The Stationery Shop(14)

He looked at her, and she was surprised at how vulnerable he seemed, standing there.

She didn’t let him get the words out, there was no need; she didn’t play games. In the fog of jasmine, she kissed him. It was like landing somewhere she should have been all along, a different plane, soft and unbelievably seductive—a place completely theirs but one she’d never dared explore.

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.