The Stationery Shop(11)

When they were safely on a quiet side street, Bahman stopped. “Are you all right, Roya Joon? Are you okay?”

“You need a doctor, Bahman.”

“I am so sorry. I should never have taken you there.” The stained shirt stuck to his skin. Blood dripped down his neck.

“I’ll come with you to the hospital.”

“No. Let me take you home.”

“They cut you! You need stitches. We have to tell the police.”

Bahman’s eyes glazed with tears. “They are the police.”

“What?”

“They work for the Shah.”

Just then a tall boy about their age ran up to them, breathless. Between gasps and pants, he spoke. “Saw what happened, Bahman Jan. Saw it all. These low-life plebeians. Uneducated vermin. Don’t know how those in power can hire these thugs. Well, actually, I do, and so do you. Hello, Khanom, excuse my manners.” He lifted his hat to Roya. “I’m Jahangir. Pleased to meet you.”

Jahangir wore an expensive-looking fashionable green vest and beige shirt. His mustache was lacquered. He was dressed for a soirée, not a rally.

“I’m Roya. Pleased to meet you,” she mumbled.

“Enchanté.” Jahangir touched his hat again. Roya had never heard that word. “Will you be okay, Roya Khanom, getting on by yourself? I need to take this boy to a doctor. He’s in bad shape. I’m sure you agree.” Jahangir touched Bahman’s arm, avoiding the blood on the top of his shirt. He crossed one ankle over the other as though posing for a photograph.

“I’ll come to the hospital too,” Roya said.

“Who said anything about a hospital? I’m taking him to my dad’s clinic.”

“Oh. But I can—”

“You don’t need to come, Roya Joon. I’ve exposed you to enough harm for today,” Bahman said.

“Yes, don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of him. I always do.” Jahangir smiled. His teeth looked like a cinema star’s.

Roya suddenly felt odd and out of place standing with what appeared to be two very good, trusted friends. “Yes, well then. I suppose—”

“We’ll walk you home first, Roya,” Bahman said.

“You need antiseptic, my friend!” Jahangir said with a tense smile. “You’re bleeding. Let’s go before you get infected.”

“We need to get Roya home,” Bahman said. “I should never have taken her to the demonstration.”

“I’ll be fine. Just please take care of yourself, Bahman,” Roya said.

Jahangir tipped his hat to Roya, Bahman nodded through the pain, and Roya walked off in the direction of her parents’ house.

As she walked, she replayed the scene at the demonstration in her head. Bahman would have been justified to strike back, to retaliate. No one would have blamed him if he grabbed the man who’d assaulted him, hit him. He had every right to. But of course he hadn’t. He knew that would only make things worse. And he was worried for her. He’d just wanted to get her out of there and have her get home safely. The boy who would change the world continued to surprise her with his decency.

She worried about his wound. She worried about the blood, a possible infection. She worried about a country where paid government thugs could strike a teenager in a crowd.





Chapter Five


1953



* * *



Café Ghanadi

For Nowruz, the Persian New Year, they’d cleaned the house from top to bottom. Maman stayed up late for weeks to sew new dresses for her daughters. On the first day of spring, the family stood around the Haft Seen table set with the traditional seven items beginning with the Farsi letter s. Roya and Zari wore new clothes down to their underwear. At the exact time of the vernal equinox when winter turned to spring, they all jumped and hugged and kissed. Baba then read a verse from the Quran and a few poetry ghazals from Hafez. It was now the new year.

It was tradition to visit relatives in the thirteen days following the first day of spring. They called upon elders first and worked their way down according to age. All shops and restaurants were closed for the holidays. The scent of Maman’s chickpea and pistachio cookies and rosewater rice-flour pastries filled the home.

Two weeks later, on the first Tuesday when the shops had reopened, Roya practically ran to the Stationery Shop. The city had bloomed into a colorful kaleidoscope of flowers. New buds burst forth as she rushed breathlessly through the streets.

When she swung the door open, the bell chimed in its familiar way. And there he was, standing in front of the counter, talking to Mr. Fakhri, who was taking notes on a pad of paper. The sound of his voice gave her a pleasant falling feeling.

“Roya Khanom, saale no mobarak. Happy New Year!” Mr. Fakhri saw her first and put down his fountain pen.

“Happy New Year to you. Both.”

Bahman looked up and his face exploded into a huge grin. “Hey! How are you? How is your family? Did you have a good new year?”

She walked closer to him and then couldn’t help but gasp. What looked like a row of large black ants crossed the back of his neck. Stitches. Those thugs.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Jahangir’s father doused it with enough antiseptic to sterilize a swamp. I’m fine.”