The Stationery Shop Read online

  “It’s all right, Baba. They failed,” Roya reassured him.

  “I cannot believe they actually tried,” Baba said. His face was drained.

  “But they didn’t succeed. Mossadegh is safe. Everything will go back to normal,” Roya said. She wanted to reassure him as well as herself. She was to meet Bahman in just a few days and nothing could go wrong.

  They listened to the news that the Shah had grabbed his wife and a few belongings and flown a plane himself to escape to Baghdad in the middle of the night.

  Baba was livid. “Shame on him,” he said. “To try to oust the good prime minister and then to flee when it didn’t work out! That’s what happens when you allow greedy imperialist countries to influence you. The British are behind it all, mark my words. And quite possibly the Americans.”

  “The Americans? They’d never do such a thing. They’re not crafty like that,” Maman said.

  Roya was filled both with relief and fear. Bahman had been right: people had plotted against Mossadegh, and the Shah’s decree had even chosen a General Zahedi as a replacement for the prime minister. But thank goodness Mossadegh had stopped it. Over the next few days, as more and more coup conspirators were arrested, Roya counted the days and then the hours. She could hardly wait for Wednesday to arrive. She wanted to see Bahman again more than anything. Was he still safe? Had he had anything to do with all of this? If not and he was simply in hiding, what must he be thinking about these crazy events?

  On the day after the coup attempt, Roya and Zari walked outside but didn’t venture far. Extra police stood everywhere. Photocopies of the Shah’s decree saying that Prime Minister Mossadegh must be replaced by General Zahedi were all over the streets.

  “How do they even make so many copies of one sheet of paper so fast?” Zari asked.

  Roya shrugged. “Machines in America can make copies like this.”

  “You believe in the conspiracy theory too?” Zari asked.

  “Jaleh Tabatabayi said—”

  “Jaleh Tabatabayi is a Russian-loving communist and you know it. America has nothing to do with this.”

  Roya wanted her sister to be right. From the films at Cinema Metropole, and translated novels at Mr. Fakhri’s shop, and Sinatra songs on Jahangir’s gramophone, Roya knew an America that was sparkling and filled with glamorous people who kissed a lot. She wanted that America, not the one that could plot to overthrow her country’s government.

  When Baba came home from work on Monday, he said demonstrators had marched from the south of the city to Baharestan Square and toppled a statue of Reza Shah. They had looted buildings and ransacked offices, even setting things on fire.

  “Why are the Mossadeghis so violent right now?” Maman asked. “Their National Front won. Why instigate things for no good reason?”

  Baba rubbed his face. “I don’t even know if these are real Mossadegh supporters. They could be paid protestors.”

  “Who would pay them? The Shah’s out of the country—his crowd is dejected. Who would pay them to destroy things and riot?” Maman’s voice was skeptical.

  Baba didn’t answer. But Roya knew that he was thinking about foreign forces being behind it all. She knew that he was thinking of America. But he had to be wrong. She wanted to believe in the America of the romantic movies, not in the one of Baba’s horror.

  At the end of the third day of disruptive demonstrations after the attempted coup, Prime Minister Mossadegh demanded that his supporters stay at home. Enough was enough, he said. No more pouring into the streets. No more demonstrations.

  When Roya walked to the local hammam baths on Wednesday morning, the streets were calmer than they had been in days. Thank God. People had listened to Mossadegh and stayed home. Even the hammam was almost empty. Five hours. In just five hours she would see Bahman again. Hold him, fold into him, talk to him. Each day of his absence over the past weeks had been excruciating. Without him she had felt weighed down and untethered at the same time. Only the phrases from his letters had kept her going. His words propelled her to put one foot in front of the other even in the large bath hall now.

  She took off her clothes in the locker room. Inside the steamy main domed hall, she slipped into one of the warm tubs. While a middle-aged attendant washed her hair and slowly massaged her scalp, Roya closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. After a few blissful silent moments, the attendant blurted out, “Miss, let me tell you. If only Prime Minister Mossadegh hadn’t dissolved Parliament a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have had trouble in the first place. Would he? He was trying to grab too much power, is what he was doing. Mossadegh was pushing the monarchy aside. But we have thousands of years of shahs, don’t we now? We are a country of kings. Mossadegh shouldn’t mess with that.”

  “Do you think we could just—”

  “With all due respect, Khanom, the Shah has done so much good for this country that the prime minister should thank his lucky stars we even have a Shah like him. Ingratitude for the Shah will be the death of this country, I’m telling you.”

  Roya squeezed her eyes shut and said nothing.

  At the next station in the baths, a young girl who looked to be about Roya’s age exfoliated her skin with a rough keeseh cloth. Dead skin cells unfurled from Roya’s limbs like shreds from an eraser bought at Mr. Fakhri’s shop. It felt good to get rid of the unwanted toxins and stress of the past few weeks. It was an unburdening, a lightening of the load. But then the girl said that Russia was our friend and Iran was best served by following in its footsteps with a political system that ended class disparity, endless slavery of the masses, and a leftover feudal system that poisoned people. Mossadegh needed to make Iran communist, didn’t he? The girl continued to scrub hard and said she knew she could tell Roya all this without getting into trouble because Roya didn’t look like a tattletale doublefaced spy for the Shah. By the time she was finished, Roya’s skin was raw and pink. Roya did not reply with any of Baba’s likely retorts about how Mossadegh wanted democracy, not communism.

  At the final station in the bath hall, an older woman lathered every inch of Roya’s body with soap, then rinsed her with hot, steamy water. This attendant, thank goodness, was quiet. After the cleansing, Roya lay down while the woman rubbed an essential oil that smelled like jasmine onto her legs, stomach, arms. With each deep stroke of the woman’s hands, Roya became more and more aroused, awake. Two and a half hours now. In two and a half hours, she would see Bahman. Every part of her was alive. She couldn’t wait.

  “Vay! Why did you walk home with that wet hair?” Maman cried when Roya sauntered into the house. “Do you want to catch a cold?”

  “It’s so hot, how would I catch a cold in the height of summer?” Roya’s wet hair had soaked into the top of her blouse, spreading a stain around her shoulders. It had actually cooled her off in the heat.

  Maman looked worried. “I hope it’s safe out there today.”

  After much deliberation, Roya had decided to tell her family that Bahman was coming back and that they were to meet at the square. For weeks Baba had been so worried about Bahman’s safety. Maman had prayed for his return with her tasbih beads every night. It was only fair that she let them know that he was fine and on his way back.

  “I was just out there, Maman. The streets are quiet. People are listening. They’re staying home. It’s probably safer today than any day.”

  Maman did not look convinced.

  “I have to get ready.” Roya left before Maman could say anything else.

  In the bedroom, Roya set her hair in barrettes to give her waves a boost. She had stopped wearing her hair in braids a few weeks ago, and now it felt liberating, not strange. On her wrists and neck she dabbed rosewater. She slipped on the rose-colored skirt she’d carefully selected to wear today and then tucked in her blouse. As she ran her finger over the nub of embroidered flowers on the collar, she remembered how she and Zari had stitched these tiny flowers for days, their heads bent together. Finally, she picked up the white ankle socks.
Victory! After searching in all the fancy shops uptown, she’d found the coveted ankle socks at the stall of a merchant in the Old Bazaar. “From Amrika!” the wrinkled shopkeeper had declared, smiling toothlessly. “Lady! From Amrika!”

  The socks, soft and snowy white, were perfect for today. She slipped them on.

  “Please at least eat something before you go!” Maman shouted from the living room.

  “I’m not hungry!” She was far too excited and nervous to eat.

  When she entered the living room, Baba, Maman, and Zari were all sitting in a row as though waiting to inspect her. Or stop her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” Maman looked more worried than ever.

  “All of a sudden he’s back in town?” Zari asked suspiciously.

  “I’m not hungry, really, Maman Joon,” Roya said.

  “Why didn’t he say to meet here? Or at your beloved Stationery Shop?” Zari asked.

  Imagine if she’d actually told them everything! That Bahman had written in the last letter that they should not only meet at Sepah Square but then go to the Office of Marriage and Divorce to get their marriage license. Maman could prepare the wedding for early September to her heart’s content, and relatives and friends could come and celebrate then. But for a few delicious weeks, she and Bahman would be husband and wife in sweet secret. It would be a secret so verifiably luscious and dangerous that she could barely even believe it herself. He’d probably picked Sepah Square because it was close to the Office of Marriage and Divorce and they could quickly go there before the lunchtime siesta hour if they met at noon. Bahman would never put her in danger. Then again, he had written the letter before the attempted coup had even happened. But who knew if anyone was following him? Maybe he didn’t want to expose her family by coming to her home. Maybe a public square was safer. The truth was that at this point, she would walk through fire to meet him.

  Baba got up, went to the coatrack, and reached for his hat. “I’ll just walk with you to the square. You shouldn’t go alone. There could be demonstrations again, for all we know.”

  “She shouldn’t go at all,” Zari said.

  “No, Baba Jan! Thank you, but really it’s not necessary. It’s as safe as anything out there today. I’ll be fine.”

  Baba looked down at his hat. Then he rubbed his face repeatedly as if trying to figure out a difficult math problem.

  “I will give him your regards!” Roya kissed him and Maman and Zari on the cheeks and rushed out.

  But Zari ran after her from the andarun to the outer rooms of the house and into the garden. “Look, Sister. I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  “It’s crazy to go out there today with everything that’s going on. This week of all weeks! They tried to have a coup three days ago. What timing the two of you have, I must say!”

  “The coup was stopped. The prime minister couldn’t be knocked out. He’s still in power; we’re fine!” Roya cried.

  “You sound just like him,” Zari said.

  Roya waved to her sister and passed through the garden door.

  As she walked into the alleyway, her heart beat so fast she hoped it wouldn’t give out before she even reached the square. She couldn’t get to Bahman fast enough. Of course she’d be fine. All her family did was worry! And what did her little sister know about true love anyway? She couldn’t understand that Roya was empowered, filled with strength and purpose at just the idea of seeing Bahman again. That she would walk through burning buildings to get to him.

  More people were out than earlier in the morning. But of course they would be. People had to go about some of their business in the city, after all. As long as they weren’t demonstrating.

  It started with chants and the sound of chains and thumping. All of a sudden, the ground beneath her throbbed. Roya turned and saw a group of what must have been several hundred men approach from the bottom of the sloping street, marching and shouting. As they got closer, she recognized their chants as phrases from the zurkhaneh gyms where devotees practiced the traditional physical fitness and training rituals. Baba sometimes imitated these phrases in jest when he lifted something heavy or did stretches. Hundreds of weight lifters and athletes in their tight exercise gear made up the crowd. A few hefted cone-shaped wooden blocks and barbells above their heads. A mustached man with oiled hair juggled pins in the air. Eventually the strange mob took complete control of the street. Cars had to swerve out of their way.

  To Roya’s amazement, smaller clusters of men and women joined the almost comical group of athletes and weight lifters and jugglers. And as they did, and the marching crowd grew, the chants became more political.

  “Zendeh bad Shah! Long live the Shah!”

  With her heart pounding, Roya moved northward in the same direction as the massive crowd because she had to get to Sepah Square. Who paid these yobs to come out today?—she could just hear Baba ask the question. What kind of crazy new joke was this? Maybe Bahman knew of some foolhardy attempt that had been resurrected out of desperation. She couldn’t wait to share this spectacle with him. They would laugh about it when they were reunited. They had to.

  She walked just outside the edge of the crowd, sticking near a small group of women who had not joined the mob. “Faghat eeno kam dashteem. We only lacked this,” one of the women said sarcastically, and the others laughed. It was comforting to hear the women’s banter.

  But as they all walked toward the city center, a nervous energy belied even the women’s lighthearted jabs. Maybe it was just Roya’s own anticipation feeding her fears. More men joined the crowd, some arm in arm.

  “Marg bar Mossadegh!”

  Roya suddenly stopped. This wasn’t a slogan shouting, “Give me Mossadegh or give me death”; it was saying “Death to Mossadegh.” The groups of anti-Mossadegh men who kept streaming in to join the original motley crew of athletes and jugglers filled the streets and sidewalks so completely that it became impossible to walk without being part of the mob.

  For a second, she considered going back. No, she’d be fine, she told herself. Bahman was waiting. She put one foot in front of the other, the way she always did when stuck, and forged ahead. She just had to soldier on, to get to the square.

  When she finally arrived at Sepah Square, it teemed with an even bigger mass of demonstrators that made the crowd of athletes look small. Roya couldn’t move without pushing through people. It was a struggle to get to the spot in the center where she and Bahman had arranged to meet. It was hot, but a breeze blew her rose-colored skirt tight against her thighs. Three men leered at her and one of them whistled. She remembered the thugs who had hit Bahman with a chain and baton. Heat rushed to her face, and she pulled down hard on her skirt.

  The anti-Mossadegh contingent shouted louder. She hated being near them. She just wanted Bahman to arrive so they could grab each other and get away. She tried to focus on what it would feel like to see him at last, be near him again.

  Twenty minutes later, the crowd had almost doubled. The chants were louder and more aggressive. Perspiration soaked her armpits. She craned her neck, searching for him. He was not there—but of course, how could he be; he would have to force his own way through this mob, to cleave through protestors to get to her; it was completely understandable that he was late. No one could have foreseen this mess. This week of all weeks! They tried to have a coup three days ago. What timing the two of you have, I must say! Zari’s words drilled through Roya’s head. But if the prime minister had successfully warded off a coup just a few days ago, surely no one would be foolish enough to try anything again so soon?

  “Marg bar Tudeh! Death to the communists!”

  “Marg bar Mossadegh!”

  More and more people poured into the square, and soon the sharp smell of sweat and anger was suffocating. The crowd was on a mission; they were not simply gathering, they were trying to move, to march to a destination, and it was definitely not the square that was their end goal. As she fou
ght a wave of nausea, Roya realized that they were moving in the direction of the prime minister’s house. Their shouts for his demise continued. Bahman would be heartbroken at this turnout of anti-Mossadegh bullies. Where was he?

  Time dragged on, and still she couldn’t see him. She was parched and weak and dizzy. Her blouse stuck to her chest; the square spun. Maman was right. She should have eaten. She could barely move now that there were so many people around her and in the entire square. She was trapped.

  Finally the armed police arrived, and Roya felt a wave of relief. Thank God. But to her surprise, they didn’t even try to disband the mob. They just joined it. Every ounce of energy drained from her as she realized the police units were in on it. Everything Bahman had feared was coming true. The police were colluding with anti-Mossadegh protesters to attempt another coup, to try to finally oust the prime minister. The prime minister whom Bahman and Baba and so many others loved. The prime minister they believed was their democratic leader, who had the courage to stand up to foreign powers wanting their oil, whom the people had elected with the hope of achieving democracy. Bahman would be sick to see this scene. Where was he? She hoped to God that he was safe.

  Time ticked on. No sign of Bahman. She had to move from her spot in the center; she couldn’t just stay here hemmed in by the mob. Maybe she could go to the side where the crowd was thinner. Maybe Bahman had just arrived and was stuck there, unable to get to her. She wanted to make her way out, but the throng of people kept her trapped. She pushed and shoved, moving inch by inch, but not making any genuine progress. Panic welled inside her. She wanted to scream, to run away.