Free Scent of Butterflies by Dora Levy Mossanen Page B

cabbage-like leaf, and the thermometer at the base of the root. Study the variation in the freshly unfurling leaf, no part exactly alike in color, texture, or feel.
    The ravages of time and insects are beginning to show even on such a young leaf, discoloration at the tip, a slight drooping at the edges, holes created by the larvae of ghost moths that, if left alone, will munch and chew and grind until the leaf is rendered as fragile as a stretch of antique lace. Nature is restless, in a hurry to diminish and blemish, to assert her footprints.
    I am startled by the screams of a bird. A certain familiar barking. I glance beyond the glass dome, searching for the source. A series of sad hoots follows, as if a group of women are crying out in terror. My heart flips with joy. I know this bird sound. I know it well.
    I am back in Iran on a warm evening at the beginning of summer; the golden disk of a full moon is sailing above the plane trees. The air is fragrant with the scent of rose and jasmine. Water trickles in a brook nearby, and Mamabozorg is pouring tea from a samovar. Another bird cry! The dream is shattered.
    I tiptoe across the atrium so as not to frighten the bird.
    Locking the atrium door behind me, I step out into the courtyard in search of the bird. Despite the Santa Anas, it’s easier to breathe here. I shade my eyes and gaze around. Don’t even blink in fear of scaring the bird away. There’s a slight rustle among the branches of the monkey tree, and before I have a chance to take a good look, the bird flies out and wheels out of sight. I stand there, disappointed, sending out a silent invitation for the bird to return and settle here because I recognize these mournful hoots that were my grandmother’s companions for many years.
    Close by, a turnip moth shudders. I send it off with an irritated flick. Butterfly is all around me, in the eucalyptus grove, on the lavender petals of nightshade in the fountain, and among the yellow lantana, violet aster, and lion’s tail that provide nectar and larva food to these insects. A grasshopper leaps up and lands on my shoulder. Such an ugly creature.
    From the midst of the nectar plants—purple coneflower, coreopsis, and black-eyed Susan—a brilliant, phosphorescent cloud explodes and separates into frenzied wings that take flight and scatter around the courtyard. The annoying nuisances lack a sense of time.
    I turn my attention to a butterfly perched on a banana leaf, hopeful that a Glasswing has finally found its way here. No! Not a Glasswing. It is a large Peacock butterfly. What horror!
    With the four circular designs on her wings, the Peacock is the most ghastly of all butterflies. Four eyes to hold evil. Four eyes to annihilate with.
    â€œBelieve in the Evil Eye,” Mamabozorg advised. “Every time you encounter someone with protruding eyes and a stare that makes you cringe and crawl into yourself, spit to your right and left, toss a fistful of salt in water, and burn espand seeds of rue. Then, and only then, murmur, ‘ Cheshmeh bad dour may the Evil Eye keep its distance.’”
    The Evil Eye has assaulted my courtyard.
    A leaf blower comes to life somewhere behind me. The noise does not scare the Peacock butterfly away. Are butterflies deaf? I bend closer, hopeful it is not dead because I do not want to be robbed of the adventure of the hunt. I pluck the butterfly off the banana leaf, detect a slight pulsing of the wings. Carrying the butterfly, I turn around and walk back into the house and straight into the kitchen.
    Eight days ago, the real-estate agent had passed a loving hand over the stove here and had said that food for hundreds could be prepared on this. Yes. My chef in Iran did prepare food for hundreds. I enjoyed the task of decorating the desserts with edible flowers—day lilies, calendula, pansies, and chive blossoms. But entertaining here any time soon is not an option. I can hardly bear the presence of Oni