The Stationery Shop(20)

“Some of us need to edit, Mother,” Zari would retort. “Some of us have to help him out.”

“Oh dear, Mrs. Aslan, aren’t you hot in that shawl?” Maman asked gingerly, and nudged Roya. “Roya Joon, take Mrs. Aslan’s shawl for her.”

Before Roya could take it, Mrs. Aslan tilted one rouged cheek, then the other, for Roya to kiss.

The pasty rouge on her future mother-in-law’s face tasted like withered roses. Roya withdrew her face and reached for the shawl. But her hand was met by a dry and brittle slap. “Don’t!” Mrs. Aslan snapped.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Roya’s face grew hot.

Bahman quickly grabbed his mother’s arm. “Let’s sit you down, Mother. You need to take a breath.” Bahman led Mrs. Aslan to the far corner of the room and placed a chair against the wall, away from the other guests.

“So odd!” Zari whispered as she sidled up to Roya holding a tray filled with nuts she’d been offering to the guests. “It’s boiling outside! Who wears that?”

“She’s probably just . . . never mind! Just pass around the nuts!”

Zari raised her eyebrows, shook her head, and trotted away.

“My girl, don’t worry. Mrs. Aslan had some difficulties getting ready for the festive occasion tonight, that is all,” Mr. Aslan said, walking up to her. “Some days are better than others. You must forgive. Seeing you young people fills our hearts with joy. It is the best thing.”

He looked like he meant it. Roya felt sorry for him. Mr. Aslan smiled at her now, his eyes kind. They both turned their gazes to the far corner of the room where Bahman had seated his mother.

He hovered over her, holding her bag in one hand and adjusting her chair with the other. Mrs. Aslan was talking nonstop. Bahman shook his head adamantly in response to what she was saying. But Mrs. Aslan didn’t stop; she looked like she was pleading. Bahman stared at the floor, quiet. Mrs. Aslan fumed, pointing to her bag. Finally Bahman opened the bag and took something out. Roya’s eyes widened. It was a rectangular bamboo flag, the kind used to fan flames when grilling kebab. Balancing himself on his haunches, Bahman slowly fanned his mother’s face with the bamboo flag. Mrs. Aslan stopped talking, closed her eyes, and leaned back in the chair.

Roya looked away.

“If only,” Mr. Aslan said in a voice tinged with sadness, “she would take off the shawl. She won’t listen, Roya Khanom. She will not budge from her ways. Please, forgive. It’s just not in her hands.”



In the kitchen, pink boxes from Café Ghanadi covered the counters. Kazeb and Zari took out the elephant ear and tongue-shaped pastries they had bought earlier that day and Maman arranged them onto platters with care, as if not one crumb could be out of place. She looked up, her face flushed from working in the hot kitchen. “What are you doing here, Roya Joon? Go back to the living room and mingle with the guests. You should be talking to everyone. Go on!”

“I want to help.”

“No, you’re the future bride! Please, go and talk to the guests. Especially Mrs. Aslan. You mustn’t be rude now. If you’re going to have a happy marriage, you need to please your mother-in-law. That is what every woman knows as God’s indisputable truth!”

“Khanom, that’s why if I ever get married, my hope is to find a decent orphan as my groom,” Kazeb chimed in.

Zari burst out with an approving laugh. “Good plan!”

Maman shook her head. “Roya Joon, you need to be respectful. Go and talk to Mrs. Aslan, you can’t ignore her.”

Roya wanted to stay in the familiar coziness of the kitchen with her mother and sister and Kazeb, enveloped in the scent of basmati rice and saffron, arranging elephant ear and tongue-shaped pastries onto plates and discussing the crispiness of the bottom-of-the-pot crunchy tahdig rice. It was strange to be in the role of soon-to-be-bride. As her mother arranged the pastries, Roya wondered how things had happened so fast. She and Bahman had danced their way out of the Stationery Shop and into Café Ghanadi and met each other’s families and gotten engaged almost in fast-forward motion, like the old Charlie Chaplin films shown on repeat at the cinema.

“Off you go!” Maman shooed her out.

Roya reluctantly walked back into the living room.

Bahman no longer fanned his mother. He now stood with a group of men including Baba, holding court. It was good to see him back to his old bold self. The subservient boy fanning his mother’s face had been hard to watch. Above the din of voices, Baba’s laughter rang out. He was clearly enchanted by his future son-in-law. Roya felt a surge of gratitude for Bahman: his energy, his kindness, his ability to delight his audience. Surely she could talk to his mother.

She made her way between the groups of guests to the far corner where Mrs. Aslan sat. She would be polite, she wouldn’t argue, she would dutifully listen to Mrs. Aslan complain about how hot it was in the room even as she sat there in a winter shawl.

As she approached Mrs. Aslan’s chair, Roya was surprised to see a man leaning over her. She couldn’t tell who it was; she could only see his back. He wore a crisp linen suit. Was he a relative? Bahman had told her how part of the reason his mother had such a hard time was that she was so alone. Her relatives were all down south and she did not see them much. Mrs. Aslan was isolated in Tehran, counting on only a few neighbors and a social network that, due to Mr. Aslan’s timidity and her own difficult personality, was scant.