The Stationery Shop(33)

“Zendeh bad Shah! Long live the Shah!”

With her heart pounding, Roya moved northward in the same direction as the massive crowd because she had to get to Sepah Square. Who paid these yobs to come out today?—she could just hear Baba ask the question. What kind of crazy new joke was this? Maybe Bahman knew of some foolhardy attempt that had been resurrected out of desperation. She couldn’t wait to share this spectacle with him. They would laugh about it when they were reunited. They had to.

She walked just outside the edge of the crowd, sticking near a small group of women who had not joined the mob. “Faghat eeno kam dashteem. We only lacked this,” one of the women said sarcastically, and the others laughed. It was comforting to hear the women’s banter.

But as they all walked toward the city center, a nervous energy belied even the women’s lighthearted jabs. Maybe it was just Roya’s own anticipation feeding her fears. More men joined the crowd, some arm in arm.

“Marg bar Mossadegh!”

Roya suddenly stopped. This wasn’t a slogan shouting, “Give me Mossadegh or give me death”; it was saying “Death to Mossadegh.” The groups of anti-Mossadegh men who kept streaming in to join the original motley crew of athletes and jugglers filled the streets and sidewalks so completely that it became impossible to walk without being part of the mob.

For a second, she considered going back. No, she’d be fine, she told herself. Bahman was waiting. She put one foot in front of the other, the way she always did when stuck, and forged ahead. She just had to soldier on, to get to the square.

When she finally arrived at Sepah Square, it teemed with an even bigger mass of demonstrators that made the crowd of athletes look small. Roya couldn’t move without pushing through people. It was a struggle to get to the spot in the center where she and Bahman had arranged to meet. It was hot, but a breeze blew her rose-colored skirt tight against her thighs. Three men leered at her and one of them whistled. She remembered the thugs who had hit Bahman with a chain and baton. Heat rushed to her face, and she pulled down hard on her skirt.

The anti-Mossadegh contingent shouted louder. She hated being near them. She just wanted Bahman to arrive so they could grab each other and get away. She tried to focus on what it would feel like to see him at last, be near him again.

Twenty minutes later, the crowd had almost doubled. The chants were louder and more aggressive. Perspiration soaked her armpits. She craned her neck, searching for him. He was not there—but of course, how could he be; he would have to force his own way through this mob, to cleave through protestors to get to her; it was completely understandable that he was late. No one could have foreseen this mess. This week of all weeks! They tried to have a coup three days ago. What timing the two of you have, I must say! Zari’s words drilled through Roya’s head. But if the prime minister had successfully warded off a coup just a few days ago, surely no one would be foolish enough to try anything again so soon?

“Marg bar Tudeh! Death to the communists!”

“Marg bar Mossadegh!”

More and more people poured into the square, and soon the sharp smell of sweat and anger was suffocating. The crowd was on a mission; they were not simply gathering, they were trying to move, to march to a destination, and it was definitely not the square that was their end goal. As she fought a wave of nausea, Roya realized that they were moving in the direction of the prime minister’s house. Their shouts for his demise continued. Bahman would be heartbroken at this turnout of anti-Mossadegh bullies. Where was he?

Time dragged on, and still she couldn’t see him. She was parched and weak and dizzy. Her blouse stuck to her chest; the square spun. Maman was right. She should have eaten. She could barely move now that there were so many people around her and in the entire square. She was trapped.

Finally the armed police arrived, and Roya felt a wave of relief. Thank God. But to her surprise, they didn’t even try to disband the mob. They just joined it. Every ounce of energy drained from her as she realized the police units were in on it. Everything Bahman had feared was coming true. The police were colluding with anti-Mossadegh protesters to attempt another coup, to try to finally oust the prime minister. The prime minister whom Bahman and Baba and so many others loved. The prime minister they believed was their democratic leader, who had the courage to stand up to foreign powers wanting their oil, whom the people had elected with the hope of achieving democracy. Bahman would be sick to see this scene. Where was he? She hoped to God that he was safe.

Time ticked on. No sign of Bahman. She had to move from her spot in the center; she couldn’t just stay here hemmed in by the mob. Maybe she could go to the side where the crowd was thinner. Maybe Bahman had just arrived and was stuck there, unable to get to her. She wanted to make her way out, but the throng of people kept her trapped. She pushed and shoved, moving inch by inch, but not making any genuine progress. Panic welled inside her. She wanted to scream, to run away.

Suddenly someone grabbed her shoulder. “Roya!”

She turned to see who had called her name. His hair was stuck to his head with sweat. He panted and was wrung out with anxiety. Her vision blurred, but when it cleared, she realized it was Mr. Fakhri. His eyes were raw with a desperation Roya had never seen before.

“Oh, thank God! Mr. Fakhri! Have you seen—”

“Roya Khanom, please listen to me. . . .” He clutched her shoulders with both hands now, wild with an urgency that frightened her. She had never seen him outside of his cool, clean shop except for the night of their engagement party, when they’d both witnessed Mrs. Aslan’s sad meltdown. Here, under the burning sun and amidst the crowd, he seemed almost feral, a mad version of the quiet man who had handed her poetry books and abetted her correspondence with the lover whom she sorely needed to see right now.