The Stationery Shop Page 8

  He put on a new record, and sultry guitar chords filled the room. “Bahman, get over here!” Jahangir motioned from across the room. “I’d like to demonstrate with you.”

  Bahman walked over and they stood face-to-face, cheek-to-cheek, Jahangir’s arm around Bahman’s waist, his other arm extended with his hand clasping Bahman’s. Jahangir drew Bahman in tight and slowly they moved. The song was sensual, almost alarming. It made Roya long for something she couldn’t even define, something forbidden and inviting. Watching Jahangir and Bahman dance felt like watching two strangers. Like watching what she’d never known she yearned for.

  After the tutorial, after giggles and titters from the girls and the end of the song, Bahman dropped Jahangir’s hand and took Roya to the center of the room. They were joined by a few brave couples game enough to give it a go. When Jahangir started the song again, Bahman and Roya clasped each other. At first they got it wrong; they wobbled, and she almost fell over. The stubble on Bahman’s chin dug into her cheek. Being so close to him filled her with a desire so strong she had to force herself to focus on the steps. Her movements were wrong, but it just didn’t matter. Her body was flush against Bahman’s, her arm extended as one with his, her hand in his. Bahman stayed in character, imitating Jahangir’s serious and sexy look from the tutorial. It made Roya smile, and he frowned as if to chide her, so she quickly imitated his mock-serious expression. They tried and tried again until they were able to get across the room without looking like they’d collapse.

  If she believed in fate, she would know that they were meant to meet, to fall in love like this, to want only to be together. Her body fit so well into his, it was as though she’d found her home. She was meant to have been in that Stationery Shop when he strode in whistling; she was meant to share Rumi’s poetry with him, to feel this connection with him. These things were meant to happen—it was impossible to think of a life without him now. She was his. It was that simple. It was more than destiny. It was reality, a practicality almost. It wasn’t a dream. It was simple fact.

  “Hey, what are you thinking?” Bahman asked her as they glided across the floor.

  “What?”

  “Never have I seen anyone think so hard while dancing. You’re doing great, don’t be scared.”

  “Oh,” Roya said. “Thanks.”

  The sensual guitar music practically vibrated through them. He was right. Why worry? None of it mattered. They were together and that was all that mattered and would ever matter.

  “Where are you? You’re so far away.” He kissed her neck.

  “Could I be any closer to you? We’re practically stuck to each other! Your dream come true!”

  “I’m not complaining.” He smiled. “But your thoughts. You look like you’re trying to figure out the world.”

  “I know better than to try.”

  “You had the same deep look of concentration when I first met you.”

  “You whistled like a fool. You didn’t even look at me.”

  She thought the dance was over, but the song just blended into another one. Bahman clearly had no intention of letting her go. Together they continued. Whether the other couples had stopped dancing she did not know. Her face was so close to his he must have tasted the melon on her breath.

  “Last winter. The politics, the rallies. You saved me,” he said.

  “Hardly.”

  “You did, you have no idea.”

  She wondered what he meant. Saved him from being sucked even deeper into politics? Saved him from being wedded eventually to Shahla? Saved him from the force of his mother? She wanted to ask, but she also didn’t want to get into it. That winter galvanized by politics had melted into a spring so soft, so sweet; it would forever be ingrained in Roya’s memory with the taste of shirini, the buttery pastries, and the bitter, intense, creamy coffee.

  “You’re less political now,” she admitted.

  “It matters less to me now. But I’m worried.”

  “About us?”

  “They want to oust Mossadegh.”

  When she heard the prime minister’s name, her hand grew slack. “Of course. I thought it all mattered less to you now, you just said—”

  “No such thing as no politics for us, Roya Joon. Politics drives every single thing in this country whether we like it or not. All of this: the dancing, the gramophone, these girls dressed like they’re in an American movie, do you think any of it could exist without the efforts of those who are political?”

  She wanted another crushed melon-ice drink. She wanted to sit down. They were stuck together in an embrace that was sexy but also suddenly stultifying. If she even tried to peel her body away from his in the middle of this dance, it would probably be impossible, against the laws of nature, against fate.

  “You’re worried,” she sighed. “About the prime minister. I see.”

  “There are rumors that they want to overthrow him.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “The Shah’s forces. The English. The Americans. All of them together. I’ve heard that—”

  “He’s crazy about you!” Jahangir suddenly tangoed past them with Shahla. Shahla, stiff in Jahangir’s arms, kept her gaze on the ceiling, looking stoically at the chandelier. “All I hear is Roya, Roya, ROYA!” Jahangir sang out.

  Bahman held her even closer as Jahangir and Shahla spun by in a fury. Shahla’s glare could have extinguished the lights of the chandelier.

  Bahman leaned into her and whispered, “Did you know that Shahla’s family works for the Shah? Her father is allied with his police.”

  “Oh God. Please don’t tell me you think she’s a spy for the Shah.”

  “I’m just saying. I don’t put anything past anyone.” His belt dug into her.

  “Does she know you’re spreading Mossadegh’s speeches all through town? Would she . . . get revenge on you for not fulfilling your mother’s pact of arranged marriage?”

  Bahman pressed his cheek into hers and was quiet. They didn’t talk about the prime minister anymore, they just danced, hanging on to each other tighter, as though they could lose each other right there in the middle of Jahangir’s living room. The Perfect Couple!

  “Will Shahla and all the rest of these fancy friends cheshm us, give us the evil eye?” Roya asked as they danced across the room. “Sometimes their envy feels palpable. Like you can even touch it.”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t believe in that evil-eye stuff. It’s superstitious junk. I wish our culture could move past it. What we have? No one can touch it. Anyway, this is meant to be.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in superstition.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Isn’t meant to be another way of saying destiny?”

  He smiled. “Nothing can come between us. We can’t be jinxed. By anyone.”

  “Your mother,” she dared to whisper.

  He didn’t say a word.

  She looked down at their feet, ashamed. “Sorry.”

  “Look.” He was suddenly serious. “She’ll come around. You’ll see.” The music swelled into a crescendo, dramatic notes hitting a climax. Without warning, he dipped her. The blood rushed to her head, the room swam, everything was upside down.

  “You can’t get rid of me,” he said as he pulled her back up. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

  Chapter Ten

  1953

  * * *

  Letters in Books

  The following Tuesday, Bahman disappeared. When she called his house, no one answered. When she knocked on the door, no one came out. Not a tired, wan Mrs. Aslan with rouge on her cheeks. Not a pleasing, generous Mr. Aslan asking her if she wanted tea. No one. Neighbors shrugged. One of them suggested they’d maybe gone to the North? To the sea? To escape the heat. That must be it. Just innuendos, just guesses, nothing clear.

  After three days of no news from Bahman, Roya was weak with worry. Finally she broke down and went to the one place that had been at the center of it all: the Stationery Shop. She
was afraid of what she might discover there—what Mr. Fakhri might know about political arrests. She had avoided going there at first, but now she had to know.

  “My dear girl, are you not aware? Prime Minister Mossadegh has a lot of enemies. He wants to take our country forward, but foreign powers and our own two-faced traitors are trying to topple him. At any cost.”

  “Mr. Fakhri, please. Where is he?”

  “He can’t be with you right now.”

  “We’re engaged. Look, Mr. Fakhri, your kindness is not overlooked—we’ll always be grateful for how you helped us, how you let us . . . meet. But it was one thing when we came here before in secret. Now we’re getting married. At the end of the summer! Please, just tell me what you know. One of his neighbors told me he might have gone up north to be by the sea. But why wouldn’t he tell me? He would tell me, right?”

  She was embarrassed to be so open and desperate with Mr. Fakhri. It was completely unbecoming. Zari would have a fit if she knew Roya was pleading so intently, practically begging for information. Roya had finally told her family that Bahman was missing. Baba, convinced that the Shah’s thugs had arrested Bahman, couldn’t sleep. Maman prayed for his safety holding the prayer beads of her tasbih, muttering Quran verses under her breath as she slid each bead to the other side.

  “Just leave it be, my girl,” Mr. Fakhri said.

  “They’re rounding them up left and right, I know. Please tell me what you’ve heard.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, my dear. These things are just quite complicated. You need to rest. Don’t worry—”

  “Rest? He’s missing! Tell me, in a city like this where everyone is in everyone else’s business all the time, how is there no word about him or even about his father or his mother—”

  Mr. Fakhri stiffened. “His mother?”

  “Everyone I talk to knows nothing! How could no one know a thing?” It wasn’t how a young woman should behave in front of an older man, raising her voice and making demands. But it nauseated her to think of Bahman in jail.

  “His . . . family.” Mr. Fakhri’s face was pale. He quickly cleared his throat. “Are they all right? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing! That’s why I’m asking you!” Roya had the sudden urge to hurl the nearest book at him. Why was he giving her the runaround, acting like he had no idea what she was asking about? She spoke again in a deliberate, calm voice. “I know a lot of the political activists come through here, Mr. Fakhri. We all know that your shop is a safe haven for the pro-Mossadegh people. That you disseminate the information from here for the National Front and even for some of the communist Tudehi groups. Please tell me what you know. I can take it. I can be discreet.”

  “Okay then, young lady.” Mr. Fakhri was silent for a moment. His expression was hard to read. “Fine. Did you know the government police come here too? That not everything is easily said?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m telling you that you shouldn’t worry. Just . . . trust in God. God is big.”

  Of course. She had been so blinded by her worry for Bahman that she’d completely overlooked the danger for Mr. Fakhri. She looked behind her, making sure no one else was present for this conversation. Spies could be anywhere. Was Mr. Fakhri on a watch list now? Had he been interrogated?

  Mr. Fakhri leaned forward as though he was about to say something of great importance. Roya remembered her second encounter with Bahman—how Mr. Fakhri had leaned in and told her to practice “severe caution.” She forced herself to remain calm. She couldn’t lose his trust.

  “My dear girl,” Mr. Fakhri whispered, “Bahman is . . . busy. That is all. And he cannot be seen romancing right now.”

  “I’m his fiancée,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Mr. Fakhri sniffed. “Regardless. You understand, I’m sure?”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  Something changed in his composure; his intensity gave way. Mr. Fakhri looked around the shop with fear. Finally he sighed. “Bahman told me that anything you’d like to say to him can be said through letters.”

  “He did?” Roya’s heart beat fast.

  “Yes.”

  Her mind raced; she tried to think of all the possibilities that could warrant an exchange of letters. Why couldn’t they talk? He had to be in hiding to avoid arrest.

  “Of course. I’ll write to him, then.”

  Mr. Fakhri readjusted his glasses but said nothing.

  “Mr. Fakhri? Can I please have his address?”

  “His address?”

  “You must know how to reach him?” She was walking on eggshells; she didn’t want to sound too forward. If he were to renege on his offer . . .

  “You give the letters to me. I’ll make sure he gets them.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please, young lady.”

  “But how?”

  “The way it’s done for others. I have my ways.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “What ways?”

  “Roya Khanom, how do you think a lot of young people who can’t call each other or see each other in this city get their messages across?”

  “Telegrams?”

  “My young lady. It’s in the books. They give me their notes and I place them between the pages of the books. And when the next person comes to ‘buy’ a book, they receive the volume with the note inside it.”

  Roya glanced around the shop, at the bookshelves filled with the volumes she loved so much. She’d had no idea that these books were used as vehicles of communication. That people placed notes inside them using Mr. Fakhri as a conduit. The shop she had loved, where she had spent so many afternoons in study and sanctuary, suddenly seemed slightly sinister. So it was not only a place where political material was secretly disseminated, but a hub of letter exchange as well?

  Not wanting to lose her only potential strand of communication with Bahman, she took in a deep breath. “Of course. I appreciate it. I’ll have a letter for you tomorrow.”

  When she walked out into the harsh sunlight, the city reeked of heat and worry. Talk of a coup had been circulating for a while; Bahman’s fear that the Shah’s forces could team up with foreign powers and overthrow the prime minister was now shared by many others. Wherever he was, Bahman had to be involved with activists trying to stop a coup. Maybe that meant he hadn’t been arrested; maybe he was just hiding. Surely Mr. Fakhri couldn’t transfer letters to him if Bahman was actually in prison. Of course, Mr. Fakhri knew more than he was letting on. It was absolutely clear. But for some reason he was holding back. Fine. At least she could write to him. At least she had that.

  She composed her letter on a tablet of paper she’d bought in Mr. Fakhri’s shop, blue ink from her fountain pen filling the page with words of longing. She had endless questions. Sometimes she couldn’t help but write in a certain rhythm, a rhythm that someone kind (unlike her senior-year literature teacher, Mrs. Dashti) might call poetry.

  The next day, when she gave the letter sealed in an envelope to Mr. Fakhri, he promised he’d get it into Bahman’s hands. He said it with a worried sigh, as if he was doing all of this against his will.

  “He will write back, yes?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  Mr. Fakhri shook his head and mumbled something about young love and “flagrant acts of hope.” But he took her envelope.

  When she went back to the shop a few days later, a few men in bowler hats and black pants lingered inside. She worried that they could be undercover hired spies for the Shah’s forces. Mr. Fakhri handed her a copy of Rumi’s book of poetry with a formal smile. She took it, exited, and walked for a few blocks with a heart that felt like it would explode; then and only then did she dare open the book.

  In its pages, nestled tightly inside, was an envelope. She held on to it so hard that her knuckles hurt. Then she placed it back inside the book, not daring to open it in the street and read its contents in public, as if doing so were somehow illegal. She would have to wait until she was alone.

 
; She clutched the book to her heart all the way home. But of course, the minute she got home, Zari complained that her fingers were tired from peeling all the eggplants as Roya gallivanted in the streets. That Roya never did her fair share of the work. Kazeb, the housemaid, eyed Roya suspiciously, her headscarf askew, her face sweaty from the eggplant-peeling, which apparently was the chore for the afternoon. Maman motioned for Roya to sit on an overturned bucket in the kitchen, and together they all finished peeling the eggplants, slicing them, salting them, rinsing them, drying them, frying them. Baba loved this dish, and at dinner that night he marveled at what cooks they all were. The more he talked about the eggplants and only the eggplants, the more Roya knew he was worried about Bahman and trying to cover up his anxiety. And she could not wait for dinner to be over so she could go to the room she shared with Zari, wait for her sister to fall asleep, and finally open and read Bahman’s letter.

  When they were in their nightgowns, after Zari had wrapped sections of her hair with newspaper strips, Roya itched for her sister to snore away. But Zari was in a talkative mood. “All this eggplant peeling is ruining my hands. Look at my skin, Roya. Just look at it. It’s all raw and getting coarse. I can’t stand it.”

  “Your hands are fine,” Roya mumbled. Please, just let Zari sleep so she could read the letter.

  “No thanks to you, Roya! Where were you this afternoon anyway? Kazeb and I had to do almost all the peeling. It’s not fair. Just because you’re a bride-to-be—” Zari stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about him. You were so quiet at dinner tonight. I know that all you do is think about Bahman. But you have to admit . . . you just have to agree that—”

  “That what, Zari?” Roya asked under her breath.

  “That maybe it’s fate that Bahman skedaddled. Maybe you just can’t expect much more from someone so obsessed with the prime minister. He is probably planning some political intrigue in hiding. Who knows? Perhaps we were all dumb to think he’d go against his mother and just marry you.” Zari crossed her arms. “It could be he just couldn’t do it, Roya. I hate to say it. But it could be. Roya?”