deal, including his monopoly of the paper mills, should the government fail.
“And the strength of the clerics increases,” Samira continued. “I think we can all agree those clerics are far worse than anything the people deal with now.”
“Ah—the clerics aren’t nearly as threatening,” said Mr. Sayooni. “What are they going to do? The Shah will just exile the troublemakers.”
“I think you underestimate them,” Samira said. “The Ayatollah’s power grows every day he spends in exile. Talk of enghelab permeates every shop and teahouse.”
“Revolution?”
“Yes.”
The table erupted into discontent and disagreement.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” one of them said.
“Really, I think that’s stretching it,” said another.
“Why would there be a revolution?” Asked Mr. Mansouri. “Look at history—revolutions only happen when you have financial meltdown or a discontented military. None of that is happening here. Sure, business is bad, but the economy isn’t melting down. And the military is still loyal to the Shah.”
Butterfly Stitching Page 20
