The Stationery Shop(42)

Sincerely,

Bahman

Her fingers shook. The letter was in Bahman’s handwriting. It was on the same paper on which he’d written all his previous letters. But the words were garbage. Bahman would never write this.

Roya put down the letter. What chart o part, what utter nonsense. She could make no sense of it. “Where did you find this, Zari?”

“I told you. It came in the post.”

“But he never mailed his letters to me. They all came to me through the Stationery Shop.”

Zari crossed her arms and stared at her. “And how would he deliver them now?”

“But this letter makes absolutely no sense. For it to arrive today, it must have been mailed a few days ago—before the coup, before the shop was destroyed. . . .”

“Did any of his letters make sense, Sister? Now that you think about it?”

“You read them?”

Zari reddened. “Of course not.” She answered in an extra-high voice, “So tell me, Sister. What does he have to say for himself?”

Roya just shook her head. “He never says why he didn’t come to the square. Not once.”

“Well, for the letter to reach us today, it must have been mailed before the day of your meeting, right? So how could it address that?”

Roya knew Zari was right even though it made her sick that the horrible letter couldn’t even answer where he had been when they were supposed to meet at the square. Roya gave in and showed her sister the letter from Bahman. She wanted confirmation that it had to be a joke, a prank.

Zari read it quickly. She sucked in her breath and said, “A snake. I told you he was a snake. A political donkey!”

“He would never write something like this.”

“Sister, he is siasi—these political types are crazy. He’s telling you in pure Farsi what he is. Why can’t you just believe it?”

Roya tossed and turned again that night. The letter had been written under duress. It must have been. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamt that Bahman was held captive somewhere, guards breathing down on him, clutching his hair as they forced him to write those nonsensical, insensitive words.



“It’s for you, Roya!”

When Roya went into the living room, Maman handed her the telephone with a worried whisper: “Bahman’s mother.”

Roya was so shocked she could barely lift the heavy black receiver to her ear. “Salaam, Khanom Aslan.”

“Roya?”

She hoped her pounding heart couldn’t be heard over the phone. Out of habit, out of deference, out of the social code that demanded respect for one’s elders, she said, “How are you, Khanom Aslan? I am so happy to hear your voice.”

Mrs. Aslan spoke in a rush without taking a breath. “Azizam, dear, I want to say one thing—it is difficult. Bahman is back, by the way. We were all up north. . . .”

“Is he all right?” Roya was dizzy.

“Very. Anyway, never mind the details, I don’t want to worry or mislead you. The truth is, Roya Jan, that Bahman was just fine this whole time. We have a villa up there, you know, as people do. Well, you don’t, but you know that we love our beach house. He was up there with us and, well, he is back now. The fact is, Roya Jan, the fact is that I am calling you because . . . I’m not quite sure how to say this. The wedding is in two months. Bahman is getting married.”

Roya wasn’t sure if she’d heard Mrs. Aslan correctly.

“My dear, I know how difficult this is for you. Of course it would be. My goodness, I didn’t have enough heart to tell your mother, forgive me! Your poor mother, who has been nothing but kind. You are good people. Don’t take this the wrong way. You are good people and your father is a decent man and his clerkship at the government has nothing to do with this. Bahman understands that your father needs to stay on and work for the Shah despite all that’s happened.”

“Excuse me?”

“In any case, darling, these things are difficult—don’t get me wrong. We’ve all been through the tunnels of young love, and I can attest, quite personally, I know well its twists and turns, its fickleness.” She paused and then said, “Its losses. So, my apologies to you for this bad news, but he is happy now, Roya Jan, you understand. And you are young. Life is just this. Our destiny isn’t in our hands. We can’t change it. God willing, you’ll be successful.”

Roya could not form words. Her hand was clammy and the receiver felt like it might slip from her fingers.

“I must go now, there is so much to plan! I’m sure you can understand why an invitation to the wedding isn’t being extended to you and your family. He is happy now and he is healthy, and may you be too, my girl. May God protect you.”

For a long time after the phone call, Roya sat on the floor staring at the wall. Her mother came and fussed over her and said words that Roya could not hear. Time must have passed because Baba was back from work and talking to her and Roya could see his mouth move but she had no idea what he was saying. Finally, Zari’s shrill voice broke through her daze. “I told you so,” she heard her sister say, and “son of a dog,” and “lying lunatic.” Zari dragged Roya to bed and put a cold washcloth on her head. Roya heard occasional phrases like “wimp of a man” and “nutcase mother.” But she was underwater. Everything happened around her without happening at all. She kept hearing Mrs. Aslan’s words on the phone. The matter-of-fact, bold voice. He had been at a summer villa this whole time? Telling her about Bahman getting married. As though she were discussing the price of cucumbers. Or upcoming rain. Or just simple fate.