The Stationery Shop(19)

Zari and Kazeb came in, talking loudly as they carried large pink boxes of pastries.

“These are so heavy; my back won’t recover for a while!” Zari plopped the boxes onto the kitchen table. She took a look at Roya. “What’s wrong with you? Why the serious face? Aren’t you excited?” Zari’s tone was slightly taunting but also concerned.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You aren’t nervous?”

“A little. But a mother will still—” She meant to tell Zari that Maman had reassured her they would still remain close.

That was all Zari needed to take the baton and run. “It’s his mother getting you down, isn’t it? She thinks we’re not good enough, I know! She thinks her son can do better. She’s just one of those greedy women who want to climb the social ladder. She wants even more money, higher status. Right? She’s thinks Baba’s job as a government clerk is beneath their family. She looks down on us!”

“Zari, enough!” Maman said.

“No, really. How will you put up with her?” Zari asked Roya.

“I love him.”

“She was against your engagement! Doesn’t that tell you something? Is that really what you want? To be married to someone whose mother hates you?”

“Enough with the dramatics, Zari. Please,” Maman said.

Zari sucked in her lips but went on: “How na?ve you are sometimes, Sister! His mother has done nothing but try to sabotage you. Sons are putty in their mothers’ hands. This son more than most. ‘Oh, what can I get you, Mother? Oh, do you want another tea, Mother? Oh, let me get that for you, Mother!’?”

“That’s what good sons do!” Maman said.

“To this extent?”

“Yes!” Roya said. “And anyway, she finally agreed, didn’t she? So it’s not as if she’s against us marrying now.”

“Just be careful, basheh, okay?”

“Zari.” Roya lowered her voice and looked around as if about to divulge a difficult secret. “She is not well.”

It was only when Roya had met Mrs. Aslan a few times that she realized Bahman compensated for his mother’s fragile state by trying to be everything to her and the family. It was as though his competence and kindness and generosity were in direct response to his mother’s lack of those qualities. He met his mother’s pit of nerves with steadiness. Where she was unkind and rude, he was generous and forgiving. His mother’s fragility seemed to create in him the need to suck everything he could from life and to be strong. Was that why Mr. Fakhri said he was the boy who would change the world? Roya had always thought it was because of his activism for Prime Minister Mossadegh. But maybe it was because seeing his mother trapped by the whims of her illness, isolated in her house most of the time, unable to converse well with others or navigate social situations effectively, drew from Bahman an ever-stronger desire to stamp his mark on life. To steer his own ship, right wrongs, “change the world,” as Mr. Fakhri put it.

“Look, Zari. There are things about Mrs. Aslan that you just don’t know. So maybe you can be a little more considerate. Just leave it be. You don’t know the whole story,” Roya whispered in the kitchen.

“I know about her crazy moods. Who doesn’t! That’s no secret!”

Roya put down her spatula, defeated.



Roya, Maman, and Baba stood in a row near the entrance, smiling and greeting each guest as they arrived. Aunts and uncles, close friends and relatives came in with flowers and pastries, congratulated Roya and her parents, and made themselves comfortable around the living room. The women sat, chatted, and drank tea on one side while the men stood in groups on the other, tea glasses in hand. Roya had expected Bahman and his parents to be the first to get there, but they were late. Where was he?

Finally the door opened and a worn-looking Bahman came in, leading his mother by the arm. His father looked ravaged as he shuffled in behind them.

“Sorry to be so late,” Bahman greeted Maman and Baba, then kissed Roya on the cheek. Roya was shocked by the gesture. They were engaged, yes, but it still felt forward and bold. Displays of affection like this in front of elders were disrespectful. But her body grew warm from the kiss and she softened.

“Is everything all right?” she whispered.

“We just had some . . . trouble,” Bahman mumbled.

Trouble meant his mother. Mrs. Aslan must have been in one of her moods. “Fragile and forceful” was how Bahman had described her once.

Roya stiffened as her future mother-in-law approached her in a black blouse, black skirt, and thick black stockings. On a beautiful summer evening! Most of the other women were dressed in light colors: Maman shone in an elegant turquoise dress. Zari wore pink, just like the Hollywood movie stars she so admired. Roya had slipped on the green dress that Maman had sewn for the occasion. But Mrs. Aslan looked like she was attending a funeral. She even clutched a dark knit shawl around her shoulders. Two circles of rouge stood out on her cheeks. She smelled of a cloying, flowery perfume.

Maman did not approve of makeup. She derided women who needed “war paint” to prove their beauty. As Zari toiled in front of the mirror putting newspaper strips in her hair to create perfect waves, Maman would lecture, saying, “Beauty should speak for itself. No need to edit God’s work.”