The Stationery Shop(28)

My dearest Roya,

I think of you all the time—every single day, every night. Truth is there are no times when you are not on my mind, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. One day we’ll look back on this separation and laugh. I can’t wait till it’s all behind us. Everywhere I see your beautiful face. If you are worried about me, please know I am safe, healthy, I only lack you, which means that I lack everything, of course. I am counting down the days, Roya Joon. Things are just a little difficult now. And the prime minister, his administration, it’s all in jeopardy, but we will be the ones who’ll look back on this time in history with pride. We are cementing our future in democracy. And here I go again, I know you don’t like it when I speak too much of politics. Well, then, let me tell you that I can’t wait to be married.

I dare to dream of our children.

I have it all planned out. I should be back in a few weeks.

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

You are my love.

Bahman





Chapter Eleven


1953



* * *



Sour Plums

“Sister, put that rubbish away and come to bed, my God!”

Roya stayed seated by the foot of the bed. “Have you read them? Tell me you haven’t read them.”

“Actually, I’d rather peel ten kilos of eggplants with Kazeb than read the sugary effusions of your activist lover.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Come on, Roya. We have no secrets. Sisters have to trust each other, right? Just come to bed. You read the letters every night. You think I can’t hear you drag the box out from under the bed, the paper rustling, you sniffling like a buffoon? It’s a little silly, if you ask me.” She paused, then asked, “Why did he leave? Where is he?”

Roya was embarrassed that Zari had known about the letters this whole time, and mortified that after so many letters from Bahman, she still couldn’t answer the question of where he was and why he’d left. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.

“Has he been arrested? Is he in a prison?” Zari suddenly sat up in the dark. Though it was hard to make out the expression on her sister’s face in the sliver of moonlight, Roya sensed a certain thrill in Zari at the thought of Bahman in jail.

“Go back to sleep, Zari. It’s not something I’d expect you to understand anyway.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to describe the power of it to you. No offense, but you have no idea what it’s like to be in love.”

The minute she said it, she regretted it. A small sound came from the bed. A tiny squeak. Was it a swallowed sob? But of course Zari was probably laughing at her—it was likely a suppressed chuckle at Bahman’s expense. Roya put the letters back in the box and slid them into their place. She climbed into the bed they shared. “Good night, Zari.” She turned her back.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Zari’s voice wasn’t even sleepy.

“What?”

“You think about him all the time. Right? He’s the first person you think about when you wake up in the morning. He’s in your dreams. You wish you didn’t think about him all the time, but you can’t help it. It can’t be stopped. It’s like he’s always with you. No?”

“Have you been reading foreign novels too?” Roya propped herself on her elbow and faced Zari’s side. How could Zari know so much about what it felt like? Her self-absorbed sister couldn’t possibly have a love of her own. Could she?

Zari’s figure under the soft cotton sheet was a small bundle. She was quiet. Then she said, “Good night, Sister.”

Roya turned again and they lay back-to-back, each curved into the fetal position, only their bottoms touching. This was how they had slept ever since Zari had been old enough to leave Maman and Baba’s room as a baby.

“Good night, Zari.”



The phrases in his letters became as familiar to Roya as lyrics of famous poems, or the words of popular songs. They became permanently stored in her memory. She recited them in her mind that summer, as she waited for him to come back. I think of you all the time—every single day, every night. . . . Everywhere I see your beautiful face. She’d remember a line from one of his letters as she helped Maman in the kitchen, as she sewed small flowers onto a blouse with Zari, as she drank crushed melon-ice to chase away the heat. She remembered his words as the rallies outside grew in number and the political factions divided further.

She’d picked a small tin box to store Bahman’s letters because he’d be back any day now and she didn’t think they’d need to exchange too many. But surprisingly, the pile in the box grew. He didn’t come back as soon as she’d hoped. With his absence, she felt smaller. With him gone, she was lost. Each letter she received gave her nourishment, a reason to keep moving forward. But her worry did not subside. She was sick with questions, sick with loneliness, and sick with longing.

Was it possible that through the letters her love for him grew? It did. It strengthened, solidified. The more she read his words and traced his handwriting on the page, the closer she felt to him. Food didn’t taste quite the same since he’d left; the sun was listless; a pall hung over everything. But his letters sustained her and alleviated the feeling of emptiness, at least temporarily. His voice was in every syllable—she convinced herself his musky scent was in the fiber of the paper he used to write to her.