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  The taste of him, his arms around her, his body against hers as she continued to kiss felt boundless. When she finally drew back, he looked flushed, overwhelmed.

  “I think that’s a yes.” He looked like he could fall.

  “Yes. It is.” Her new feeling of authority was liberating and surprising. She’d had no idea until that moment about the power she held over him.

  “I’ll go to your parents, of course.”

  She’d assumed he’d been kissed before. But then again, maybe he never had. She certainly hadn’t kissed anyone before this, and she was astonished at how natural it felt, as if she had been doing this all along.

  “If your parents give me their permission, we can be married by the end of summer. I just want to get closer to you. I want nothing more than that. For our worlds to be one.”

  This had to be the fate written on their foreheads in invisible ink all along. She’d said yes . . . to what? To the kiss, to marriage? Her heart raced, and then he leaned in and kissed her. What had been strong and startling the first time morphed into something so tender even the flowers on the shrub could have carried it in their exquisite stamens, borne it in their tiny translucent petals. She melted into him. This was not supposed to happen before marriage. But here they were. My God, good girls did not do this. But Roya didn’t care. She could eat him up right there. If they did this for the rest of their lives, it would never be enough.

  “You like his VOICE? You said you would marry this person because his voice cracked?”

  “I like his everything,” Roya said. “We are in love.”

  Zari and Roya lay in their room later that night whispering after the lights had been turned off. Roya kept replaying every moment of the evening in her head. How Bahman’s voice had cracked when he asked her, the kiss near the bushes—all of it. She had shared some of the details with Zari but was regretting it now.

  “So his voice cracked and it was so adorable that you’re considering marrying someone who could be imprisoned for his activist work any day now? Whose parents you’ve barely met?”

  “Stop catastrophizing everything, Zari. He is passionate about the future of this country and is helping a very worthwhile cause. That’s to be admired.”

  “And his mother? You said she was rude to you when you first met her.”

  “She wasn’t rude, exactly. She hasn’t been feeling well. Bahman said she’s been a bit sick. She’ll get better.”

  “I can’t believe you said yes!”

  “Look, Zari, being in love is difficult to explain. When you know it’s right, you just know. There’s no avoiding it. It’s like . . . it’s like a tree has fallen on your head.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “What I mean is, it’s impossible to miss. That’s just how life is. Bahman is my fate. Together we will . . .” It was impossible to capture in words the tender web in which Roya and Bahman had been suspended earlier that night and every time they were together. Even trying to describe it to her sister felt like cheapening it.

  “Good night, Sister,” Zari sighed.

  Roya snuggled next to her, grateful that the conversation was over.

  “I will pray for you!” Zari added, and squeezed her sister’s hand.

  When Bahman came to ask her parents’ permission, everyone was nervous. Even though he’d been over a few times at the end of spring and beginning of summer, it had always been when their other friends were also there. This time he came alone. Tradition called for the boy to attend with his parents when asking for a girl’s hand, but Bahman told them that his mother was quite unwell and his father had to stay to take care of her and so he’d had to come by himself.

  At those small gatherings with friends, when Bahman spoke of his passion for the prime minister’s policies, Baba had been like a man struck by a match. They agreed on politics, which already put Bahman in Baba’s good graces and was a huge advantage. But it was different to request formal permission to marry their daughter and they all knew it.

  Roya was so anxious; she spilled the tea as she served it to Baba, Maman, and Bahman. Bahman sat across from her parents in the living room, chewed on his lip, and shuffled his feet. Roya felt bad for him, wanted to help him; all of this was supremely unconventional. His being there without his own parents made it so much harder. They should have been there! As was custom, Roya left the room after serving the tea so that Bahman could speak to her parents without her present. But she left the door a tiny bit ajar and immediately joined Zari, who was waiting outside the living room. The two of them watched through the crack in the door.

  “Bahman Jan, welcome to our home,” Baba said quite formally.

  “Noghl for your tea?” From the door crack, Roya saw Maman hold up a silver bowl filled with the almond candy.

  “May your hands not ache, Khanom Kayhani, thank you.” Bahman used the common Persian tarof expressions for exaggerated polite talk and dutifully took the noghl.

  A few more niceties were exchanged. Baba remarked about the weather. Maman said something about fruit, would he like it, please take this plate, the cucumbers are so fresh. Bahman knew better than to decline. Then there was silence. Roya held her breath and Zari chewed on her thumb.

  Bahman coughed. “For the past seven months, as you know, Agha and Khanom Kayhani, since this past winter, I have had the pleasure of getting to know your daughter. This has made me an extremely lucky and fortunate person.”

  Zari stifled a giggle.

  Maman and Baba didn’t say a word. Bahman went on: “I want you to know that I have worked very hard in high school and will be graduating, thankfully, as a shagerd aval, at the top of my class.”

  “Well, from a high school like yours, that would practically guarantee a position in the professional class!” Baba said.

  “Thank you. Yes. But”—Bahman cleared his throat—“I think you should know that I would like to start working at a progressive pro-Mossadegh newspaper in the fall.”

  Zari hit her forehead with her palm.

  Maman shifted uncomfortably. Roya knew that working at a political newspaper was not what she’d had in mind for a future son-in-law. Roya held her breath as though the sound of her exhalation could ruin everything.

  “It would be temporary. Just till things settle down in this country. We have to do what we can. To help the National Front. I have friends at the paper,” Bahman went on. “It would be a good starting position. I hope you know that I am devoted to your daughter and I would do everything in my power to make sure we have a secure and happy life together. Everything. She would want for nothing. It would be a privilege . . . it would be my good fortune to be able to start a life with her. My parents couldn’t be here today, I know they should be here, but I will be sure to bring them if—if a match could go ahead. If I could be given the opportunity to have the honor of making your daughter . . .”

  “Is a tree falling on your head right now?” Zari whispered.

  Roya wanted to run out into the living room and just sit next to Bahman. How long had he practiced this speech? How nervous must he be right now? She knew Maman would not like the continued political activism. But it was hard not to be besotted by Bahman’s charm, not to want to inhale the air he breathed, not to wish that half of his good cheer and optimism could infect them all. Surely Maman and Baba would approve.

  “What I am trying to say, Agha Kayhani, Khanom Kayhani, is that I would very much like, well, I would very much appreciate the honor of . . . I would like to ask permission to marry your daughter,” Bahman finally said.

  “My dear boy! Please. My boy, my boy!” Baba’s voice boomed. “Albateh! Yes, of course.”

  Roya let out a long, deep breath. Zari stood still and was silent.

  Maman dabbed her eyes with her fingers. “May you live a long happy life together,” she said. She smiled when Bahman pumped Baba’s hand up and down far too many times.

  And Roya leaned into the door feeling a surge of relief and nerves. Her pa
rents had approved. Now his parents just had to come and meet with hers officially.

  A few days later, Roya drank strong coffee with Bahman as they sat on the pink-cushioned chairs in Café Ghanadi.

  Suddenly she had the strange feeling of being watched. Her body tightened at the thought of thugs on the prowl for political dissidents again. She looked around the café with dread. But there were no men with batons. Then she noticed a tall young woman sitting a few tables away, wearing a green feathered hat with a large pin in it. The woman stared directly at her. She was beautiful, with olive skin, large dark eyes, pouty lips colored a deep crimson, and hair that fell in perfect waves beneath her hat. Roya could even make out a dark mole above her upper lip, like a movie star’s. The woman continued to stare at Roya with an expression bordering on disgust.

  “Bahman,” Roya whispered. “Don’t look now, but this woman at that table keeps staring at us.”

  “Who?” Bahman swiveled around.

  “Don’t look now!” Roya muttered under her breath.

  But it was too late. Bahman had seen the woman. He turned around to face Roya again. His face and ears were red.

  “She keeps staring, right?”

  “Oh, that’s just . . .” Bahman mumbled. “Don’t worry.”

  “You know her?”

  “That’s Shahla.”

  “Who?”

  He sighed. “My mother thinks she’s my destiny.”

  Roya couldn’t speak.

  He leaned into the table and took her hand. “What matters is what I think. What we think,” he quickly added. “I don’t subscribe to that old-fashioned nonsense of arranged marriages. You know that.”

  Roya’s head throbbed. “You never once mentioned her. You didn’t tell me there was someone planned for you.”

  “Look, my mother, like most mamans, has—correction, had—a girl in mind for me. She picked Shahla out a while ago. Trust me, it’s not what I want in the slightest. It’s not what’s going to happen.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You should have told me. I would have liked to know!”

  “Well, because. Look, Roya, my mother has some . . . issues. Sometimes she is not well. Emotionally. In her mind. You may have noticed.”

  Roya had first met Bahman’s parents back in the spring when they were courting and they had gone to his house with a group of friends after school. Bahman’s father was kind and quiet, but his mother intimidated her. The first time she’d met Mrs. Aslan (and each time since), it was as if she was being evaluated from head to toe. When she spoke in Mrs. Aslan’s presence, Roya felt awkward and childish. It was obvious that Bahman’s mother did not like her. She had been against their engagement. But in the end, Bahman’s father, quiet and unassuming, had the last word because he was a man.

  “You should have told me.” Roya pushed away her coffee cup and got up. “No wonder your mother can’t stand me. She had someone else in mind for you. How could you not tell me something so important? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? In this city? Where students like us know the same people, when boys from your school date girls from mine, did you really think that I wouldn’t find out?”

  “Please, Roya. I feel nothing for her. Less than nothing. My mother has her own ideas about everything. She’s . . . she’s struggling.”

  Roya sat again because she didn’t want to give the girl in the hat the satisfaction of seeing her quarrel with Bahman. She wanted to leave, but she couldn’t. Even though she was furious with Bahman, she was already trying to save face on his account. This was the societal web of niceties and formalities and expected good female behavior that often suffocated her. But she had no choice but to bear it, to try to navigate within it. That much she knew.

  “Don’t worry, my mother will come around. Give her a little time to get to know you better. How could she not see in you all the goodness that the rest of the world sees?”

  “Please. She thinks you can do better.”

  “That’s actually impossible, so she’s wrong. Look, it’s her nerves. My mother’s not entirely in control of her emotions. She has her dark days. But she will come around, you’ll see.”

  Of course there would be other contenders; Mrs. Aslan would have had other girls in mind for Bahman. In Mr. Fakhri’s shop, among the bookshelves and in the dark, musty corners, it seemed that Bahman was hers alone. The boy in the white shirt and khaki pants was hardly ever there with other friends. Their conversations, private jokes, jaunts to Café Ghanadi seemed encased in a separate sphere. Because he was politically active, she’d at first assumed his circle of friends consisted of wonkish nationalists obsessed with Prime Minister Mossadegh. When she’d thought of Bahman socializing, she’d imagined political debates held over espresso with intellectual young men in cafés. But Jahangir was his close friend, and she had already seen that Jahangir ran in very elite circles. He was known for giving the best parties. Bahman was a part of all of that—she was learning. Of course there would have been other women planned for him, wanting him.

  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. His mouth smelled of burnt coffee. The Shahla girl could not have missed it. In public, at the café, Bahman drew her in as if they were alone in the world, as if they had nothing to hide.

  Roya should have pushed his face away, but instead she allowed the kiss to land. They were engaged, for God’s sake. Their fate was bound. No mother’s prearranged plans could thwart them.

  From the corner of her eye, Roya saw the girl called Shahla get up and bump her way through the tables as she scurried out.

  Chapter Seven

  1953

  * * *

  Mrs. Aslan

  Against her will, Mrs. Aslan had to approve of the engagement because, as she often said if only people would listen, in this hellish world all it took was for the man to give his go-ahead, what did the woman’s opinion matter? Apparently her feckless husband had to just approve of the match, and lo! It was done, stamped with a seal of legitimacy. As if she, the mother, hadn’t been the one to push that boy out of her flailing, frail body, as if she hadn’t held him to her breast month after month as he sucked her dry, as if she wasn’t the one who held his hand and walked him all over the city to show him the world, as if she hadn’t sat with him night after night encouraging him to tackle the poems and math problems in his notebooks. As if she hadn’t done everything in her power so her son could do better, rise in this life! From the very beginning she had seen in this baby the potential for greatness. He would shuck the yoke of class and stagnancy; in this new, modern Iran, he could get to better social circles. Wasn’t the country changing? Wasn’t that what everyone said? Hadn’t she managed through sheer determination and God’s will to escape a destiny of poverty? She had been a little girl in torn slippers with a shabby headscarf tied at her neck, a girl who should have been nothing more than a destitute man’s daughter, a peasant, a servant perhaps. A girl who had suffered unutterable losses. But she had Bahman now.

  She had married Mr. Aslan (it did no good to wallow in the grievances of a broken heart; whatever it was, it had happened this way) and through this marriage, she had defied the trappings of class. She’d married an engineer! She had raised their boy; did anyone in the entire city doubt the energy and intelligence and absolute talents of her son? Was he not the sun and the stars? She wanted that Roya girl gone from her son’s life. Instead she had to stomach the girl giggling on her living room sofa. (Yes, they had a sofa. That was it; they had a sofa, Western-style furniture. In the tiny room of her childhood, there had been no chairs, no table, no fancy sofas. They had sat on the floor. They ate their meals cross-legged, from dishes arranged on the sofreh cloth on the floor.) Now this girl sat on her sofa. It made her livid. It made her sickness, a monster that was unpredictable and unforgiving enough, bear down even stronger. A tsunami of this horrible nervous illness sometimes drowned her with little warning. She’d go down beyond reach, and when that happened not even her boy could haul her out of those moods. Th
ough he did try.

  It was during a particularly bad down-cycle of her sickness that Bahman boldly announced his desire to propose to Roya, and her husband, weak and ineffectual as he was, had succumbed! Encouraged him, even. In her low moods, Mrs. Aslan had little power; she could barely get through the day, even the hour, didn’t they know that? How could they pounce this news on her then? Maybe that’s exactly why they did pounce it on her then, the sons of dogs. She would attend the god-awful engagement party only because, as ever, a woman ultimately had to give in to her husband. Even a weak, pathetic husband like hers. She wanted to prevent this catastrophe of a match. Her gorgeous son, who had so much to offer, who could do fabulous things with his life! Marrying some bookish, average girl who thought reading novels translated from Russian or English was something worthwhile, who was pretty but not astoundingly so, whose father struggled to maintain his stagnant clerkship. Whose father, worst of all, exhibited the same obsession with nationalism and the prime minister that had lately infected her own son. She didn’t need her boy embroiled further in useless political activism. She wanted Bahman to succeed. Join the oil company, make money—there was so much to be made—so much potential for these young people!

  “How are you, Mrs. Aslan?” that Roya girl dared to ask her now as she sat on her sofa. “Bahman said you had a difficult evening sleeping. Are you feeling any better?”

  Limp and snotty and rude, that’s what this girl was.

  “How do you expect me to be?” Mrs. Aslan said. “You just wait, my girl. Life will slap you down too. It’ll push you down when you least expect it. You’ll see. This world lacks justice. Did you know babies die?”

  The girl looked stunned, absolutely flummoxed and shocked. She couldn’t even say anything.