The Stationery Shop(27)

When they were in their nightgowns, after Zari had wrapped sections of her hair with newspaper strips, Roya itched for her sister to snore away. But Zari was in a talkative mood. “All this eggplant peeling is ruining my hands. Look at my skin, Roya. Just look at it. It’s all raw and getting coarse. I can’t stand it.”

“Your hands are fine,” Roya mumbled. Please, just let Zari sleep so she could read the letter.

“No thanks to you, Roya! Where were you this afternoon anyway? Kazeb and I had to do almost all the peeling. It’s not fair. Just because you’re a bride-to-be—” Zari stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about him. You were so quiet at dinner tonight. I know that all you do is think about Bahman. But you have to admit . . . you just have to agree that—”

“That what, Zari?” Roya asked under her breath.

“That maybe it’s fate that Bahman skedaddled. Maybe you just can’t expect much more from someone so obsessed with the prime minister. He is probably planning some political intrigue in hiding. Who knows? Perhaps we were all dumb to think he’d go against his mother and just marry you.” Zari crossed her arms. “It could be he just couldn’t do it, Roya. I hate to say it. But it could be. Roya?”

Roya didn’t say much; she just listened as her sister droned on. When Zari got on one of her rants, it was best to ignore her. She didn’t want to prolong the conversation. She just wanted to read the letter. Zari didn’t know that Bahman had written to her!

“Change the world, my foot! It was foolishness supreme to think he’d stand up to his mother like that. But don’t worry, Sister! At least now you won’t have Mrs. Aslan chipping away at your soul for the rest of your life. Right?”

“Good night, Zari.”

Finally, when her sister’s breathing had relaxed and Roya was sure she was asleep, she got out of bed, and sat down by the window to read Bahman’s letter by moonlight. She opened the envelope with great care, as though the words inside could break or tumble out of order if she didn’t handle the letter correctly.

My dearest Roya,

When I got your letter, I thought I’d die of happiness. God, I miss you so much. I can’t think, I can barely eat. I’ve wanted to crawl out of my skin these past few days. It feels like I haven’t seen you for years. I am sorry that I had to leave so suddenly. I wish I could tell you why—I will one day. For now, please know that I am fine, that you need not worry. I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can. It’s just complicated right now and I have to figure it all out, to find a way. I can’t wait till you’re in my arms again.

I was so relieved to get your letter! Tell your parents not to worry about me. I’m fine, I promise. I hope Zari isn’t torturing you too much.

You are in everything I see. In every moment, you are with me, Roya Joon.

In the hopes of seeing you again—the sooner the better.

You are my love.

Bahman

She ran her fingers across the letter, willing his scent to rise from the paper, wanting part of him to sink through the pads of her fingers. She had only seen his handwriting once before, the inscription he’d written inside the notebook he’d given her as a gift for the new year. Seeing his handwriting again felt like holding a piece of him. In each stroke, with each curve and dip of the letters on the page, she could feel him. And when she read the letter over and over and over again, his voice was inside her.

Naturally her response was effusive and filled with longing. She tended to be more reserved in what she said even when they were alone together. But somehow on paper, she was able to say what she’d had trouble saying in person. She could be just as loving. But she also could be direct; she could ask him difficult questions. Where are you? she wrote. Why can’t I see you?

When she handed the letter to Mr. Fakhri the next day, she felt naked. But the envelope was sealed. Besides, surely Mr. Fakhri had better things to do than read the sweet nothings of two teenagers. She thought of her words being placed inside the pages of a Persian poetry book, hugged by the verses of the ancients. Their love was safe there. In a way, it belonged there. She tried to imagine one of Bahman’s friends or a fellow activist coming into the shop, picking up the book, then delivering it to Bahman, wherever he was.

Until his next letter arrived, she was restless, distracted, preoccupied. She walked into walls, stared into space; nothing could shake her thoughts of him. Only when she received a reply was she temporarily at peace. To read his words, to see the strong script of his hand, the way he made his Farsi n so confident and intense, the way his lines sloped slightly upward at the end . . . It felt like hearing him, to hold that thin sheet of paper in her hand.

More and more frequently, the government police came to the Stationery Shop. Unlike just a few months ago, it was no longer a haven of privacy. A policeman or two lingered by the stacks of books—at first randomly, and then, it seemed, consistently. They watched who bought whose speeches. They took note of customers asking for pro-Mossadegh works, and they especially paid attention when anyone wanted anything Marxist. Mr. Fakhri looked beleaguered and tired. Like anyone being watched by government agents, his movements were self-conscious, his words robotic. He would still select for Roya works by the best writers and would still make sure that she got her weekly dose of poetry. But he was distracted and preoccupied now. Roya no longer lingered in the shop. She took her book from Mr. Fakhri in as natural a way as possible, careful not to show that she knew the volume contained not just the author’s words, but Bahman’s. Then she ran outside and waited for a time to be completely alone to read his words.