Scent of Butterflies Read Online Free

two, or as many as you wish, of course. Not much to it, I assure you. I’ll perform the religious ceremony myself in private. At the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where I will be staying.”
    This process the mullah is suggesting, of my becoming his sigheh , his temporary wife, is an easy procedure. A short prayer will legally join us as man and wife, removing religious barriers. Free him for sex. Once done with me, he will repeat “divorce” three times and the union will be annulled as if it had not occurred in the first place. Nothing to it! A respected Ayatollah recently endorsed temporary marriages based on the assumption that men are in need of “physical comfort” and the strained, post-war economy made marriage expensive.
    A series of expressions scurry across his face, all of them appealing, each a testament to his desire for me.
    Imagine! Just imagine Aziz’s Soraya agreeing to become the temporary wife of a mullah she happened to meet on a plane ride to America.
    I observe him with critical eyes, his carefully trimmed hair exposed below his turban at the nape of the neck and his crisp, white shirt under his religious garb. The well-shaped beard is masculine and his voice melodious. I attempt to clear my lungs of the assault of smells—licorice and cologne mingled with longing and deprivation. I could pinch my nostrils shut and tolerate him in order to relish the sound of Aziz’s tormented voice.
    â€”How could you, Jounam ! How in the world could you—
    I reach out and squeeze the mullah ’s hand, lay it flat and willing on my palm. I am mesmerized by the long fingers, the nail beds square, the back of the hand fleshy, the nervous yet decisive gestures, a reminder of Ayatollah Khomeini’s condemnatory wave that dismissed the Shah, ushering in an era of chaos, not only in Iran but eventually in my private life. I raise the hand and press it to my lips, feel its dry warmth, the pulse at the tip of each finger.
    â€”How could you, Jounam ! How in the world could you—
    Of course I can. Why not? I can and I will offer myself to this mullah , a man who embodies everything Aziz despises.
    The hostesses are chatting behind the curtain; most of the passengers are asleep. Someone behind us has been writing for hours, his pen scratching, scratching like nails on sandpaper. My palm rests on my camera, an expensive piece of equipment my husband gave me as a gift, perhaps to assuage his guilt, or to keep me busy as he frolicked about.
    I snap the case open and lift the camera, explain to the mullah that I am a photographer and would be honored to add his photograph to my private archives. It does not take him long to nod his permission.
    Click!
    I who have never, ever photographed a man other than my husband in that tender light reserved for lovers will now train myself to apply that same approach to snapshots of other men. I will become a collector of memories. Create an album, a compilation of photographs of men who will fall prey to my camera. I do not know what the stars have in store for me. What I know is that revenge must be extracted with calculated patience and complete emotional detachment.
    The mullah retrieves a leather-bound notebook from his pocket. With an enamel, gold-tipped fountain pen, in elaborate royal-blue calligraphy, he inscribes his name—Mirharouni—and the phone number of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, tears the page off, and hands it to me.
    I fold the paper into a neat square and tuck it in my purse.

chapter 2
    Beyond the window of my penthouse suite at the Peninsula Hotel, past the palms and the high-rises, smog furls in the air and the sky is the color of grief. Crows screech in treetops. Church bells ring somewhere in the distance. Nature is agitated.
    I have been in Los Angeles for two days, walking the streets, observing, studying this place that I must call home one day. I miss Tehran. The languid afternoons, the late-night revelries, but