There is a knock at the door and ZAHRA enters with a small plate and a cup of tea.
SAMIRA
(slowly)
I’m so tired.
ZAHRA
Azizam, you must eat something.
SAMIRA
Look at it.
(beat)
Look at this pillow. This pillowcase.
(beat)
It still smells like him. That end-of-the-day sweat.
His end-of-the-day smell.
So warm and funky.
ZAHRA sits next to SAMIRA on the bed.
ZAHRA
You will mourn for a long time, to be sure. All the more reason to eat. So you don’t faint.
SAMIRA
And these sheets.
ZAHRA
Shall I wash them—?
SAMIRA
Don’t you dare!
ZAHRA
Basheh, azizam. I won’t. I won’t wash them. I promise.
SAMIRA
I’m so tired . . . so tired. So tired.
ZAHRA
Well, you haven’t slept in days. Why don’t you just lie down for a minute and close your eyes?
SAMIRA
I can’t let them close.
No, I can’t let them close.
ZAHRA
Nightmares?
SAMIRA
(nods)
I can see him being murdered, a thousand times, again and again, every time they close.
It cuts . . . like lightning. Armin would make a poem of the pain.
He would say something like . . .
ZAHRA
It lingers.
SAMIRA
Yes. Like the fog.
ZAHRA
I can’t imagine how much pain you must feel.
SAMIRA
Oh—but I love the pain. It’s so satisfying. I wish I could . . . live in this pain. It’s my right.
ZAHRA
You’re entitled. And you can. I just want you to eat something so you don’t faint . . .
SAMIRA
But I can’t! I have to think about them!
ZAHRA
Who?
SAMIRA
He said they weren’t safe.
ZAHRA
Who’s not safe? The kids?
SAMIRA
He said we’d have to leave.
ZAHRA
What? Who, Samira jan? Who’s saying these things?
SAMIRA
Damn him for being here. For meddling with my thoughts.
ZAHRA
Armin?
SAMIRA
(shakes her head)
ZAHRA
Then . . .
SAMIRA
But you know, I blame it all on Armin. He let them kill him.
He was a coward.
ZAHRA
Samira jan, you don’t know . . .
SAMIRA
He knew he was facing prison for . . . I don’t know what. But I know he pretended to run. He let them kill him. How could he do that? How could he do that to me?
ZAHRA
Do you know what he was doing? Or why—?
SAMIRA
He told me nothing. Nothing. And then he let them kill him. In front of all of us. And now I can’t grieve.
ZAHRA
I don’t understand. Why can’t you grieve? Who told you the children were unsafe?
SAMIRA
Someone who belongs in the past. Trapped in a small space in the back of my brain, like something that happened to someone else. Or at least . . . that’s what I used to know. Ten years, maybe? Since that day on the train platform?
ZAHRA
Train platform? Vay Khoda, she’s gone mad!
SAMIRA
Now, he’s here, and he seems to know.
ZAHRA
Samira jan, why don’t you lie down, aziz?
SAMIRA lies down.
ZAHRA
Good girl. Now you close your eyes and get some rest. The lack of sleep is affecting your sanity. I’ll come back in a little while. Basheh? Sleep.
ZAHRA leaves the room quietly. SAMIRA sits up in bed a few seconds afterwards.
SAMIRA
Is he right? Is it unsafe? The only thing I know for sure is that if it’s unsafe, he can help.
SAMIRA walks to the closet and pulls out a piece of paper from her rupush. She sits back on the bed, picks up the phone and turns the rotary dial.
SAMIRA
Hi. It’s me . . . I know. Listen, I—I don’t understand. What do you mean? Political? But Armin wasn’t . . . You said . . . No. We’re not leaving Iran. That’s ridiculous. I . . . fine. Yes, I’ll meet you. But that’s all I’m agreeing to do . . . Yes. I will. I don’t need to write it down . . . I said I’ll remember.
CUT TO:
EXT. TEHRAN’S CENTRAL BAZAAR, AFTERNOON
SAMIRA walks through the bazaar. She is uncertain of her steps. She is dressed in full hejab and wears no makeup. She walks through the spice section. She is bombarded by the sights and sounds of the bazaar, which is more crowded and claustrophobic than she remembers. There are vendors minding their stores and shoppers walking around. She needs to stop several times to remind herself to breathe and to keep herself from wailing. The polluted air and the swarm of men at the bazaar suffocate her but IT IS THE SIGHT OF REVOLUTIONARY GUARDS, WITH THEIR LONG-BARRELED GUNS AND DARK SOULS, THAT MAKE HER TURN HER HEAD INTO A CORNER AND TRY HARD TO BREATHE.
INTO VIEW: CHAI BOY, holding a tray of tea glasses and a bowl of roughly cut sugar cubes.
CHAI BOY
Khanum, would you like some tea?
SAMIRA waves him away with her hand.
CHAI BOY
Are you sure? You look like you need a cup.
SAMIRA
You look thin.
CHAI BOY
I’ve always been thin, Khanum.
SAMIRA
You look thinner than you did a couple of days ago.
CHAI BOY
I’m the same, I think. Would you like a cup of a tea?
SAMIRA does not answer but stands staring at him. He is confused, gives up and runs to the next potential customer.
Shopkeepers pour potent spices in large containers that dust the air a saffron yellow. SAMIRA coughs, then turns the corner into the leather goods section of the market, where the spicy scents are replaced by the potent aroma of dead and skinned livestock. She brings her hands to her unstable stomach, moves them slowly up to her heart and focuses on the pain and anger that she knows will give her the strength she needs to force her way through the crowd. She elbows and shoulders the men who get in her way and the vendors who call to her.
SAMIRA
(to herself)
Push them back. Push them all back.
SAMIRA comes to a shop with a curtain. A black-and-brown leather coat hangs in front.
SAMIRA
(to the clerk)
I’m here to buy a very special leather coat for my husband’s brother who’s as large as an elephant.
SAMIRA smiles a little at the comical code phrase. She immediately feels guilty about the smile.
CLERK
(looks to his left, then to his right, then nods)
Yes, Khanum. We keep all of our large-sized coats in the back. Come with me, please.
Yes, right there.
THE CLERK leads SAMIRA behind the curtain to the back of the leather shop, through a door, and down a set of stairs into an underground room. The space is dark except for a small amount of light escaping from beneath the closed door at the top of the stairs. The sounds of the bazaar are heard (faintly) in the background. DAVOUD is there with MR. SHIRAZI, a man in his forties with a mostly bald head that is heavily accented by his Islamic-looking beard. There is a small bulge in the front pocket of his shirt where he must keep his Qur’an. Three stools are positioned in a circular pattern. The men are sitting on two of them.
The men appear to be enjoying themselves, carrying on what must have been an i
nteresting conversation given their show of body language and interest in one another. They are sipping tea as though this were a pleasant afternoon chat like any other. As she enters, the conversation ends abruptly. DAVOUD stands to greet her. MR. SHIRAZI also stands. He signals to THE CLERK to leave them, which he does promptly. The stress of the darkness strangles SAMIRA’S neck, forcing her to loosen the tie on her scarf and take a deep breath.
DAVOUD
Samira! You came.
SAMIRA
You hardly left me any choice.
DAVOUD
Not I. The circumstances.
SAMIRA
I took a taxi. I had to bear the body odor of the driver all the way here.
DAVOUD
I’m sorry, but you did the right thing by coming.
SAMIRA
It smells like a slaughterhouse in here.
DAVOUD
Samira, this is Mr. Shirazi.
MR. SHIRAZI
Hello. Have a seat.
DAVOUD
Here, take this stool, right here.
SAMIRA reluctantly sits. MR. SHIRAZI turns to DAVOUD.
MR. SHIRAZI
May I continue?
DAVOUD
Yes, please.
MR. SHIRAZI
It’ll take a few days, which doesn’t seem that long, but trust you me they’ll be some of the most difficult days of your life.
SHIRAZI pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to SAMIRA but, receiving only a blank stare in response, shrugs and lights up for himself.
MR. SHIRAZI
All in all, of course, I’m the most experienced person you can find. Nothing’s guaranteed, but you’re better off with the best and I’ll be honest with you, I’m worth every penny.
SAMIRA
(awkwardly)
How much does this kind of thing cost?
MR. SHIRAZI
Eight thousand per adult and twelve thousand per child. Children are more difficult to transport.
SAMIRA
Forty four thousand dollars! What is that? One hundred thousand tomans?
MR. SHIRAZI
Dollars. That’s the only currency I accept.
SAMIRA
Well, that’s just—
DAVOUD
That’ll be no problem at all. Though it’ll actually be fifty two thousand. I’m going with them.
MR. SHIRAZI
Ah. Having another man with you will make the journey much more safe and—
SAMIRA
Absolutely not.
DAVOUD
Samira . . .
SAMIRA
No. This whole thing is just ridiculous. Ridiculous!
(to DAVOUD)
In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.
Beat
DAVOUD
Mr. Shirazi, will you please excuse us for a minute?
MR. SHIRAZI
Certainly. I’ll just go and have a cup of tea. I’ll pick up some pastries on my way back. You know, from that bakery on Khordad Avenue where they had that execution just a few days ago.
DAVOUD
Thank you.
MR. SHIRAZI
(to SAMIRA)
Let me tell you, Khanum, the truth is I’m almost jealous of my travelers nowadays. There are just so many reasons to leave.
MR. SHIRAZI exits.
DAVOUD
It’s good to see you.
(beat)
Your eyes look tired.
SAMIRA
Davoud, what’s all this about?
DAVOUD
But you look as beautiful as you ever did.
DAVOUD touches SAMIRA’S arm. She pulls away.
DAVOUD
I’m very sorry for your loss.
SAMIRA
Thank you.
DAVOUD
I am sorry. Really, I am. Ever since that day . . .
(beat)
That day when . . .
(beat)
I’ve wanted only happiness for you.
SAMIRA
You’ve aged much more in the last ten years than I would have expected.
DAVOUD
I guess this is what sorrow and prison do.
SAMIRA
But you got out.
DAVOUD
It was Fardust who got me out of prison. Both times. Remember him?
SAMIRA nods.
DAVOUD
He even warned me about what was coming so I could liquidate and move my investments abroad. But there’s nothing, nothing—
SAMIRA
That he could do about Hamid. I heard. I’m so—
DAVOUD
I thought you might come to the funeral.
SAMIRA
I thought I would. But I just . . .
DAVOUD
(shrugs)
I offered to buy his military term but Hamid would have none of it. He was totally brainwashed. That bastard Iraqi dictator blew my boy to bits.
SAMIRA
I don’t know what to say. You’ve lost so much. And Shabnam too.
DAVOUD
At least she died giving me a grandson, giving me a part of herself. We named him Hamid, you know?
SAMIRA
I heard. I truly mourned her loss. I really loved her.
DAVOUD
But still, you didn’t come to the memorial.
SAMIRA
I so wanted to. So did Armin. But we thought, after everything . . . and she’d sent the paintings I did for her back to me . . . we weren’t sure . . . and we were concerned that it’d make things worse for Gita. And for you. Maybe it was a mistake. I can’t imagine losing a child.
DAVOUD
But it was when I lost Gita that I really had nothing left. She always stood by my side, took care of me when I got out of prison, comforted me when I was humiliated in the courthouses, gave me strength when I was stripped of my power and cried with me when our children died. I watched her die. One day at a time.
SAMIRA
Ovarian cancer.
DAVOUD
At least Armin came to that funeral. You weren’t there, of course.
Beat
SAMIRA
Is that why you left Iran?
DAVOUD
You heard about that too, huh? I couldn’t stay here after that. There was nothing for me, anyway. The country I loved was dead. Even Mrs. Darkan had left.
SAMIRA
(a small smile)
You mean Mrs. Olum.
DAVOUD
Yes! When he came to the house out of the blue and asked me for Mrs. Darkan’s hand in marriage, well, I nearly fell off of my chair!
SAMIRA
I knew.
DAVOUD
Well, I had no idea. I’m not really sure why he was even asking me. Out of respect, I suppose. Anyway, it was hard to let her go, but how could I refuse? I acted the role of her father at their wedding. I thought for sure you would come to that.
SAMIRA turns her face in shame.
DAVOUD
You would’ve enjoyed it.
SAMIRA
I’m sure.
DAVOUD
They were so happy, Samira, so amazingly happy. They live in Chicago now! Did you know that?
SAMIRA
He has a son there.
DAVOUD
Yes! His son married an American woman and they had a child. So Olum’s there with his wife, son, and grandson. Life is good for some people.
Well, in any event, after she left, there was nothing of mine left here. Nothing at all.
SAMIRA
That was three years ago, when you moved to Paris, wasn’t it?
DAVOUD
Yes. Three years. I even became a French citizen.
SAMIRA
But you came back. Why didn’t you just stay in Paris? I still don’t understand what exactly you’re doing here.
DAVOUD
I came back for you.
SAMIRA
&nb
sp; For me?
DAVOUD
In case something happened. In case something happened to Armin.
SAMIRA
(stunned)
You knew Armin was in danger? How could you possibly—?
DAVOUD
I found out he was writing. Not using his own name, of course.
SAMIRA
Ghostwriting?
DAVOUD
He was using the name of this man I know in Paris.
SAMIRA
You mean poetry?
DAVOUD
Poetry? Of course not. Political essays. Anti-government material.
Butterfly Stitching Page 29
