Scent of Butterflies Read Online Free Page B

bathed in the smoke and odor of cigars, greed, and burning cedar in the fireplace. A man in yellow spandex pants, better worn on the beach, occupies a stool by the bar; another man, lost in some other world, sits back in a leather chair, concern or sadness lining his handsomely tanned face. A young man smiles at me from a corner, a finger drumming on his temple as if to restructure his thoughts. The sight of a couple, clicking highballs of a chocolate-colored drink, overwhelms me with renewed grief and regret.
    â€” Besalamati, Jounam , to your health, my life—
    I raise the viewfinder to my eyes and take in the exceptional quiet in a place that bustles in the evenings with all types of men—American, Middle Eastern, European, and Iranian. I photograph the Cimmerian beauty of the mahogany walls, the anemic charm of the sconces, and the muted steps of servers who have been trained to beam at customers for no particular reason.
    I pan my camera on the two men and ask if they would mind me taking a couple of pictures. Their lips part in smiles of approval. One man leans sideways in a charming pose against the bar; the other straightens his silk tie, then runs long fingers through his full hair. “What’s the photo for, beautiful?”
    â€œTo make my husband jealous.” My laughter sounds false, loud, and unconvincing to me, but not to the men, who reward me with conspiratorial, flirtatious poses.
    â€œThen go ahead, beautiful, take as many as you want. Nothing’s sexier than a healthy dose of jealousy.”
    The expected, magical reaction is occurring—actors at the beck and call of their tall, blond director and her camera. I snap a wide-angle shot as an overture, and then zoom in on their hungry-eyed and lust-flushed faces.
    With the click, click of my camera, a pleasant echo in my chest, the discord in my head begins to unwind as I take one picture after another. “Thank you, gentlemen,” I purr. Their bodies relax and mold back into the supple luxury of leather chairs. “A few more and I’ll be on my way.”
    Click!
    The flash of a row of keen teeth, a palm smoothing hair shiny with brilliantine, the spark of a pair of hazel-green eyes.
    Click!
    I press the rewind button and leave the bar in time for my appointment.
    A broad-chested, elegantly dressed man is waiting in the foyer next to the mahogany table, by the flower arrangement, a burst of vulgar colors. An urge to rearrange and simplify his backdrop takes hold of me, the ever-nagging desire to honor aesthetical decorum.
    He walks toward me and extends his hand. “Soraya?”
    â€œMrs. Aziz,” I correct as my fingers get lost in his strong grip.
    â€œMrs. Aziz. Steve Rivers, Bel Air Real Estate.” His stare lingers on the diamond studs on my earlobes and the amber necklace, my lifeline to Mamabozorg.
    I take in his peppermint breath, glance at his broad chest and fair complexion. Good genes these American men have. Iranian men are rarely so tall, so blue-eyed, so utterly gullible, I’ve been told, and now believe, as he releases my hand as if letting go of embers. An Iranian man would have squeezed and held my hand, sized, undressed, and licked me with a gaze that spoke of a million possibilities.
    â€œI lined up three exceptional properties for you,” Mr. Rivers says.
    â€œWhich one has the most land?”
    â€œOne is fifteen acres. It’s one of the largest properties in Bel Air. It’s been on the market for three days and comes furnished.”
    â€œI’ll see this one first.”
    He points to my Nikon camera. “A photographer, Mrs. Aziz?”
    I remove the camera from its case, my glance sliding over his face and down his body, the sharp crease of his pants, the high gloss of his Gucci shoes. “A photographer, yes,” I reply, but only of men, I want to add, but decide against it.
    â€”Leave the camera behind, Jounam —Aziz would suggest when we were