The Stationery Shop(13)
“Best Italian espresso you can find in Iran!” He tapped the table. “Right here.” He leaned across and took her hand. “Maybe this can become our second-favorite hangout. Hmm?”
Roya giggled and nodded.
“I mean, not that I don’t love pencil sharpeners and books of Rumi’s poetry. And demonstrations. But you know . . .”
She giggled again. It felt like the beginning of everything. She was surprised that he’d led her out of the Stationery Shop again and into the brightness of the world as if it were fate that they should walk together, be seen together, sit and drink and eat together. Would they have sweet cakes and éclairs and shirini in the future? Just take bites and dive in? Perch on chairs sipping Italian espresso? Roya was dizzy but suddenly absurdly sure that being with him was her fate for the new year and beyond.
“To say you’ll marry him is absurd,” Zari snorted as they walked home from school later in the week. “You’ve seen him, what, six times?”
“We’ve seen each other for months now, thank you. And anyway, time is irrelevant.”
“Oh, Sister!” Zari stopped and looked at Roya with pity. “Time is the only thing that is relevant. You can’t pin your hopes on that boy.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” Zari paused. “He just can’t be trusted. Those political types are not what you think.”
“How would you know?”
“I just do. Trust me.”
They walked the rest of the way in an uncomfortable silence with Roya wanting to feel that her sister was just jealous and not prescient. Zari had to be overreacting, as always. Zari just didn’t like siasi types, that was all. Roya tried to swat away the doubt and anxiety that her sister’s words made swell inside her. She thought of the notebook Bahman had given her, the poem he’d inscribed inside. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.
Zari had to be wrong.
Chapter Six
1953
* * *
Bruised Sky
Because it was almost summer, because the bushes and trees were already lush, because it was twilight and they were seventeen and the air was filled with jasmine, their walk on the boulevard was one that would imprint itself onto Roya’s heart for years to come.
Earlier, they’d gone to Cinema Metropole on Lalehzar Street. The chic lobby with its circular red sofa, the sparkling chandeliers, everyone dressed up in their most glamorous clothes, the framed portraits of Clark Gable and Sophia Loren, the cigarettes being smoked, the tiny coffee cups in the hands of ladies with hats, the absolute romance of the entire venue made Roya feel like she was in a movie herself. And then, the climb up the steps to the balcony to sit with Bahman on maroon velvet chairs and watch an Italian film directed by Vittorio De Sica: The Bicycle Thief.
“I love his work,” Bahman had whispered as the film began. “I’m curious to know what you think.” Roya was too distracted by the closeness of his mouth to her ear to speak. She swallowed hard and nodded. So much was new and alluring in her world with this boy.
After the film, they left the dazzle of Cinema Metropole’s lobby and stepped into a summer twilight that was so beautiful she ached. The sky was an eggplant purple, the clouds the color of bruises.
“The story relates to so much of what is going on in Iran right now,” Roya said as they walked down the boulevard. “The poor want a better life. But they’re stuck. Our leaders need to help. All that man in the film wanted was a bicycle so that he could go to work. That’s all.”
“I agree. Our own people are stuck in that same way. Trapped in their class, their fate,” Bahman said passionately as he took her hand. “But we can change all of that. With democracy. We’re on the right track.”
“Zari says it’s unrealistic to think we’ll ever have full control of our resources. She says the British have too much at stake here,” Roya said.
“For someone who doesn’t like politics, your sister has good, strong opinions,” Bahman said.
Roya laughed.
“Now I just have to convince her that I’m not a horrible person!” Bahman said.
“Don’t mind Zari,” Roya said. “She’s a bit dramatic, that’s all.”
Toward the end of high school, Roya had started inviting Bahman to regular get-togethers she and Zari hosted after school for their friends. Nothing huge: just cut-up fruit, a few laughs, conversation. And Bahman hadn’t been the only boy there. There were others—friends and cousins who were part of their “équipe,” as Zari liked to call their circle of peers. Bahman had been introduced to Maman and to Baba, and it was amazing to think he could be in her home, chatting with her friends, just one of the group.
Bahman suddenly stopped and went quiet.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been wanting to know . . .” He looked nervous. “For a while now. I’ve just been wanting to ask, Roya . . .” His voice broke off at her name, cracking like a thirteen-year-old’s. From the middle of the sidewalk, he gently pulled her to the side near a shrub so large that its greenery and flowers spilled out and made a nook. Suddenly they were blanketed by the sweeping scent of blossoming jasmine, heady and full.