Read Scent of Butterflies for Free Online Page B

boxwood.
    My breath catches at the sight of the glorious French mansion of rosy brick and white stone beyond, a splendid two-story edifice with slanted slate roofs and numerous windows carved into the slopes of old-fashioned attics.
    White bougainvillea cascades over balustrades of two staircases flanking the house. The staircases curve up toward the second level, extending into mock balconies that frame a marble placard onto which the name of the house is carved:
    Chateau Laurier-Rose Blanc .
    An odd name. Must have been left forgotten from earlier times when the grounds were planted with white oleander. Why would anyone name their home after the ugly, poisonous flower? The petals fall limply around the corolla, and the oblong leaves have a way of turning away from the flower as if appalled by its smell.
    I turn around to survey the land through the back window of the car, the expansive driveway behind me, the geometrically accurate bordering. I am pleased. The purity of white and green is a respite from my personal chaos. “Show me the inside, Mr. Rivers.”
    Filtered sunlight pours through massive French windows, glazing the interior with copper hues. No! Not this excess. The ornate décor exacerbates the great clutter in my head. I want quiet. I want simplicity. In the dining room the crown moldings, the Louis XVI gilded chairs, gold-threaded upholstery, and engravings on the antique dining-room table are far too elaborate. I want a garden. A piece of land to care for. Enough space to create my own haven, a place to shelter my fragments, to plant, nurture, and hone my resentment.
    The French windows in the drawing room open to a spacious veranda I walk out onto. Below, acres of rolling land stretch out to the horizon. On my right, a gazebo is hardly visible under a mass of climbing jasmine. The last half of the grounds, as far as the eye can see, is allotted to acres of land with all types of fruit trees. A bridge crosses a brook that snakes somewhere out of sight. Although the landscape that leads to the front of the house is meticulously cared for, these gardens in back are neglected. The weeds need uprooting, the dripping wisteria training, the climbing jasmine taming, and the iceberg roses spraying.
    How could the owner have cared for his carpets and art, clipped the hedges in front with such diligence, yet abandoned an expanse of such valuable land? The nagging question lingering, I cross the veranda and take the steps down. I stroll among the vegetation and stroke the rough bark, the grainy leaves that creep up the gazebo, and the few petals that cling to parched stems. I kneel down and rub a fistful of dark, rich earth between my palms, smell its properties. Moist and full of minerals and humus, this soil is far superior to that in my Tehran garden. The possibilities are endless for such fertile earth. A wealth of plants can be cultivated, grafted, and left dormant in this friendly climate—as they certainly once were.
    Baba would appreciate this piece of land, too.
    One early morning, when I had come to tend to the plants in the greenhouse Aziz had built in our Tehran estate, I heard a cautious tap on the glass panel. This was my cloistered haven, a place where I loved my plants and nurtured my soul. My friends and family had learned to respect my time there, so I was surprised to find my father at the door.
    I waved, encouraging him to enter, this lonely man who had sought me for comfort as the gulf between him and my mother widened and, in the process, had learned to share my interest in plants—so much so that he often brought me all types of exotic seeds from around the world. I welcomed the chance to show him that the emotional geography of plants was not that different from our own.
    â€œThey are magic! They will keep you busy and content without becoming cold and distant.” I didn’t add that they are more loyal and certainly more appreciative than Madar, whose silent withdrawal