Introduction

A novel singed by the flavors of Tehran, imbued with the Iranian roots of Persepolis and the culture clash of Rooftops of Tehran, this is a striking, nuanced story of a woman caught between two worlds, from the bestselling author of Harem, Courtesan, and The Last Romanov.

A Love So Deep Can Forever Scar the Soul

Such audacity she has, Soraya, a woman who dares to break free of the diamond-studded leash of her culture. A woman who refuses to accept the devastating betrayal her husband has perpetrated. A woman who refuses to forgive her best friend.

Soraya turns her back on Iran, fleeing to America to plot her intricate revenge. The Shah has fallen, her country is in turmoil, her marriage has crumbled, and she is unraveling. The cruel and intimate blow her husband has dealt her awakens an obsessive streak that explodes in the heated world of Los Angeles.

Yet the secret Soraya discovers proves far more devastating than anything she had imagined, unleashing a whirlwind of unexpected events that will leave the reader breathless.

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Excerpt

chapter? 1

1999

I

am a rich woman from a backward country. A Jewish woman from Iran. I carry alien genes—­green eyes, blond hair, fair skin, and a height of five feet, nine inches, which intimidates and offends Iranians. Such audacity, they murmur among themselves, to step beyond the permitted boundaries of our women. Boundaries drawn by men, I should add, whose masculinity depends on the diamond-­studded leash they’ve wrapped twice around their women’s ankles.

I am a photographer. A collector of exotic animals. A nurturer of rare plants.

Baba is convinced that the day I called myself an artist was the same day I lost touch with the reality of our culture. A sad, sad case of squandered femininity, he would say, his eyes twinkling like the Persian jester in one of our fourteenth-­century miniature paintings. “What you need, my Nightingale, are sons to keep you busy and out of trouble.”

I’m on Air France, destined for Los Angeles. Fleeing Aziz, my husband of twenty years, the man I married when I was fifteen. The only lover I’ve ever known. He believes that I will return to him. I will not. Why? Because I can’t resist his drunken eyes, velvet words, and persuasive hands that know where to press softly and where to stroke hard, where to linger and where to slither away, where to cup and hold and warm.

And I won’t return because I can’t free myself from Parvaneh.

A turbaned akhound mullah shrouded in religious garb slips into the aisle seat next to me and, without as much as an acknowledging nod, removes the Koran tucked under his arm, touches the cover to his lips, and rests it gently on his lap.

I shift uneasily in my seat, farther away from him, a visceral reaction, I suppose, since I’m still properly sheathed by my stifling roopoosh, the dull brown, mandatory overcoat, not very different from the aba loose-­sleeved garment he wears. I could have discarded the roopoosh in Paris, where I was no longer bound by the laws and regulations I left behind, and where I quickly trashed my thick, opaque stockings. I don’t need to pretend any longer, to be who that society expects me to be. But a habit of twenty years can be as stubborn as a handful of bloodthirsty leeches.

The unfairness of it all, being forced to endure the company of a mullah for the next twelve hours, I silently complain. Then slowly, like a sneaky worm making its way into my head, the thought occurs to me that perhaps it’s not that bad, after all. A mullah sitting next to me might yield endless opportunities.

He must be in his midfifties, the outline of his body muscular and solid under an ash-­gray cloak, with Italian loafers polished to a high shine and a crisply folded black turban. Dark, well-­clipped beard and mustache, arrogant nostrils and high forehead project a patrician air.

This same mullah was segregated from women on Iran Air on his way from Tehran to Paris, where we stopped to change planes. Now, he finds himself a desire’s breath away from me. An exciting thought nudges my heart into life. How will he react if I slide up my sleeve and brush a bare wrist across his neck, on the lower-­right corner where his turban has slipped up, or rest my head on his shoulder and pretend to wake up with a start? Oops! Pardon me, an unfortunate accident. What if I remove the scarf from my hair, lift up the roopoosh that covers my legs, and reveal my bare ankles?

I slip my hand down the collar of my roopoosh and trace the sharp angles of the Star of David dangling from the necklace Mamabozorg gave me. Will the pendant offend the mullah? Will he quarrel with Allah for seating him next to a Jewish woman who has the audacity to ignore the Islamic rules of hejab, or will he welcome my boldness?

Aziz’s love-­words explode behind my temples.

—Muslim men dream of fucking Jewish women, Jounam—­

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, stroking the chain around my neck. My grandmother’s memories are sheltered in the translucent kernel of every amber bead.

I should have discovered the affair earlier. Yes, I should have, even if they had been discreet, Parvaneh and Aziz. Small mistakes were committed. Parvaneh accepting a sip from Aziz’s tea; he, placing the most tender piece of kebab on her plate. She, going dizzy-­eyed over his jokes; he, offering her a drag from his cigarette, or stealing an extra minute to comb his hair just right when we were on our way to meet the two of them, Parvaneh and her husband.

No, these intimacies did not alert me. I did not want to know. It takes courage to peel off the winding sheets of denial, to observe with wide open eyes, endure the consequences, the pain. Aziz is my lover, my friend, the lens through which my world comes into sharp focus.

The essence of licorice and mint wafts from the mullah’s breath. The smell of home, of my country, and of the mullahs, now the privileged elite. They empty our pockets, loot the deposed Shah’s palaces, export our antiques and heirlooms, and purchase first-­class tickets to America to drown themselves in the same excesses they condemn back home. They have replaced the Pahlavi dynasty, which robbed the country, too, but with style and aplomb.

Twenty years ago, in 1979, at the outset of the revolution, and for some years after that, we, the so-­called “aristocracy,” believed—­and, more than anything, hoped—­that the Islamic Republic of Iran was the temporary madness of religious fanatics who would not and could not last. Iranians, we rationalized, at least those of us who had the courage to discuss matters among ourselves, were too modern, too educated, too Westernized to bow down to fundamentalists.

We were wrong. Their twenty-­year-­old roots have burrowed deep. They’re here to stay.

The mullah’s forearm brushes against mine as he turns a page. “Bebakhshid, khahar, forgive me, sister,” he murmurs under his breath without raising his head from his book.

I shift closer to the window and look out. Clusters of smoky clouds congregate and enclose the plane. It does not feel like the advent of Noruz, New Year, and the spring solstice, an intoxicating season in Tehran, when cherry blossoms are in full bloom and their scent of ripe fruit and bitter almonds permeates the mountain air. Up here, the cabin smells of cheap wine and restless discontent.

Soon, far from Aziz, I’ll settle in America, where men are not allowed four legal wives and as many temporary wives as they desire, and where women are not stoned for committing adultery. America holds memories of previous visits with Aziz: our honeymoon, when we bathed in Lake Tahoe while it shimmered like woven diamonds, bike-­rode on my thirtieth birthday on the bone-­warming shores of the Pacific, and welcomed Hawaiian sunsets as grand as our desire for each other.

And more than one trip to visit fertility specialists. One strange treatment after another was suggested—­baking-­soda douches to promote an alkaline environment, temperature reading to establish the exact hour of ovulation, leg-­lifting and twisting into yogic knots after sex so not one precious sperm was left unaccounted for. The verdict of one especially ignorant doctor was that we should consider adoption, since nothing could be done. Nothing at all! My white blood cells, he announced in a conspiratorial, I-­know-­it-­all tone, produced antibodies, some type of aggressive protein that neutralized my husband’s sperm.

Despite everything I went through and put Aziz through, despite all the invasive tests I endured, the truth is that I have been on the pill since our wedding night. From the moment Aziz proposed, I decided not to become pregnant. The thought of sharing him with anyone, even our child, is unbearable. The sight of him holding someone else against his chest, whispering endearments in another ear…the prospect of a rival is unacceptable. So I concealed the pills in a small paper pouch I stapled to the back of a painting of a jester in the Ghajar dynasty court. And made sure never to miss a dose. Not even once.

When I lied to Aziz, telling him that the magazine I freelance for is sending me to America on a photographic mission, he said:

—I hate to let you go, but you have my blessing if you promise to be a good girl, Jounam—­

Jounam, his life. How dare he call me that, I wanted to cry out. How dare he expect me to be “good” when he has been so very bad? But I kept my mouth shut and forced a meek smile because I wanted him to sign the legal documents that would permit me, his wife, to leave my country.

Madar likes Aziz. His name rolls like sweet candy in her mouth when she tells me, as if I don’t already know, that the literal meaning of his name is “beloved,” and that everything he’s done for me proves him worthy of that name. Blowing a strand of well-­coiffed hair away from her melancholy eyes, she declared that few men would tolerate the freedom he allows me, let alone permit a wife to travel on her own to America, which as far as Madar is concerned is the end of the world.

Baba, too, finds Aziz remarkable, but for a different reason—­for his seemingly monogamous nature and for his unequivocal loyalty to his wife.

“Either he’s impotent,” Baba chuckled, twisting the tips of his peppered mustache, “or like me, he knows how to kamarband ra seft konad.”

Yes, Aziz did keep his pants tightly buckled, I suppose. Until Parvaneh.

Aziz believes I’m ignorant of his infidelity. I had been until thirteen days and five hours ago when suspicion turned to certainty, when the cozy walls of matrimony cracked open, and I was forced to acknowledge the stench of betrayal.

The first thing I did that late afternoon—­No! The second, after I rushed like a possessed creature to my mother—­was to pay a visit to Settareh Shenas, a celebrated Isfahani astrologer.

Sitting cross-­legged on a carpet in his herb garden by the side of a small pool, he aimed his bovine stare at me, demanding the exact date and time of my birth. The callused thumb he pointed my way seemed to stamp me with his seal of disapproval.

“You were born in the Year of the Tiger! Under the stubborn sign of Taurus, a time when the stars were in conflict with the moon and the rings of Jupiter tightened their grip around the giant planet. Comply, Khanom madame, comply!” he finally pronounced, “If you had bowed to your man’s needs in the first place, he would not have looked elsewhere for satisfaction. Control your dark side, Khanom! Give him what he wants or you will face the fires of jahanam.”

I turned on my heel to leave, but not before I gave the astrologer a piece of my mind, told him it was useless to threaten me with the fires of hell, since I was already burning in them.

Even as awareness continues to slice through me, I know with painful certainty that divorce—­a clean, final break—­total freedom—­is not an option. I cringe at the prospect of a group of narrow-­minded mullahs congregating in a dreary room to decide that Aziz’s infidelity is not a valid enough reason for me to “destroy” my marriage. But even if I file for divorce and my request is granted, I won’t be able to tolerate the life in Iran imposed on a zaneh talagh gerefteh divorcée, who would be looked upon as a whore for the sin of living alone or appearing in public with a male companion.

And the last thing I need is to return to my parents’ home and to Baba’s overpowering affection. Even now, sitting in the plane next to the mullah, I clearly see my father, his steel-­gray eyes piercing, his mustache quivering, his hands clasped behind his back as if to support the slim, tall body he carries with the arrogance of a king.

I can hear his low, persuasive growl that can lure a snake out of its hole: “Divorce! What exactly do you mean, Soraya? If you intend to disgrace us all, then by all means go ahead. Otherwise, listen to your father. Go home to your family, instead of hauling cameras around town and squatting down like a porter hamal to snap pictures of friend and foe. And never mention divorce again! Neither to me nor to your mother, whose poor heart won’t withstand such shame.”

In America, I’ll claim my own life and come to terms with the enormity of love and guilt I feel toward my father. Learn to carry the burden of his words: “My Nightingale, crown of my head. Ah! The ingratitude of stiff-­necked children.”

I’ll take time away from Madar, who continues to punish Baba by hiding her emotions under a carapace of lethal silence. One day I might discover why she rebelled with such violent finality and what compelled her to bury the vivacious woman she once was.

I sense the mullah’s breath on my neck—­warm, fast, and deep—­sense his evaluating stare. I feel a spark of excitement. In silence and without budging in my seat, I turn and aim my questioning gaze toward him. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. A shadow of a fleeting smile parts his lips.

As if my image is projected on his book, he looks down and murmurs into its well-­thumbed pages, “Salam, khahar. Hello, sister.”

“Soraya,” I correct him. “My name is Soraya.”

I owe my name to Madar. Concealing her triumphant smile behind her palm, she would recount her fights with Baba, who vehemently opposed the name. No one in their right mind, he declared, would name their daughter after a cluster of stars.? “Name her Sarah, Rebecca, or Rachel, after our matriarchs!”

Madar, calm and unwavering, rested her condescending, pampered fingers on Baba’s and instructed him in a gentle voice to stop bristling like a frightened porcupine or his simmering blood would damage his heart.

“Soraya,” she had assured him, symbolized mystery and being out-­of-­reach, which would serve his daughter well in the future. And to add to the name’s allure, the Shah’s beautiful second wife was named Soraya, so that was that.

The mullah shifts in his seat, raising the smell of spices, the familiar, comforting scents of baked sweets and closeness I associate with saffron, warm butter, and browned flour, the ingredients my grandmother, Mamabozorg Emerald, stirred into her golden halvah. And, like a veil, another scent swirls around him. Expensive cologne, Paco Rabanne, imported from the West, from “the Great Satan,” “the Great Arrogance,” the same country he feels obligated to curse for the benefit of his colleagues.

An urge to jolt the mullah out of his religious stupor overcomes me. I stroke my camera, encased in ostrich leather and cradled in my lap. Snap the case open, tempted to turn my camera on and agitate his calm façade with the click, click of my shutter control. Perhaps I should ask the flight attendant to take a photograph of us, a record of him sitting next to a female stranger, even worse, next to a taghouti, a royalist and an aristocrat. Such devastating evidence, proof of his disregard for the commands of his supreme Ayatollah.

I survived the Islamic Revolution by developing ingenious ways of sidestepping its horrors—­the splash of acid if found wearing lipstick or mascara on the streets, the pull and snap of scissors and razors if hair is visible from under the chador, interrogation and imprisonment if the Morality Police found me with a male stranger.

In Tehran, in place of the chador, I wore the dark, opaque stockings and roopoosh over dresses of the latest fashion purchased on trips to Europe. A scarf would cover my hair, and my face would have no makeup. But as soon as the chauffeur dropped me off at a friend or relative’s house for our evening get-­together, I’d remove my roopoosh and head cover and join other women in the makeup vestibule.

Secure in the knowledge that, in case of a raid, the host’s private safe held millions of toumans in cash to bribe the Morality Police—­the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice—­I’d apply makeup, a ritual each woman conducted in her own way, while the latest gossip swirled about. I accentuated the green of my eyes with lavender pencil and lengthened my lashes with soft black mascara, aware of sideways glances in the mirrors as other women attempted to duplicate my look on their own often darker complexions.

Once the swift transformation from Islamic to European—­from one culture to another, one religion to another, even one century to another—­had taken place, men and women would mingle freely. Banned alcoholic drinks swayed in Baccarat goblets, embraced by teasing hands. Guests swayed, danced, and flirted to forbidden taghouti Western music.

Here, high in the air, too close to a mullah, who reminds me of what I left behind, I peruse the menu, check the wine list, then signal the stewardess and ask her if she has anything better back there.

“All we have,” she replies, before retreating down the aisle, her perfume as annihilating as Parvaneh’s. Why do coy women insist on leaving the screeching echo of their scent behind? I spray a mist of Metal from my purse, a lingering whisper to chase the offensive odor away. I hear the subtle intake of the mullah’s breath and imagine his flaring nostrils drinking in the nuanced scents of my perfume.

The stewardess arrives with a bottle and displays the label. “1995 was a good year,” she says.

Last night in our bedroom, Aziz uncorked a bottle of 1945 Chateau d’Yquem. He swirled the glittering liquid in a Saint-­Louis glass, then warmed the wine in his mouth. My lips embraced his, yielding awareness to the scorch of alcohol as he folded me in his arms and murmured in my ear.

—I want your child, Soree—­

The mullah flinches at the offensive pop of the cork, the releasing of the obscene smell of the forbidden. He shuts his Koran, shifts in his seat, and aims a reprimanding glance at me.

“Sharab meil darid?” I raise my glass and ask if he would like some wine. He is wearing expensive American cologne and Italian loafers, after all; why not have French wine?

His arm springs up as if to ward off the evil eye.? “Astagfirullah, Gonaheh! God forbid, it’s sinful!” He scratches the top of his turban as if his scalp has erupted into hives under it. The audacity of a woman not only ordering alcohol, but tempting him as well, must have sent his sensibilities reeling.

I drink half the glass in three swallows. The alcohol does not assuage the urge to spill out the chaos in my head. Even a mullah, to whom a man’s infidelity is not an issue, would acknowledge the strangeness of their affair. The coupling of my lion with Parvaneh. A butterfly! All these years of friendship, since we were innocent children in kindergarten, and this is the first time I meditate on the meaning of my friend’s name: Parvaneh. Butterfly. My husband, a sensible man anchored in the here and now, snared by a shameless sorceress called Butterfly.

There’s a reason why her parents chose to name her Butterfly. She was born breech, doubled over and unable to breathe until the midwife slapped her on the buttocks and blew life into her. Butterflies are fragile. Their life is short. Very short. And when their wings become wet, they can’t fly, but fall to the ground and flutter helplessly until they die.

How could this have happened to me, Soraya, an only child, the darling of my Baba, favorite of my Mamabozorg, and loved by a husband who had no qualms about falling on his knees in adoration at a formal gala? Aroused by wine, dazzling in a tuxedo, he knelt in front of five hundred guests, removed my pumps, plucked a hole in my nylons with his teeth, and pressed his lips to my toes, our public foreplay stoking our passion.

—Let them gossip, Jounam, I don’t care—­

The next glass tastes warmer, tangier, intensifies the rush in my veins, stirring possibilities. For a fleeting breath, my stare lingers on the mullah’s as I wipe my wine-­wet mouth, push tendrils of blond hair back into my headscarf.

His lips part and his eyes light up as if noticing me for the first time.

Acidic words spill out of me like vomit. “You might not need alcohol, agha, sir, but I need it badly. I’ve escaped from my husband!”

The unburdening does not prove cathartic. The urge to take action is blinding. I cross my legs. Pale, defiant ankles flash through the slit of my roopoosh. I raise my wineglass and wish the mullah salamati good health, toss my head back, and empty the glass. “My husband is having an affair with my best friend!”

In a calm, soothing voice, he murmurs, “It happens more often than you think, khahar.”

“Nakheir! No! Not to me, agha!”

“Even to you, sister,” he replies, turning to gaze at me with such unexpected boldness that I feel the need to tuck my hair back into the safety of my headscarf but, hand in midair, decide against it.

“Let me explain, khahar. There are three types of women. Those who do not wear the hejab and do not cover themselves properly resemble public buses that everyone can freely ride. Those women, on the other hand, who opt to partially cover themselves are like taxis that only a few are allowed to ride. The third type who, like my modest wife, cover themselves properly, are like faithful donkeys. Only one man is permitted to ever ride them. Your friend, no doubt, resembles a bus. So, understandably, your husband was tempted to ride her.”

I am rendered speechless by the appalling comparison. My thoughts churn like dough in a mixer until ready to be delivered in that calm and deliberate manner I’ve mastered to perfection. I turn to face him, a poisonous cobra, ready to strike.

He slips to the edge of his seat. Leans sideways and thrusts one hand into his cloak pocket.

What is he doing? What is he looking for? I shift away from him and instinctively clutch my camera.

His hand appears. A white handkerchief is crumpled in his fist.

My heart slaps against my rib cage. Is a razor concealed in the folds of his handkerchief? Not so long ago, in the streets of Tehran, a woman’s mouth was cut with a razor because she had worn lipstick. A young girl’s face was mangled by acid because she wore mascara. My mind races to calculate the fastest route of escape from my window seat. If I step over his legs, he will easily grab and stop me. The idea shoots through my mind to smash my camera against his head. I’m about to jump up, to sprint over his legs and call for help.

He raises his hand and reaches the handkerchief toward me.

I grab his wrist, my grip tightening, rigid as a vise.

A look of surprise appears on his face. Then, as quickly, his features contort in anger. He attempts to release himself. I hold tight.

He seems to change his mind and calmly, as if resigned to my hold, transfers the handkerchief to his other hand. With a single fast motion, he wipes off the red lipstick I’ve applied for protection against the dry cabin air. “Islam forbids women to adorn their lips.”

I release him and drop back in my seat, pass my tongue over chapped lips. My mouth stinging, my voice mocking, I say, “What if I’m not Muslim, agha? Will this restriction still apply?”

“Of course, khahar. Chastity is required of women of all faiths.”

“I’ve lost my faith, agha.”

He slaps the back of his hand twice, as if to awaken himself from a blasphemous nightmare. “Astakhfor’Allah, God forbid!

You do not know what you are saying, sister. You lost your way; you are confused.”

“That I am.” Yes, I am certainly confused, since I don’t understand what my husband could ever see in a butterfly to make him risk losing me, his breath and life.

The mullah strokes a page of his book between forefinger and thumb, as if checking a bolt of gabardine to be custom-­made into an elegant cloak. “That’s normal, khahar. Most women are confused. A pious man can be of great help.”

An urgent need to further offend him overtakes me, and I pour another glass. Turn the dial on my watch forward to American neutral time. I am done with this mullah and the rest of them! Done making myself invisible at home, while religious fundamentalism raged outside. They can all go to jahanam and dictate their restrictions and beliefs to their own timid wives.

I stand up and stretch my body to its full impressive height, untie my scarf, and loosen my straight blond hair to tumble all the way down to my waist.

Aziz’s smoke-­shattered voice vibrates in my head.

—The shapeliest legs in the universe, Jounam, the silkiest of hair—­

I trace the embroidered sleeves of my overcoat, linger on every mother-­of-­pearl button meant to breathe life into an otherwise dreary coat, glide out of it as if shedding unwanted skin.

His stare slides up my bare calves, velvet skirt, silk camisole, and lingers on Mamabozorg’s gift, the amber necklace. And hanging on the chain, wedged between my breasts, is the ruby-­encrusted Star of David pendant.

A hint of a blush appears above his peppered beard, rises to his cheeks and onto his forehead. He tilts his head back and takes another good look at the Star of David. He shuts the Koran and touches his lips to the cover, a farewell kiss, before tucking it in the pocket of the front seat. He has finally distanced himself from his religious constraints, shed the pretenses forced upon him.

The revealed man is sexual, vigorous, and involved. He glances around as if looking for the hostess or assessing his surroundings. A tilt, a slightly amused expression, appears at the corners of his mouth. He pats his attractive beard, adjusts his turban, and sets it slightly at an angle like a Persian gigolo, revealing clean, angular sideburns.

He pulls out his handkerchief and wipes sweat off his forehead. A smudge of my lipstick remains behind.

I shift slightly closer to him, to his scent of baked goods and American cologne. Reach out and stroke the remnant of my lipstick off his forehead.

He touches his forehead. His dark eyes flicker into life like a cat catching sight of a plump mouse.? “Kheili moteshakeram, many thanks.”

Rising above the plane’s roar, the captain’s voice spills through the loudspeaker: “On your right is Las Vegas, the world capital

of gambling.”

The mullah brushes his arm against my bare shoulder, a fleeting touch, then runs his thumb down the length of my wrist, a bold move, flirting in public with this special treat, a Jewish woman. “Some more wine?”

“Yes,” I reply eagerly, curiosity taking over. “Yes, please.” Will he order a bottle, share a glass with me, toss all religious restrictions to the wind?

He raises the half-­full bottle of wine on my tray and pours me a glass. I think I hear him murmur khoshkel under his breath, beautiful or lovely or some such pronouncement, before letting out a long-­drawn sigh. “Zane jalebi hastid, kheili motefavet.” His breath laced with lust, he murmurs that I am an interesting woman, quite different from any other.

I assess with wonder this man who is full of contradictions, who seems to vacillate between two cultures, one moment a religious fanatic, the next moderately tolerant, even likable.

And then, like an afterthought, he asks, “Do you care to become my sigheh?”

“What! What did you say?” I blurt out as if I did not understand what he wants. “I’m Jewish, you know.”

“Yes, I know. It is the proper thing to do. For a night, 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.

—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.

—­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. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. How does the protagonist’s introduction set the tone for the novel? What do you think it means that Baba says, “the day I called myself an artist was the very same day I lost touch with the reality of our culture.” (page 1) Do you agree or disagree? Explain your opinion using examples from the book.
2. Soraya says of her difficulty letting go of clothing restrictions, “a habit of twenty years can be as stubborn as a handful of bloodthirsty leeches.” What other habits does Soraya have trouble discarding?
3. While seated next to the Mullah on the plane, Soraya feels that “the urge to take action is blinding.” What kind of action is she considering? Why?
4. How did you feel when you learned that Soraya had been taking birth control pills even while enduring fertility treatments and tests? Did her reasons match your expectations? Why or why not? Discuss the author’s interesting choice to have Soraya’s motivations differ from the more clichéd and obvious (that she’d want to retain her freedom despite cultural expectations of a wife).
5. Through her story, Soraya details how women have suffered oppression by men in Iran, but also how oppressive love can be. Explore the ways in which oppression influences the characters in this novel. How much control do they each have over their situations? In what ways do they seek to exert that control?
6. Discuss how the politics of Iran’s 1979 revolution and the fall of the Pahlavi dynasty influence the characters of the novel. What, exactly, does “Westoxication” mean in the context of this story? How did the term first strike you?
7. The relationship between Soraya and Parvaneh is a complicated tangle Soraya seeks to unravel during her time in California. She explains on the very first page of the novel that she’s here in part because “I can’t free myself from Parvaneh.” (page 1) How objective do you think Soraya is capable of being with regard to the two women’s history? Do you trust her interpretation more or less after discovering the truth at the end of the novel?
8. How does Soraya compare the lifecycle of the butterfly to her friend’s transformation over their years together? In what other ways does Soraya draw comparisons between the butterflies of her garden and Parvaneh?
9. Discuss the significance of names in this novel. Why do you think Soraya’s father was against naming his daughter after a constellation? What other names have particular meaning? Why do you think the author chose these names?
10. Soraya’s obsessions while in California revolve around butterflies, plants, and photography — a collection each time. What relation does each of these pastimes have to the other? How does Soraya use them as a means through which she struggles to deal with Aziz’s and Parvaneh’s betrayal?
11. Soraya is charmed and thrilled to discover a rare Corpse Plant in her new gardens. Discuss the irony of a plant by this name being the prize and jewel of the atrium and grounds. Compare and contrast her various descriptions of the Corpse Plant with Soraya herself.
12. Soraya describes her photo album on page 39 as a “testament to how I will trap men like moths in my net, suffocate them in jars, pin them in cigar boxes.” Yet, despite her appreciation of the “appetizing morsel” of a man she encounters in Franklin Canyon in Chapter 6, she ultimately refuses his invitation and returns home with only photos. Why? What is she really after?
13. What is the “scent of butterflies?” How does Soraya describe it? What is the significance of this phrase as the novel’s title?
14. The themes of death and decay underscore much of this story. On page 49, when Soraya observes the Corpse Plant’s newest leaves already showing the ravages of time and insects, she says, “Nature is restless, and in a hurry to diminish and blemish, to assert her footprints.” To what else might her observation apply?
15. Revenge is another prominent theme in this novel. Soraya explains of her plans, “Scores must be settled gradually and patiently. To savor the sweet nuances of dessert, it must be allowed to slowly melt on the tip of the tongue.” (page 52) How does Aziz’s surprise visit upset this approach? Discuss how events might have unfolded differently if everything had gone according to Soraya’s plan. In what other ways do the characters of this novel take revenge on one another?
16. Just when she’s longing for home the most, Soraya discovers a Barking Owl, also called “the Screaming Woman,” in her atrium. What is the significance of the owl as a symbol and for Soraya in particular? Discuss the differences between how Mansour and Soraya each view the bird.
17. What is it that bothers Soraya most about Aziz’s betrayal with Parvaneh? Why does the sight of them kissing seem to hurt her more deeply than the fact that they are lovers, or even that they are in her and Aziz’s bed?
18. When Parvaneh arrives in California, Soraya notices for the first time how her friend’s breasts have swelled. How does she explain this to herself? How else do you think Soraya’s tendency to see Parvaneh only as her childhood friend affects Soraya’s ability to see the truth?
19. Soraya never wavers for a moment in her surety that Aziz has been unfaithful with Parvaneh for years. Were you as surprised as she to find out who Baba’s mistress turned out to be? Looking back, what clues did the author leave you?
20. Discuss the difference between Baba and Madar and between Aziz and Soraya. Are Baba’s and Aziz’s betrayals equal in devastation? Why or why not? Could you have forgiven either one of them if you were Soraya? How do you feel about Madar’s and Soraya’s betrayals of their husbands?
21. Soraya’s dark plans include hurting and humiliating Aziz by sleeping with other men (or making him think that she had, in the case of the photo album) and then killing Parvaneh. Why do you think she was unable to fulfill the first part but went as far as serving Parvaneh the poisoned tea, which she continued to try serving her even after she discovered who Parvaneh was really in love with?
22. Mamabozorg is a character who has lived through two very different Irans. Identify the lessons she seeks to impart to Soraya and discuss their influence on the plot of the novel. Do you agree or disagree with her decision to isolate herself in her own home? Explain your opinion. What would you have done?
23. Superstition and religion influence the characters of this novel in many ways. Identify the role of each using examples from the novel to illustrate your points. For example, why do you think the author chose to make Soraya blonde, tall, and so different from everyone around her? How does the author blend the cultural proclivities of the Jewish, Iranian people with post-revolution Iranian Islam?
24. Do you sympathize with Soraya? Do you think Aziz was right or wrong to leave her at the end? What would you have done in his place? In hers? What about Parvaneh? Is she to be blamed, pitied, or perhaps a mixture of both?
25. Why do you think the author chose this ending, even after Soraya discovers that her worst fear—that Aziz and Parvaneh are in love—is far from the truth?
26. As the story progresses, how do Soraya’s gardening efforts reflect who she is, and who she is becoming? Discuss the irony of Soraya’s own transformation through her obsession with Parvaneh’s. Do you feel, as Aziz does, that Soraya has become a completely different person — or have her experiences simply brought out latent characteristics? In what ways is Soraya unable to change?
27. Why do you think Aziz acts the way he does at the very end? Where do you see their marriage going now that so much has been shattered, and Soraya has decided not to ever return home?

Weblinks

»	Author Dora Levy Mossanen's web site The author is available for call-ins.
»	Publisher's Book Info

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