“You’ll have to set up an appointment with a specialist,” Dr. Maklini said to Davoud. “Noise-induced hearing loss can seriously damage the hair cells in the inner ear. Hair cells are small sensory cells that convert sound energy into electrical signals that travel to the brain. Once damaged, they generally don’t grow back.”
“So, I could have permanent hearing loss?”
“You’ll need a full examination.” He pulled out a black address book from his medical bag and flipped through it. “Yes, here she is. Zeeba Adel. Dr. Adel. She’s the woman you want to see. I’ve got the number.” He ripped a page out of the back of the little book, wrote down the information, and gave it to Davoud who stuffed it in his pocket. Then Dr. Maklini turned to Samira,
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be alright. Don’t you worry.”
She wondered how he could speak with her in such a patronizing tone. As if she were an idiot.
“And anyway, you’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
That part may have been true.
“You really should carry some identification with you when you run in the future, darling,” he said to Samira.
When I run in the future, Samira thought. “I can’t run anymore. They said . . .”
“Sure you can,” Davoud said. “Maybe just more covered up.”
“No! They said—”
“I have something that’ll cheer you up!” Davoud walked to the mantle and brought to her a big box. He insisted that she open it, despite the fact that she could not sit up without assistance. The box contained a new hat, pink with a lace trim and fuchsia ribbons. Samira could not believe it. How can he think a hat will cheer me up after such an attack? What world does he live in?
“Since your head is injured, perhaps we’ll have Mrs. Darkan try it on!” Davoud’s suggestion was met with Mrs. Darkan’s frown, which convinced him to put the hat away. “Well, perhaps when you’re better.”
Samira knew she would never wear the hat. That it would be replaced by a veil. Not a veil of her choosing, but one forced on her by men like the ones who had attacked her. She remembered her red scarf and its butterfly pattern. She remembered the night Maman had stitched it. Maman’s sweet, disapproving voice. Vay Khoda, I could never wear anything like that headscarf, and you shouldn’t either, child.
“Please tell me the story, Maman jan. I’ve had such a long day.”
“Basheh, Basheh, stop your nagging now. Well, alright. Let’s see. It was in the spring.”
“What month, Maman?”
“Oh, you know I can never remember that . . .”
She felt the tickle of the brush softly running through her hair. She had asked for fifty strokes and Maman had agreed. Tears strolled down her cheeks for what was becoming of her beloved Iran. For the Ayatollah’s betrayals of everything he had promised. For the loss of freedom of speech and freedom of religion, both replaced by advocacy of the veil upon the masses. Davoud and his intense desire to westernize had denied her the tradition she still longed for, but the new leaders of her country would do far worse. They would rob her of that tradition altogether, then use it, use God, to manipulate and control the nation.
“Oh it’s alright, dear,” Davoud said, seeing her tears. “You’ll be fine! Does your head hurt?”
Samira said nothing and turned away from him.
“I think it’s time we helped you clean up,” Mrs. Darkan said. “You’re still in your running clothes. I’ll call Maryam up so we can wash and change you.”
“Yes, of course,” Davoud said, pulling the piece of paper with the specialist’s name on it out of his pocket and reviewing it. “Wait a minute. Maklini, this is a Tehran address!”
“Well, yes. Dr. Adel is in Tehran.”
“Isn’t there anyone in Tabriz? We’re in the middle of a revolution here. And I have to leave . . .” he turned to Samira. “I’m sorry but I absolutely have to leave for Istanbul tomorrow.”
“Dr. Adel is the best,” Dr. Maklini said. “And Samira Khanum is in no condition to travel alone.”
Samira seized the opportunity.
“Davoud, I can go to Tehran with Gita.” Davoud and Mrs. Darkan both looked at Samira with confusion. But she was not about to give up. “You have to go to Istanbul, I have to go and see the specialist, and Gita would love to see her brother. She’ll accompany me on the trip. She always takes the train, which would be fine. And I can easily take a taxi or something to and from the doctor’s office.”
“You want to go to Tehran with . . . Gita?”
“I mean, you’re right. I’ve never really gotten close to her. But don’t you think it’s time to change all of that?”
“Well, I don’t mind, but—”
“Wouldn’t it be so much better if we all got along?” Samira asked. Davoud was without words. Samira went on. “And anyway, we hardly have any choice.”
“I don’t know,” Davoud said.
Samira thought Dr. Maklini said something, but he had moved over to the door and she could not hear him.
“Yes, I understand,” Davoud said to the doctor, then turned to Samira. “But are you sure you and Gita won’t kill each other?”
“We might not be passionate for one another but we can and should be able to get along for a few hours here or there, don’t you think?”
“Well, I guess so. All right. I’ll speak with her this evening. For now, though, the doctor and I will leave you to wash up and rest.”
“Now come on,” Mrs. Darkan said when the men had left. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.” Samira’s mind was elsewhere. She saw herself step off the train onto the platform, just as she had dreamed. She would see him again. Oh mercy! Her entire world rang with so much excitement that she almost forgot her headache. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”
“Mrs. Darkan! I’m going to see him!”
“Vay Khoda.”
“It’s been over a year!”
“Child, you may be in more trouble than you realize.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your letter.”
“My letter . . . my letter!”
“It was in your pocket.”
“Vay! Oh no!”
“It fell to the ground when Jafar picked you up and he saw it and picked it up.”
“And did he . . .?”
“He gave it to me to return to you but I don’t know if he showed it to Mr. Montazar before that. If he had opened it, read it, only God knows.”
Samira had a sudden feeling of terror but then it occurred to her that he had not seemed angry with her, nor hurt. Nothing in his behavior indicated he had read the letter. Indeed, he had allowed her to travel to Tehran to visit Armin, so he could not know. Surely he did not know.
She breathed a sigh of relief, took the letter from Mrs. Darkan and slid it under her pillow for future concealment in her music box. Maryam walked in just then and she and Mrs. Darkan undressed and bathed Samira before putting her to bed with a sedative from Dr. Maklini.
***
Samira and Gita were both in the kitchen eating their breakfast. They were to leave for Tehran within the hour. Davoud walked in with an announcement.
“Well, my trip was cancelled,” he said. “I’ve decided to join the two of you in Tehran. I called this morning and booked the Hilton. We can stay for the weekend.”
Gita was giddy and would not stop talking about how pleased she was that Davoud was taking a greater interest in her family. She even gave him a big kiss on the cheek, right at the table.
Samira did her best to wipe the look of horror off her face. “Should we call and tell Armin, then?”
“Oh, that’s not really necessary,” Gita responded. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted. Besides, he’ll be at work all day and won’t return until we’re on the train. There’s really no way to reach him. But as I said, I’m sure he’ll be delighted. I am, too!”
Disappointment stung all of Samira’s anticipation. The moments she had hoped to steal w
ith Armin would surely be impossible to arrange now. But at least she would see him again, maybe even shake his hand and feel the touch of his fingers on hers. It would be better than nothing, she supposed. She would still see him on the platform, maybe even share polite kisses on the cheek. Each cheek. She would be able to speak with him, sit close to him, smell the air around him, and maybe, possibly, find some time alone with him. They were, after all, able to do that in the mansion. Anything was possible.
13
Samira sat comfortably in her chair, sipping her drink and looking out of the window.
“How much longer do you think the trains will serve alcohol?” she asked Davoud, who was sitting next to her.
“They’re talking about making even any personal use illegal.”
“The Qur’an only says that one may not approach prayer drunk. It says nothing about a ban on alcohol.”
“The whole country is taken over by a bunch of sober virgins. Or least they claim to be.”
“Davoud!”
“What?”
“You know that kind of talk isn’t safe.”
“Anyone could be listening,” Gita concurred from across the aisle.
Davoud shrugged. Samira thought of Armin. Perhaps he was already there, waiting, for her. She wondered what was going through his head. He was there to pick up the two wives of another man, one of whom was his sister, the other his love. Did his mind race with rehearsals of the scene that would ensue upon their arrival? What did he envision? He would not be expecting Davoud and so he would have planned to steal Samira away for himself. Or at least, so she imagined his imagination . . .
Gita will step off the train first. He’ll help her with her bag and tell her she’ll have her husband all to herself again. Gita would be confused at first but then I’ll appear, stepping off the train amidst the steam of the engine like a dream melting into reality. He’ll run up to me and, before I can say a word, he‘ll pull me into his arms and fit his lips to mine. Bliss. Sweet. Like honeydew quenching our thirst on an August day. Locking lips will unlock our restraints.
I’ll be surprised, of course, but will quickly kiss him back, unafraid, having waited for this moment for an eternity. My lips will be warm and my lipstick will stain his mouth, marking him as mine. He’ll make his proposal there and then. He’ll ask me to run, run with him, run for Love.
He’ll put his sister on the first train back with a note to Davoud, explaining that from now on, he would only have one wife, that we’ve run away to Turkey and he’ll never find us. With his wealth and political connections, Davoud will certainly make every attempt to retrieve me, of course. But he won’t succeed, mostly because we won’t flee to Turkey at all.
Armin, Samira imagined, has the apartment we’ll occupy in Tehran all set up. It’s on the west side, near Armin’s favorite park, where we’ll surely take many walks on nice afternoons. It’s fully furnished as well, with a new television he’s spent a fortune on in the living room. There are two bedrooms: one master bedroom for us to sleep and take comfort in each other’s love, the other for me to use as a studio. Most important, in the top drawer of the nightstand of the master bedroom sit two new passports with two new names. They’ve cost him even more than the television but he needs them for the new life he’s planning for us.
Tehran is a very big city, a modern industrial center prime for getting lost. Everything is a crazy mess with the revolution and a growing conflict with Iraq around us, making it an ideal time to get lost in a frenzy of names. As soon as Armin can save enough money maybe we’ll go to Europe and start a new life there. We can sell some of my jewellery to pay our way—I’ve packed all my most expensive pieces.
He’ll write poetry for me, and still earn a living as an engineer. I’ll paint and paint and paint. And we’ll have babies. Many of them. And the babies will have green eyes like their baba. And we’ll live away from all that was our past.
She imagined he had planned for all of this and imagined his disappointment at seeing Davoud step off the train. None of the plans would be salvaged . . . but . . . maybe next time . . .
Samira looked out now at the fast-approaching platform as the train’s whistle blasted and its brakes screeched. She spotted him on the platform, pacing with his hands behind his back. Near him a weeping couple clung to each other as though this would be their last moment. Others waited to greet passengers on the train. A woman with a funny-looking purple hat shifted her weight from her left leg to her right, back and forth, back and forth, almost as though she had a sudden need to use the bathroom. The woman waved aimlessly at a train car still too far away, Samira thought, for the intended recipient of her attention to notice her. Then there were those who waited to board, traveling to adventure or work, pleasure or obligation. When the train finally stopped, it filled the platform with the fog of its energy, through which the busy bumblebees buzzed together and through each other in search of someone, or themselves. Loud greetings, laughs and soft whispers of goodbyes hung in the air.
Samira lost Armin in the crowd for a second, then found him again. He moved toward her. For a moment she had the impression that she was the maker of it all, as though it was her grand design, this film in which she was the lead actor. She stepped off the train and onto the platform. She did not feel the ground beneath her, as though she was floating toward Armin. But her haze was quickly lifted after seeing the way he was running to her and calling her name! Davoud was, after all, right behind her, and Armin’s behavior was far too aggressive.
Oh Khoda, she thought, perhaps his plans were not far from what she had imagined. As he drew nearer, she knew she should tell him of Davoud’s presence right away. But the second their faces met and before she could say anything about Davoud, Armin grabbed her in his arms, picked her up off the ground with a twirl and pressed his lips against hers. She pushed him away. He looked at her with confusion and pain.
“What are you doing?” she said, covering her lips with her palm and with the slowest of all the movements. She turned her face away from him and toward the train door where her husband stood.
Davoud glared at them.
The moment called for action but this made no sense, and in making no sense, a sensible person could have no sensible reaction to it. Armin looked back at Samira with a pathetic glance, then lowered his head and walked away just as her heart collapsed. Walked away, who knows to where, but away from them.
Away from Samira.
Davoud walked up to Samira and quickly asked, “Was that welcomed by you?”
What was she to say?
“Please answer me.”
She felt like a trapped bird.
“Answer!”
“No,” she managed to whisper.
With that he set off after Armin. Catching up to him was not difficult. Armin’s pace was a bewildered slow motion and his trail a confused zigzag.
“Where are you going?” Davoud yelled. “Stop! Stop you coward!” But Armin, who seemed to be whispering something to himself, kept his eyes focused on the gravel beneath his feet. “So you’re in the business of stealing another man’s wife, but you refuse to look him in the eye?” Davoud pressed. “You’re a coward of the worst kind. A scared mouse pretending to be a thief. Stop. Stop, I said!”
Samira thought she might faint. She looked at Armin. He continued on without taking any notice of Davoud. Davoud finally grabbed Armin’s shoulder from behind and forced him to turn around before using his boxer-strong arms to push Armin into the ground. Oh God, Samira thought. Davoud is so much stronger. He’ll kill him. Then Davoud began punching, pummeling Armin’s ribs, jabbing and breathing heavily. Armin curled up on the ground in a fetal position, trying to protect his face.
Samira wanted to scream at him to do something. Hit back! Run away! Tell him to stop hitting you! Do something!
But Armin said nothing.
He did nothing.
“Davoud!” Gita yelped.
Davoud looked up at her pained eyes, th
en at the pathetic mess of her brother on the platform. He got off Armin. Samira began to walk toward them, but was totally uncertain of what she would do when she caught up. She walked slowly. Tried to figure out an action plan. A way out.
“Get up,” Davoud said, taking a boxer’s posture, fists in the air, weight shifting from one leg to the other. “Get up and deal with this like a man. Get up!”
Samira was now near enough to touch each of them. She focused, however, on just one. She extended her arms toward Davoud and placed her strangely calm hands on his jittery ones, sweetly lowering them to his sides. As Armin looked up at her from the ground, Davoud’s breathing imitated her tempo, slowing down, relaxing, complying. Davoud allowed her to lower his arms, looked Armin in the eyes with such determination that it would frighten any man, “If you ever touch my wife again, I’ll kill you.”
With this, Davoud looked at Samira. Ready to be led away. Ready to dismiss all of this as a briefly intrusive nightmare. Which was not to be. Armin stood.
“Your wife?” he said. “You mean your slave, don’t you?”
“My what?” Davoud said, turning back.
His what? Samira thought.
“You heard me.” There was no hope of peace now, she knew. It was there on Armin’s face. “Your slave.”
“Armin, please don’t do this,” Samira’s heart sank down to her stomach like thin watercolor spilling down a canvas. Fear. Real fear. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
“It’s okay, Samira, I’ll handle this,” Davoud said without looking at her. “This is my wife, you stupid man. My wife! She married me. She chose me. Don’t you dare call her a slave!”
“Ha!” Samira watched Armin gulp air. “Chose you? You mean, when she was a barely literate fourteen-year-old girl?” He coughed, wincing. “Who’d just begun menstruating when the fancy rich man from the city contracted . . .” to her horror, he spit blood, “ . . . with her father for her hand in marriage?”
Samira took a step back, offended. How could Armin humiliate Davoud this way? Shouting these things in public? How could he humiliate her this way? She had never thought of herself as someone weak. Indeed, she had found incredible strength within her. She looked around at the bystanders, some of them obviously familiar with Gita’s family, gathered on the platform and tuned into the show. They were just dying to spread the news. Scandalous brother and his pretty young lover who just happens to be married to a much older, wealthier man, who is also Gita’s husband. They were drooling. Samira felt protective of Davoud and of herself. But she had to admit that she was trapped in Davoud’s miserable bed, and longed for Armin’s arms. She was never weak, but it was true—she had not been free. And she wanted to be.
Butterfly Stitching Page 27
