The Stationery Shop(21)

Roya drew closer to Mrs. Aslan and the unidentified man. This time it looked like Mrs. Aslan’s complaint was about much more than the temperature of the room. She talked rapidly to the man, clutching her shawl with one hand and gesticulating with the other. She stopped when she caught sight of Roya and pursed her lips and motioned to the man. He turned around. “If it isn’t the young bride!”

Roya recognized the voice before the face. “Mr. Fakhri?”

She’d never seen him so sharply put-together. At his shop, he usually wore a simple shirt and comfortable pants and had a professorial look, but tonight he was all dressed up. He cleaned up well.

“Oh, girl, don’t look so surprised!” Mrs. Aslan sounded annoyed.

Roya blushed. The engagement party was for family and close friends. It wasn’t a big affair; it was in their home and was simply an opportunity to share pastries and tea with their closest circle. But Maman, in typical fashion, hadn’t been able to resist cooking a feast. To the traditional menu of pastries and tea, she had added her famous jujeh kebab chicken dish. Of course, she’d then had to make rice too, and white rice alone wasn’t enough, she’d said, she couldn’t not make the rice adorned with barberries, slivered almonds, pistachios, and orange rinds. “Manijeh Joon, it’s not a wedding, it’s just an engagement party!” Baba had protested. “I’m just making a little something!” Maman promised as she rushed around getting everything ready. “We don’t want to overdo it now, we may jinx it!” Baba had appealed to Maman’s superstition. “Don’t worry!” Maman had said, and Baba rubbed his face the way he did when he worried. Roya knew he was tallying up the cost of everything. He was always thinking of how they could make their budget: pay Kazeb, buy chicken and meat, purchase the fabric so their dresses could be on par with the other girls’. 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.

“Come, girl, all the color has jumped from your face!” Mrs. Aslan had the irritated tone of one addressing an inferior.

“I just . . .” Roya stammered. She turned to Mr. Fakhri. “I’m just surprised to see you here.”

“I invited him. It is my son’s engagement party, after all. Or don’t I have the right to invite old friends?”

“You know each other?”

Mr. Fakhri laughed nervously. “My dear, it was in my shop, on my watch, under my bookshelves, with my pages surrounding you, that your romance began. You know that. That is all Mrs. Aslan means.”

Roya remembered how Mr. Fakhri had told her to exercise “severe caution” with Bahman that second time he’d come into the shop. Had he meant because of Bahman’s mother? This difficult woman who made her feel unwanted and second-best? Did Mr. Fakhri know that Shahla had been planned for Bahman? How did he even know Bahman’s mother?

“What a masterpiece you’ve conducted, indeed. Brought my son and this girl together, now didn’t you, Mr. Fakhri? Bravo! What a miracle-maker you are.” Mrs. Aslan snorted.

Beads of sweat formed on Mr. Fakhri’s forehead. “You give me far too much credit, Mrs. Aslan,” he said quietly. “I don’t have the miracle-making powers you claim.”

“Oh, aren’t you just so humble. Such a perfect gentleman! The kind who would harm no one, not one soul. Not . . . one . . . child,” Mrs. Aslan said slowly.

The scent of saffron rice wafted from the kitchen. They would eat soon. The guests would eventually leave. The engagement party would be over. She and Bahman would marry at the end of the summer. Mrs. Aslan would come around. She would get well. She had to get well.

“Take a bow!” Mrs. Aslan said shrilly. “Take your bow, Mr. Fakhri. Look at what you did!” She whirled her arm in a huge circle above her head. “You brought two young lovers together! How absolutely magical of you!”

Roya felt weak and sick. She was embarrassed to see Mr. Fakhri look so uncomfortable and defensive. And Mrs. Aslan’s sarcastic tone was off-putting and unsettling.

Then a slight breeze, like a fresh gust of wind. The particles of air around her shifted. Bahman was next to her. He had strode toward them, like a captain recognizing the warning signs of a sinking vessel. He put his arm around her waist, and suddenly Roya was on safer ground. Right in front of Mr. Fakhri and his mother, he pulled her close to him. She could smell the soap on his skin. She could feel the crispness of his white shirt against her arm.

“Is everything good here?” Bahman asked pointedly. “Mother? Everything all right?”

It was a warning as much as a question. Roya knew that Bahman did not want his mother to spoil this evening. His torso touched hers as they stood as a unit in front of Mrs. Aslan and Mr. Fakhri, protectively, daringly.

Mrs. Aslan slumped in her chair. The rouged cheeks looked more ridiculous than ever against her wan skin.

“I was just congratulating Mr. Fakhri, Bahman Jan. He changed the course of your life, he surely did! You could have had your pick of any number of beautiful, wealthy young women. You know I’ve had my eye on one in particular for so very long—she is the perfect match for you! But Mr. Fakhri and his books and papers came to the rescue and provided love. How quaint! The two of you, just like the characters in those books you read, the novels from the West. Artificial romance—”