The Stationery Shop(26)

Mr. Fakhri leaned forward as though he was about to say something of great importance. Roya remembered her second encounter with Bahman—how Mr. Fakhri had leaned in and told her to practice “severe caution.” She forced herself to remain calm. She couldn’t lose his trust.

“My dear girl,” Mr. Fakhri whispered, “Bahman is . . . busy. That is all. And he cannot be seen romancing right now.”

“I’m his fiancée,” she said through gritted teeth.

Mr. Fakhri sniffed. “Regardless. You understand, I’m sure?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

Something changed in his composure; his intensity gave way. Mr. Fakhri looked around the shop with fear. Finally he sighed. “Bahman told me that anything you’d like to say to him can be said through letters.”

“He did?” Roya’s heart beat fast.

“Yes.”

Her mind raced; she tried to think of all the possibilities that could warrant an exchange of letters. Why couldn’t they talk? He had to be in hiding to avoid arrest.

“Of course. I’ll write to him, then.”

Mr. Fakhri readjusted his glasses but said nothing.

“Mr. Fakhri? Can I please have his address?”

“His address?”

“You must know how to reach him?” She was walking on eggshells; she didn’t want to sound too forward. If he were to renege on his offer . . .

“You give the letters to me. I’ll make sure he gets them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please, young lady.”

“But how?”

“The way it’s done for others. I have my ways.”

She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “What ways?”

“Roya Khanom, how do you think a lot of young people who can’t call each other or see each other in this city get their messages across?”

“Telegrams?”

“My young lady. It’s in the books. They give me their notes and I place them between the pages of the books. And when the next person comes to ‘buy’ a book, they receive the volume with the note inside it.”

Roya glanced around the shop, at the bookshelves filled with the volumes she loved so much. She’d had no idea that these books were used as vehicles of communication. That people placed notes inside them using Mr. Fakhri as a conduit. The shop she had loved, where she had spent so many afternoons in study and sanctuary, suddenly seemed slightly sinister. So it was not only a place where political material was secretly disseminated, but a hub of letter exchange as well?

Not wanting to lose her only potential strand of communication with Bahman, she took in a deep breath. “Of course. I appreciate it. I’ll have a letter for you tomorrow.”

When she walked out into the harsh sunlight, the city reeked of heat and worry. Talk of a coup had been circulating for a while; Bahman’s fear that the Shah’s forces could team up with foreign powers and overthrow the prime minister was now shared by many others. Wherever he was, Bahman had to be involved with activists trying to stop a coup. Maybe that meant he hadn’t been arrested; maybe he was just hiding. Surely Mr. Fakhri couldn’t transfer letters to him if Bahman was actually in prison. Of course, Mr. Fakhri knew more than he was letting on. It was absolutely clear. But for some reason he was holding back. Fine. At least she could write to him. At least she had that.



She composed her letter on a tablet of paper she’d bought in Mr. Fakhri’s shop, blue ink from her fountain pen filling the page with words of longing. She had endless questions. Sometimes she couldn’t help but write in a certain rhythm, a rhythm that someone kind (unlike her senior-year literature teacher, Mrs. Dashti) might call poetry.

The next day, when she gave the letter sealed in an envelope to Mr. Fakhri, he promised he’d get it into Bahman’s hands. He said it with a worried sigh, as if he was doing all of this against his will.

“He will write back, yes?” she couldn’t help but ask.

Mr. Fakhri shook his head and mumbled something about young love and “flagrant acts of hope.” But he took her envelope.

When she went back to the shop a few days later, a few men in bowler hats and black pants lingered inside. She worried that they could be undercover hired spies for the Shah’s forces. Mr. Fakhri handed her a copy of Rumi’s book of poetry with a formal smile. She took it, exited, and walked for a few blocks with a heart that felt like it would explode; then and only then did she dare open the book.

In its pages, nestled tightly inside, was an envelope. She held on to it so hard that her knuckles hurt. Then she placed it back inside the book, not daring to open it in the street and read its contents in public, as if doing so were somehow illegal. She would have to wait until she was alone.

She clutched the book to her heart all the way home. But of course, the minute she got home, Zari complained that her fingers were tired from peeling all the eggplants as Roya gallivanted in the streets. That Roya never did her fair share of the work. Kazeb, the housemaid, eyed Roya suspiciously, her headscarf askew, her face sweaty from the eggplant-peeling, which apparently was the chore for the afternoon. Maman motioned for Roya to sit on an overturned bucket in the kitchen, and together they all finished peeling the eggplants, slicing them, salting them, rinsing them, drying them, frying them. Baba loved this dish, and at dinner that night he marveled at what cooks they all were. The more he talked about the eggplants and only the eggplants, the more Roya knew he was worried about Bahman and trying to cover up his anxiety. And she could not wait for dinner to be over so she could go to the room she shared with Zari, wait for her sister to fall asleep, and finally open and read Bahman’s letter.