The Stationery Shop(39)

After she lands back on her heels and almost tips over, after her lips are no longer on his skin, Ali cannot move. He is transfixed. Transformed. The nerve of this girl. The warm, bursting touch of her. Her kiss has rendered him mute, frozen.

“There!” Her voice is soft now. “You got what you wanted.”

He doesn’t dare look at her.

“Didn’t you?”

He touches the imprint of the melony kiss on his cheek and, without thinking, takes his fingers to his nose. He is inhaling her. Never will he forget this taste, not when he marries Atieh, not when he is the father of four children, not when he introduces great works of classics and foreign writers to the young people who will frequent the stationery shop he will one day own. How disappointed his father will be in his choice not to pursue anything more prestigious. “You have the means to become a religious scholar,” his father will plead. “You want to own a shop? Like a bazaari? Like a merchant?”

“Now,” Badri says as he stands in the sun, unable to move, afraid of the reaction to her kiss, obvious in the way he is breathing, “I told you that if my father ever finds out that you tried to kiss me, he will cut your neck with his knife. People think it’s a knife, but it’s really a sword. His grandfather’s sword. His grandfather was a bandit. Who killed men who bothered him.” She stops, her eyes boring into Ali’s. “With that sword.”

Ali stands in the sun, and forces himself to look away from her.

“Just killed them. If Baba were to know that you followed me back here behind the bazaar to grab a kiss—”

“I didn’t,” Ali interrupts, finally facing her again.

“He would swoop off your head. He’s good with that knife of his. You’ve seen him slice the melons, haven’t you? Don’t think I don’t see you standing there day after day, spying on me in the market. Doesn’t someone hoity like you have school to attend or something?”

“It’s summer,” Ali mumbles.

“Of course! I know schools close in the summer!” A look of embarrassment crosses her face. “You think I’m uneducated and easy, don’t you? Just because my father sells melons at the market, and your father . . . what? Runs the country? Takes our money? Smokes cigars? I don’t know. But I’m telling you that if my baba finds out about this, he will cut your throat.”

Ali nods.

“So, if you want”—she walks over to the tub on the ground, picks it up, and hoists it back onto her hip—“you know where to find me. I empty the tub quite regularly. When Baba goes to pray at noon.”

“Excuse me?” Ali whispers.

“They all go to pray, don’t they? It’s so quiet here then.” She looks up at the sky and smiles. “It’s nice and quiet and peaceful here. Just us and the flies.”

“At noon?”

“Yes.”

Ali presses the toe of his polished shoe into the dirt, his heart beating fast. He watches her walk away, the tub bouncing on her hip.



What happened on other days at the garbage bins under the summer sun were things that should not have happened between an educated, rich young man and a girl whose father sliced melons at the market. Her melony sweetness stuck to his trousers, to his throat; she was everywhere with him and all over him.

Atieh got fitted for her dress. Tiny jewels were sewn onto the hem of her wedding veil. Ali inhaled Badri by the bins at noon, he tasted more parts of her than he should have; he walked home dizzy and drained.

At what point did his lust become love? Was it when Badri whispered in his ear as he tried very hard not to explode (explode he did, each and every time)? Was it when nothing but images of her occupied his thoughts before sleep? Was it when the possibility of not being with her made him feel empty, even sick? At what point did Ali stop inhaling the scents and sounds of a beautiful fourteen-year-old peasant girl and start wanting this girl to be his? Rightfully his, ridiculously his, impossibly his. These things shouldn’t happen. They shouldn’t ever, not when lives are planned, not when mothers have made arrangements, not when destinies have been ordained, not when a match is perfect. Futures are organized, thought through, carefully planned. Atieh was his future. Badri was his melon girl by the garbage heap.

Badri was his heart. Badri permeated his skin; he walked around smelling of her, tasting like her, wanting her. Wanting her. And even though she miraculously, absurdly, dangerously, carelessly let him take her—it wasn’t enough. Once he had a taste, he wanted more. And she gave him more. Once he had more, he wanted it more often. And she showed up more often. Once he had more often, he wanted it consistently. And she started to give herself to him every day. Once he had every day, he wanted forever. His desire for her was insatiable. To the point that it didn’t matter whether it was lust or love. There was no demarcation anymore. Not for Ali. He just had to have her always, all the time. And he did not want to imagine a time or a future without her.

Plans are made for reasons. Financial, logical, social reasons. His parents navigated their lives with reason and power and care. Atieh was right for Ali. The two families had always wanted that wedding. His class of people followed optimal paths, creating more wealth and pursuing good sense. His class of people did not pine for grubby girls who worked at the bazaar—and if they did, they took their due, stole their kisses, groped and fondled and then moved along. No harm done.