The Stationery Shop(29)

If only I didn’t have to be away right now. I wish I was with you. We’ll have the rest of our lives together, I will make it up to you, Roya Joon. You will see and you will understand soon enough.

Though she desperately wanted to know why he’d had to go, she trusted him. It was impossible not to finish reading one of his letters without being convinced that no man had ever loved anyone as strongly as Bahman loved her. He had to have his reasons, he would tell her later; she believed him. Anytime she felt the tug of doubt, anytime she felt too lost, she pulled the box of letters out from under her bed and his words were the antidote. The letters were exciting and comforting at the same time. They convinced her that a sweeter, more romantic man had not existed.

I want nothing more than to get closer to you, Roya Joon. I want nothing else.



Bahman always wrote back. He never kept her waiting. The secondto-last letter was inserted at the page of the Rumi love poem she’d been reading that spring day when Mr. Fakhri had rushed to the bank and she and Bahman were alone for the first time. Roya was moved by this gesture. Had Mr. Fakhri seen her read that poem? Had he paid such close attention and now placed the envelope there for her? She sniffed the paper as she always did for the scent of Bahman. His letter started with how much he missed seeing her. But then it devolved into paragraphs about his fear of Prime Minister Mossadegh being overthrown and the dangers of foreign influence. Having oil was their curse, he wrote—imagine how different it would be if others weren’t always greedy for their oil. He wrote about how the British and the Russians competed for influence in their country. The threat of a coup, of invasion and war—it is all there, Roya Joon. But we will fight!

He signed the letter Ya marg ya Mossadegh! Give me Mossadegh or give me death!

Later that night, Roya sat at the foot of the bed in the dark with the letter on her lap until Zari finally yelled, “By God, come to bed, you lovesick fool!”



The spring of sweet pastry shop outings and walks together and the early summer of their engagement and dancing soirees turned into a midsummer composed of just the letters, hidden in books. But Bahman’s most recent letter sounded like a political speech as well as an ode of love. As Tehran teemed with demonstrations and political tension, Roya felt more and more alone. Amidst the turmoil, she worried more than ever for his safety. Was he participating in covert anti-Shah activities? Was he actually in prison? His last letter had expressed his devotion to her and the prime minister almost in the same breath.

To escape the heat, Roya and Zari often went to the rooftop of their house in the evenings and at night. Maman had arranged rugs on the flat surface, and some nights they even slept there. One afternoon after a long nap and after the rest of the household, including Kazeb, were all up and about, the two sisters went to the rooftop even though it was hot up there. It felt like getting away to go there in the middle of the day. They sat on a rug up on the rooftop, a bowl of tart green plums between them. The sun beat down on them as street peddlers yelled about their wares in the street below.

“Sister, you have to cheer up. Come on. It’s been weeks since he left, and you just have the long face all the time. You have his letters, right? I thought that made you feel better.”

Roya didn’t know how much she could confide in Zari, but her sister was all she had. “His last letter was a bit strange,” she finally confessed.

“Oh?” Zari picked up a green plum and bit into it.

“It was all about his worry that Prime Minister Mossadegh would be overthrown in a coup.”

“How very romantic.”

Roya lay down on the rug and put her hands behind her head. The sun felt good on her face, though Maman would hate that she was exposing her skin to the rays. Maman’s nemesis was the sun: she worried about freckles and a tan. She believed her daughters should remain as light-skinned as possible. It drove Roya crazy that Iranians were considered more beautiful if their skin was lighter. Tears crammed her eyes. She wanted to be with Bahman. Whether it was biology or foolishness or youth that was at the root of it, nothing could make this all-encompassing desire go away.

Suddenly Zari’s plum-juice soaked fingers were stroking her cheek, wiping the tears. “Come on. Enough. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just away for . . . a good reason. I bet they are up north by the sea, that’s all. Lord knows his mother couldn’t stop showing off about their villa there, rubbing our faces in it. Come on, Sister. I’m sure he is fine.”

“He would have told me,” Roya said, as Zari’s sticky, plummy fingers continued to wipe her face. “He’s probably arrested. Or else in hiding for a bad reason. He would have told me if he was just going up north to the villa.”

The shouts of the melon seller pushing his cart in the streets below sounded like a voice of mourning, almost like a call to prayer. In the hot, relentless summer heat, it sounded like grief.

“Get yourself up, Sister. Pull it together. Go to the shop. I bet there’s a letter waiting for you.”



When Roya arrived at the Stationery Shop, Mr. Fakhri was attending to other customers. She waited patiently for him to be done with the transactions and eyed the other customers warily. No one knew anymore who could be an anti-Mossadegh spy.

“I apologize, Roya Khanom, but I have orders to fill. It’s inventory time. I have calculations to make,” Mr. Fakhri said after the last customer left.