The Stationery Shop of Tehran Page 2

  The girls walked from the inner andarun section of the house to the outer section, along a corridor, and down the steps leading into the garden. As they passed the turquoise-tiled koi pond, Roya envied the fish in it. All they did was swim in cool blue water. They weren’t supposed to become successful members of the best professional class the nation had ever known.

  Roya closed the gate and they went into the alleyway and then the main street. Here they stuck together, hugging their books to their chests.

  There were no demonstrators this early in the morning, but the ground was littered with pamphlets from a previous rally. Photographs of Prime Minister Mossadegh—his sharp hooked nose, his erudite, world-weary eyes—littered the ground. Roya couldn’t bear to see his face scattered like that where people could walk on it. She picked up a few of the papers, gingerly holding them face-side up.

  “Oh, please, do you really think you can save him?” Zari asked. “There’ll be a communist demonstration tonight. There’ll be another one after that where the Shah’s supporters will show up. You can’t save the prime minister. He’s outnumbered by two factions who want to see him gone.”

  “He has thousands, millions of supporters! The people, we, are behind him!” Roya said.

  “The people have very little power and you know it. In this country there’s too much deal-making and corruption behind the scenes.”

  Roya held her books and Mossadegh’s pictures tighter to her chest as they continued to walk. Of course, Zari had a point. Just last week a special assembly had been called at school. The headmistress had stood onstage with her hands on her hips and demanded that the students identify who was circulating communist papers amongst them. No one had spoken up. Roya knew it was Jaleh Tabatabayi who passed those pamphlets under desks and at recess, hidden in parchment. She wondered how Jaleh had access to such political papers. How she even dared to get them in the first place. Then, at dismissal, the police had shown up, bearing a megaphone, guns, and a water hose. Abbas, the school door guard, helped the thick-necked policemen attach the water hose to a faucet in the yard. Just as Jaleh walked out of school, the policemen turned on the hose and aimed the force of the water at her. At first, Jaleh’s expression was one of wonder, a kind of awe. Then her expression changed to resolute will. She sailed into the air to avoid the hissing snake of water. She landed with a thud smack in the middle of its force. A few seconds later, Jaleh was entirely soaked, her uniform clinging to her curves, her hair dripping and soppy.

  One of the policemen had said, “That’ll teach you to disrespect your country by spreading communist lies. Don’t think we won’t eventually find every single one of you behind traitorous collusion with Russia. You girls need to focus on becoming decent young women instead of political donkeys.”

  The headmistress had clapped.

  The pro-king girls, devoted to the Shah, clapped and cheered too as they stood as a group in the yard. Several of the pro-Shah girls were from wealthy families whose fathers worked in the oil industry. A few deeply religious girls clapped with them. For the first time in a long time, families of the clergy and fans of the Shah stood as one.

  The pro-communist girls ran to Jaleh and huddled around her as soon as the police and headmistress had left the yard. They tried to dry her with their cardigans, their handkerchiefs, the hems of their uniforms. Jaleh stood tall, though dripping, and said not to worry. She even laughed. Roya knew Jaleh would only spread more Marxist pamphlets now, not less. That’s how the Tudeh communist girls were. Fearless and resolute and always saying that Iran should follow in the steps of the Soviet Union.

  Roya and Zari and the pro–prime minister girls had clustered in their own circle, shocked and shaken. If a fellow student asked whom she supported, Roya would say, “Prime Minister Mossadegh and the National Front”; to say anything different would have broken Baba’s heart. Prime Minister Mossadegh could get their country to full democracy. He’d studied law in Switzerland, become foreign minister, and gone all the way to the United Nations in America to testify that the British Anglo-Iranian Oil Company should give Iran ownership of its own oil. Roya liked Mossadegh’s independence and self-reliance. She even admired his pajamas (which he was sometimes photographed wearing).

  As Roya walked to school with Zari, remembering the incident of Jaleh and the water hose, she wished the polarization and constant political rivalry could end. Politics had seeped into every classroom. Her classmates at school were now divided, much like the country, into pro-king, pro–prime minister, and pro-communist. And she was tired of it.

  When Roya and Zari reached the entry gate, Abbas, the door guard, looked stern. It was his job to make sure that no unauthorized person entered the grounds, to protect the sanctity of the institution and the safety of the girls. It was not part of his job description to open the slit in the crotch of his pants and flash his penis tied up in a neat pink ribbon. But he was known for occasionally doing just that.

  Zari stiffened as Abbas opened the gate and smiled. Once they were past him and out of earshot, she whispered, “He showed me his doodool again last week.”

  “Was it tied in a ribbon?” Roya asked.

  “As ever. How do men even walk with that thing hanging there?”

  “It has to hurt.”

  “It’s so big, I’m surprised they don’t all have permanent rashes down there.”

  “Well, you’ve only seen the doorman’s.”

  “Yes.” Zari seemed to reflect on this for a minute.

  “Did you tell the headmistress?”

  “She said it was very ugly of a girl like me to lie. That Abbas has worked here since before I was even born and that I should be ashamed of myself for making up such vulgar stories.”

  “I see. Her usual response, then.”

  “Yup.” Zari sighed.

  Boys had no trouble finding their way from their own schools to the girls’ school to linger by the gates at dismissal time. Abbas shouted and shooed them away. “You sons of dogs!” he yelled. “Leave these girls alone, you’ll burn in hell!”

  Roya ignored the boys who followed them home, but Zari made sure the good-looking ones saw her twirl her thick, dark hair, especially if Yousof was in the mix. Some days the boys appeared at every street corner, round every bend. Slick, sly, clever boys who winked and whistled and flirted. Handsome, smart boys with charming smiles. Quiet, shy boys who sneaked an occasional glance at them, then reddened when caught. Roya got used to them the way one gets used to annoying flies, which meant she never got used to them.

  Roya’s favorite place in all of Tehran was the Stationery Shop. It was on the corner of Churchill Street and Hafez Avenue, opposite the Russian embassy and right across the street from her school.

  Roya loved running her fingers over tablets of smooth pages in that shop. She loved the boxes of pencils that smelled like lead and promised knowledge. She could spend an entire afternoon just looking at fountain pens and ink bottles or flipping through books that spoke of poetry and love and loss. The shop was simply called the Stationery Shop—no fancy name to it—but it was a bookstore as much as a stationery store. As the political divisons deepened that winter and hotheaded people engaged in debates and demonstrations all over the streets, it was the perfect retreat of quiet and learning. It was a sanctuary of calm and quiet: never overlit, never loud.

  One particularly windy day in January, when Roya wanted to escape the communist demonstration gathering momentum in the street, she slipped into the shop. She just wanted to read some poetry.

  “Rumi today?” Mr. Fakhri asked from behind the counter. He was a calm, kind man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, a bushy mustache, and round wire spectacles. Mr. Fakhri’s shoes were always freshly polished. He had owned the shop for as long as Roya could remember and he was an expert on books. Mr. Fakhri kept the shelves stocked with Persian classics and poetry and translations of literature from all over the world.

  “Yes, please.” Roya had come here so of
ten that Mr. Fakhri knew her reading tastes well. He knew that Roya loved ancient Persian poetry but couldn’t stand some of the modern short stories. He knew that she would spend the very last of her allowance on a brand-new tablet of paper and that her favorite stationery products were those imported from Germany because they were the most colorful and modern. Knew that she not only read every word of the ancient poets but that in silence, every now and then, she scribbled words of her own on the tablets she bought from him. Mr. Fakhri knew all these things, and it was his nonjudgmental calm that led her into his shop as much as the piles of pristine books and pencils and paper tablets.

  “Here you go.” The Rumi poetry book he handed her was printed on shiny new paper and had a dark-green cover with gold lettering. “Some of his best between these covers. Make sure you find yourself a quiet spot and don’t let anyone disturb you. He takes some concentrating if you really want to get to the truth of him.”

  Roya nodded and was reaching into her purse when the bell above the shop door chimed. The door burst open, letting in shouts from the streets and a huge gust of wind. The pages of Rumi ruffled in her hand. A boy her age entered the store in a hurry. He had on a white collared shirt and dark pants; his hair was a thick, black mop, his cheeks red from the wind. He walked in whistling a tune that was wistful and filled with longing. It was unlike anything she had heard and completely out of place with his stride and confident look.

  Mr. Fakhri jumped to attention and moved fast. He dove behind the counter, grabbed a pile of papers, bundled them with string, and handed them over to the boy as though he’d been waiting for this special guest all day. The boy stopped whistling, dug into his pockets, and paid. It was a quick, urgent, wordless transaction. The boy was almost out the door when he turned. She thought he’d say thank you to Mr. Fakhri. But he looked right at her. His eyes were joyful and filled with hope. “I am fortunate to meet you,” he said. Then he strode out of the store and into the wind.

  Mr. Fakhri and Roya stood silently as the store settled back to normal after the effect of the boy’s presence, as though they had ridden in a hot-air balloon that was only now landing and deflating.

  “Who was that?” Roya asked, feeling, for no reason at all, charged. It was disorienting and confusing to have this excitement surge through her just from the boy’s brief visit.

  “That, my dear girl,” Mr. Fakhri said, “is Bahman Aslan.” A look of concern crossed his face. He drummed his fingers on the counter. “That is the boy who wants to change the world.”

  Roya carefully placed her Rumi book into her satchel. She stared at the doorway. She felt slightly infected, as though she had witnessed something overpowering and surprising but also deeply personal, something of the inevitable beat of hope and life and energy. She said good-bye to Mr. Fakhri in a daze.

  For days she looked for him on the streets. Snot-nosed Hossein followed them to and fro; it annoyed her so much. Bold and loud Cyrus insisted on opening doors for her and Zari. Yousof stole a few glances at Zari as they crossed the street and then pretended that he was actually concentrating on the lamppost. It seemed everywhere they went the students from the boys’ schools filled the streets. The boys participated in the different demonstrations in groups. But the one boy who had burst into the Stationery Shop and made the world move a little faster, a little more briskly, with a lot more vigor—even if for just a few minutes—was nowhere to be seen.

  Roya went to school and back with Zari every day, ate her mother’s khoresh stews, and listened to Baba tell them all about Prime Minister Mossadegh’s plans. He was going to make their country independent of foreign influence once and for all so no one could steal their oil again. He would thrust them into a future of democracy!

  Roya studied geometry and scribbled some poetry and smiled when Baba repeated that she’d be the next Madame Curie, by God she would, forget Helen Keller. But nowhere did she see the boy with the joyful eyes—the one who’d made Mr. Fakhri deliver a pile of papers with swiftness and importance as though he were delivering a weapon to a warrior.

  In the Stationery Shop the following week, Roya picked up a metal pencil sharpener and ran her thumb against the tiny ridges on its sides. Again the wind blew pages of the piled books askew when the door exploded open and in he strode.

  This time, he stopped whistling as soon as he saw her. He seemed a little less sure of himself and more shy. “Rumi,” he said to Mr. Fakhri, but glanced quickly at her as he said it. His dark mop of hair was combed carefully to the side. His white collared shirt was ironed. His eyes sparkled and he smiled politely.

  With the same speed and desire to please, Mr. Fakhri retrieved a copy of the very book that he’d given to Roya the week before. He cleared his throat. “Here you go, Bahman Jan.”

  This time Bahman thanked Mr. Fakhri, bowed slightly to Roya, then strode back into the street.

  “What is his rush? Where is he going? What’s so important?” she said, once she’d gathered her wits. She would show Mr. Fakhri that this boy did not render her speechless.

  “I told you, Roya Khanom. The boy wants to change the world. That requires rush.” Mr. Fakhri picked up a rag and dusted his countertop. “It requires vigilance.” He stopped rubbing the surface of the counter. “It requires”—he looked pointedly at her—“severe caution.”

  Roya sniffed. She put down the sharpener. She straightened her back. “I don’t know how he intends on changing the world. He walks too fast. He’s not very polite. He whistles for no reason! He barely spoke to you the other time he came in here last Tuesday. He acts like he’s so important. His hair is funny. I’m not quite sure how a boy like that will change the world.”

  “Severe”—Mr. Fakhri put both hands on the counter and leaned toward her—“caution.”

  She had been warned. A few more times she saw Bahman in that shop—each time he came right after school on a Tuesday as though he knew she’d be there. Each time, Roya pretended to be busy browsing through books or examining new stationery or looking anywhere but at him. Each time, of course, she couldn’t help but steal a glance at him, until the fifth Tuesday when she couldn’t bear the silence between them any longer.

  She pretended that she had a poetry question and addressed it to Mr. Fakhri, who for some reason didn’t respond, and so it had to be answered by the boy.

  The boy who would change the world managed to say, “Fire,” in answer to her question about which word followed in the stanza she’d just quoted from one of Saadi’s ancient poems.

  Her face grew hot.

  “Fire,” the boy repeated.

  Of course he was right, that was the word that came next in the Saadi stanza. He said it with such surety that Roya half hoped he’d be wrong and half wanted to sit and talk with him for hours. But she had to go; her sister was waiting.

  Zari was extra moody when Roya met her across the street. She’d gone deaf listening to all the political demonstrators, she complained, while her sister lingered over pencils and books in that godforsaken shop. She said she needed to go home and lie down with a hot water bottle because she had excruciating menstrual cramps and was starving to death, she’d been waiting so long, and that Roya needed to learn to respect other people’s time maybe for a change? Roya listened to Zari grumble all the way home. But she kept looking around wondering when, if ever, she’d see that boy anywhere but in the Stationery Shop.

  2013

  Roya rested her head against the glass of the car window and watched New England pass by, stoic in its iciness.

  She wanted to focus on Walter and how much they’d enjoy dinner together. She would make the fish sticks he loved. She wanted to forget that boy, the visit she’d just had at the center. But the words from his letter wouldn’t go away. She had unwittingly memorized them sixty years ago.

  I promise you, my love. Meet me at Sepah Square, at the center . . . Wednesday . . . 12 noon. Or a little later, if I can’t help it. Meet me there, and once and for all we will be one. The exci
tement of seeing you will keep me going through these next few days.

  “Oh, Walter,” she said. And she leaned her forehead against the window and wept.

  Chapter Three

  1953

  Love: How It Tangles

  Look at love

  How it tangles

  With the one fallen in love

  Look at spirit

  How it fuses with earth

  Giving it new life

  Roya read Rumi’s poem again and waited for Bahman to show up. He hadn’t missed a single Tuesday at the Stationery Shop since that first time when he’d burst in. It had made for a winter filled with anticipation, conversation, excitement. When did you fall in love, Sister? Tell me. He recited a word from a poem and that was it?

  Of course not, Roya told Zari. It wasn’t one word, one moment. That kind of thing only happened in American films, didn’t she know?

  Roya wanted wholeness, she wanted warmth, she wanted escape and comfort. The Stationery Shop and its books gave her that. Then Bahman filled it with his presence. But if she had to determine a day when she actually fell in love beyond repair, it was the seventh Tuesday. That day signaled winter’s end. It was the kind of day when the chill and frost and dispirit of the season gave way to the promise of blooms and greenery and new beginnings. It was a day ready to rupture. The whole country was gearing up to celebrate the first day of spring: Persian New Year.

  Mr. Fakhri flitted about the shop on that seventh Tuesday with hyper-eagerness and nervous energy, helping mothers buy New Year’s gifts for their children, wrapping sets of pens, ringing up customers with an effusive and heartfelt “May you always feel joy and live long!”

  “A present for my son,” a woman purred, “he did so well on his report card and he loves to read.” The pride on her face made Bahman smile—Roya caught him. Another man bought colored pencils that Mr. Fakhri bunched together like flowers in a bouquet and wrapped with green ribbon. Poetry collections were, of course, the hottest item—the thirst for Persian poetry was bottomless, as always. Roya and Bahman steered clear of each other as the crowd in the shop swelled after school. He focused on the political treatise being featured as a pamphlet near the counter; she stayed in the back, by the translations of foreign novels.