The Stationery Shop Page 3

  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.

  And then, as quickly as the crowd had descended, it dissipated. Books bought, presents selected, advice gotten—the customers scattered, and there they were, the two of them, engrossed in their own private browsing but of course each aware of the other, feeling nothing if not the presence of each other. Mr. Fakhri closed his cash register with a loud clang.

  “My goodness, they are shopping lots for Nowruz these days. Did all the children in this town get such good report cards to deserve so many presents for the New Year?”

  Roya and Bahman remained quiet in their safe parts of the shop.

  “Now then!” Mr. Fakhri looked around as if he were speaking to a huge audience. “A shopkeeper can’t complain about the sales, but I should get this cash to the bank.”

  Neither Roya nor Bahman moved.

  “I was thinking of stepping out, might have to close the shop, then.”

  “I’ll be here,” Bahman said quietly.

  “Pardon?”

  “I can be here. If a customer comes, I will tell them you’ll be right back.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Fakhri looked at Bahman and then uneasily at Roya.

  Roya sensed Mr. Fakhri’s discomfort. She was petrified at the idea of being alone with Bahman. Of course she couldn’t be alone with him. “I need to go home now. Have a good day, Mr. Fakhri!”

  “Well, if you are leaving . . . yes, Roya Khanom, have a wonderful day!” Mr. Fakhri looked relieved. He glanced at his watch again. “Bank’s about to close. I don’t have much time. Thank you, Bahman Jan. I’ll take you up on that offer.” Mr. Fakhri grabbed his coat and hat and looked pointedly at Roya. “Good-bye, Roya Khanom. Get home safely. Before it’s too late.” He pressed the black chapeau onto his head. “Bahman Jan, I’ll be back soon.” He rushed out, and Roya followed him to the door.

  “Stay.”

  Bahman’s voice was clear, certain.

  “Good-bye.” She stopped just short of the door. Her back was to him. She could see Mr. Fakhri disappear down the street.

  “Please stay.” His voice sounded less certain now.

  She turned to tell him why she couldn’t possibly stay. But when she saw him, she could barely breathe. He looked nervous. His face was red, although his expression was kind.

  She would leave. She had a lot to do. Maman and Zari needed help getting the house ready for the New Year. All that spring-cleaning. Lots of dusting, endless beating of carpets, vinegar-washing of the windows. There was no possible way she could stay here alone with this boy.

  She was alone with him. She was alone with him in this shop, and suddenly the sanctuary held the possibility of absolutely changing everything.

  “What’s your favorite book?” he asked quickly.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Oh, it’s just that . . . I assumed you loved to read.”

  “I do. I mean I don’t have just one. Too many.”

  He grinned and his face, still red, opened up a little.

  “Mr. Fakhri tells me you want to change the world.” She walked toward him, aware of jumping off a cliff, surprised that she was putting one foot in front of the other. She stopped when she was just an arm-length’s away. His khaki pants, the flop of hair on his head, the continued redness of his face blared.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Bahman looked down at the floor.

  “But you’re siasi, political, no?”

  He looked up, surprised. “Is there anyone in this country who isn’t?”

  “I’m not,” she half lied.

  “You have to be political. Especially now.”

  “Well, I don’t like it. All the arguments. The demonstrations.”

  “It’s all we have. We have to stay involved. We can’t let them oust Prime Minister Mossadegh. . . .”

  “You believe those rumors? That he’ll be overthrown?”

  “I’m worried about it, yes. Foreign powers could do it. Or our own countrymen, traitors in our midst, it’s a growing—” He stopped. “I won’t bore you with this.”

  “I’m used to it. My baba says much the same thing.”

  Bahman smiled. “He does?”

  “Oh, yes. I get my fill.”

  He didn’t say anything. His eyes were locked with hers. They just stood facing each other. It unnerved her to be under his gaze and yet it thrilled her. They could not touch. They must not touch.

  “You love to read, I know. You love poetry and novels,” he said softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Every Tuesday, I see you. You love that aisle.” He nodded toward the area where Mr. Fakhri kept the translations of foreign novels.

  “Oh, you come here every Tuesday? I didn’t notice!”

  He laughed. And when he did, his face opened up entirely. His eyes carried the laughter; they filled with a kindness that was breathtaking. “I’ve come here on other days. You’re never here. Only on Tuesdays.”

  “That’s the only day I can come,” she said.

  “What are you doing the rest of the time?”

  “Studying.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” She gazed at him steadily. “My father wants me to become a scientist. Or a published writer . . . like Helen Keller.” She mumbled the last part.

  “And you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you want?”

  It was an absurd question. Roya wasn’t sure if anyone had ever asked her that. Wasn’t it enough that she had such a supportive father, so progressive in his championing of his daughter? Wouldn’t a pro-Mossadegh activist like him be impressed? “My parents want me to finish school and go to university to become a scientist, most likely.”

  “And what would you do if you could do what you want?”

  The audacity of the question threw her. “I would . . . I would listen to my father. My mother . . .”

  He came closer. A mixture of musk and a windy scent made her feel like she might fall. Then he reached out and took her hand. She had never felt a boy’s hand before. He wrapped his fingers around hers, and Roya’s heart jumped. His touch startled her and yet was strangely comforting.

  “You love novels. I’ve seen you.”

  “So?”

  “So, read them. As much as you want.”

  How many times had Maman told her she’d bleed her eyes out for reading so much? How often had Zari thrown her books off the bed as she swore she’d never met anyone who burrowed her face into books like this, it would ruin her posture, by God it would? How many times had Baba preached the importance of studying for a serious profession in this world, and if one couldn’t be a scientist and chose to read books instead, then one had better produce books like that Keller woman?

  “Unless you really want to be a scientist or a writer. In which case, then of course do that. Do what you want.”

  The worrying, striving feeling that overpowered her in school and at home evaporated a bit. She wanted to hear more, talk to him, not let go.

  The bell jangled and Mr. Fakhri swooped in, out of breath, his hat askew. When he saw them, his face flushed. He looked away, cleared his throat, and they dropped their hands as thoug
h they had been burned, as though they were both holding a ball of fire. It felt like she’d been caught stealing. But even though her hand dropped to her side, even though she looked hard at her shoes, mumbled, “I have to go,” and hurried out, she knew that she would come back to this shop forever and ever, despite what Mr. Fakhri or anyone else might think. The contact was irreversible, irreparable, and she did not want to take it back.

  Chapter Four

  1953

  * * *

  Chained

  In the dusty, cool space of that shop filled with books and fountain pens and ink bottles, they continued to meet. The unwanted boys appeared at every street corner, but the one Roya actually felt charged by was only to be seen on Tuesday afternoons at the Stationery Shop. He asked her things like what she thought about Saadi’s Golestan poems. Roya was surprised at her own solid answer. Her voice came out a lot more confident and stronger than she’d thought it would. Before long (because it did not take very long when Roya was seventeen and in Iran and simply dreaming of bigger things), she was convinced that he was the most intelligent boy she had ever met and possibly the best-looking.

  He was an activist. He told her that he dispersed pro-Mossadegh articles at the University of Tehran and at high schools in the nearby neighborhoods. He delivered National Front newsletters and pamphlets throughout the city. Where did he get his political material? From Mr. Fakhri. In the storage room behind his counter, Mr. Fakhri apparently had a vast collection of more dangerous political material. Roya panicked when Bahman first told her this. She remembered the day the police had come for Jaleh at school, how Jaleh had jumped in the air to avoid the savage force of the water. How she had landed in the pool of it. The police could just as easily target Bahman and accuse him of spreading anti-Shah propaganda. They could arrest him. And to think Mr. Fakhri was helping him! She never would have guessed Mr. Fakhri to be part of such clandestine political activity. She had underestimated the quiet, calm shopkeeper behind the counter.

  Bahman told her not to worry.

  Fissures between the political groups grew. Violence at rallies increased. A few protestors were shot by the police, chased and cornered into an alley with bullets. But even though Roya feared for Bahman’s safety, it was impossible not to admire his cause. He believed in the prime minister’s policies wholeheartedly, with more fervor even than Baba, if that was possible. Things were changing, he said. Iran had a future and it was bright and the prime minister was going to give them everything they needed. Only there were those who would stop Mossadegh, and Bahman was determined not to let them thwart the prime minister.

  Roya leaned against the shelves lined with books as Bahman talked, her back digging into the spines of poetry and politics. If he went on too long about representation and taxes and trade, she simply focused on his eyes, lost, but in the best of ways. Mr. Fakhri blended into the background, expressing the need to be in the back storage room more and more frequently. Often they were left alone. But there was always the hazard of other customers walking in, and frequently they did—older men in spectacles with lists of new stationery items they needed to buy, or young communist students asking for more Marx pamphlets, or pro-Mossadegh protesters requesting more books on philosophy and democracy. Some of the Mossadegh supporters recognized Bahman and gave him a nod of solidarity, a look that indicated they appreciated all that he was doing for the cause.

  She melted into the spines of the books as he whispered in her ear, his body close to hers, his hand daring to touch hers again whenever they were alone. Before long, there was no place she’d rather be.

  Roya browsed the novels in the foreign translations aisle, waiting. The door flew open. There he was. White shirt, khaki pants, red cheeks, hair puffed up from the wind, breathless. He scanned the shop, and when his eyes landed on her, his face broke into a huge smile.

  “Hello, Bahman Jan,” Mr. Fakhri said from behind the counter.

  “How are you, Mr. Fakhri?” Bahman didn’t take his eyes off Roya.

  Mr. Fakhri stiffened as Bahman and Roya stared at each other. For a moment Roya thought he would actually tell them off. But then he sighed and said he had to check inventory. His voice was strange as he said it. She heard him march to the back storage room.

  “Chetori? How are you?” Bahman asked, addressing her in the tense of the Farsi verb used for intimate interactions. He had dropped the formal “you.”

  Roya swallowed hard. “I’m fine.” She bent to put Anna Karenina back on the shelf. When she straightened up, he was next to her. He scooped his arm around her waist, and she froze like a statue.

  “Come,” he said. His arm was strong and solid against the small of her back. “It’s gorgeous. We should be outside on a day like this!”

  She mumbled a modest protest, but allowed him to lead her out into the bright light of the street.

  He was right. It was a gorgeous day. The city was lush with spring and everything blossomed. Roya blinked at the glory of the world. She couldn’t believe they were going out in public. They weren’t engaged or married, and she had not told her parents much about Bahman, only that she’d met a studious boy at the Stationery Shop, one from a good family who was very dedicated to the prime minister’s cause. She knew this last piece of information would impress Baba. She’d told Zari much more, though, including details about their first Tuesday afternoon meeting, and later the word “fire” after she’d first spoken to him and asked what followed in Saadi’s poem. Zari was curious but skeptical. She said politically active boys were overrated, she didn’t care how wealthy his dumb family was, he seemed like a silly idealist obsessed with the prime minister, as if anyone but the Shah could change politics in Iran, for God’s sake, and that Roya should just grow up and realize that if she was going to net a man, then at least throw the net around a better one. And yet she wanted to know everything about how Roya fell for him.

  “Bahman, slow down!” He walked so fast; she had to almost jog to keep up.

  He stopped. “I’m sorry. Of course.” When he walked again, it was at a much slower pace, and soon their strides were in sync.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, what will I tell my sister? My parents!”

  Bahman looked amused. “You tell them, anyone, that you went for a walk with your beau.” He squeezed her hand.

  She might explode; her heart could burst. She loved his hand in hers. And his words. Her beau.

  As they turned the corner and entered one of the city’s main squares, shouts filled the air.

  Another rally. Another political demonstration where people screamed. Barricades had been set up at the front of the square. People chanted pro-Mossadegh slogans as a megaphone blared. Roya’s hand grew slack in Bahman’s and blood throbbed in her ears. Her immediate instinct was to take flight and avoid the raucous crowd.

  “Bahman, let’s get out of here.”

  “Don’t you want to see what’s going on?”

  “No. It’s dangerous.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Zari says the police keep track of protestors. They have spies embedded in the crowd. . . .”

  “Don’t be scared.” He held her hand tight and led her not away from the crowd, but right to the center of the action. Cries of “Ya marg ya Mossadegh!” rang through the square. “Give me Mossadegh or give me death!” Her body tensed. Were Mossadegh’s supporters really ready to die for him? Was Bahman?

  “This,” Bahman whispered in her ear as the cacophony of the crowd got louder, “is how it happens. This is how we ensure democracy. We can’t just sit at home and say nothing and let the king and foreign companies grab more control. This is where we make ourselves heard.”

  He pulled her farther in and led her past rows of people to the very front near the barricades. As they pushed through, Roya was surprised at how many people seemed to recognize Bahman. They made way for him. One or two of the young demonstrators clapped him on the back, and an older g
entleman winked. Had he gone everywhere delivering the speeches and pamphlets? Despite her fear, she felt a sense of pride being his companion. There was no questioning the respect that others held for him. When they got to the front, Bahman nestled her against the barricade, shielding her as much as possible from the rest of the crowd. His arm was strong against her back.

  An electric energy buzzed in the air: a sense of camaraderie, of purpose. She would never have come to a place like this without him. She would have been too shy, too scared. Maybe Bahman was right. Maybe she should stop worrying and allow herself to listen and to speak. Was that even possible? Bahman made it seem possible.

  He was in his element here. He was absolutely riveted, lit up. He opened his mouth, and she expected him to say something like “Isn’t it amazing?” She was now predicting what he would say—imagine that! As if she even really knew him all that well. But she did know him. He was exciting and unpredictable but also just . . . him.

  “We can have everything,” Bahman said.

  “But the communists are against Mossadegh and might—”

  “I mean you. And me. We can have the world.”

  Standing there with him in the crowd, she felt like the future was bigger and more limitless than she’d ever dared to imagine. She leaned into the barricade and joined in the chants. There was something strangely arousing about being there. Every part of her felt a rush, a sense of promise. As her confidence built, she shouted louder and louder. The sun burned her face and her braids bounced against her chest as she pumped her fist. Perspiration ran down her back and eventually soaked her Peter Pan collar. She had been hiding for too long. Why? Bahman was right. None of these people looked scared. They all had to fight, to protest, to march. So Mossadegh could get his agenda through, so the country could have true freedom. As she leaned against the splintered wood of the barricade with Bahman, everything did seem possible. They were one with each other and with the whole billowing, unified crowd. They would fight. They would both change the world.