The Stationery Shop(45)

She hadn’t heard one word from him since that last letter. He hadn’t called, hadn’t written. She had to hear his news from Jahangir. And she was far too proud to contact him. Why would she, after how he’d treated her? After he’d specifically stated in his last letter that he didn’t want her to contact him? She wasn’t desperate. She wasn’t going to grovel. Who did he think he was anyway? How wrong she’d been about him. How stupid. How young. To think he had actually married Shahla! Roya hated the look of sympathy that followed her wherever she went about town: The poor thing! They had been such the perfect couple! Now look at her. What a destiny! Did you know she pushed the stationer away from her at the last minute? He died! That poor stationer. . . .

It was impossible in this city to continue as before. Maybe Baba was right. She should leave Tehran.

“Of course we will go. We’ll go together, Baba Jan,” Roya said. Her body had lost its form; she floated above the breakfast table like a ghost.

Though it felt like going to the moon, this was a guarantee that she could avoid Bahman, at least for a few more years. She’d get her sense back. She’d be away from the spot where Mr. Fakhri had fallen and from the charred remains of the shop, which someone had said would be rebuilt as the branch of a bank. She’d study and then return as one of the few women in the country with a university degree, from America, no less. She would truly join the rank of the newly educated modernized class. She would be the pioneer. Why not her? What else did she have to do here? As for Zari, Roya would make sure to take care of her little sister. They would do this. Others before them had done what had at first seemed absurd. The country was changing. Why not be on the front lines of education? They would come back when they had finished their studies, and to hell then with everyone who had given her those looks of pity and judgment.

Baba nodded and said he would ask his boss for the paperwork for the applications. He said it in a small voice, as though he was both amazed and slightly ashamed. Maman stared first at Roya, then at Zari, and burst into tears.



“Look, you don’t have to do this,” Roya said to her sister that night as they got ready for bed.

“Baba won’t let you go alone.”

“There is something with you and Yousof, yes? You’ve been awfully quiet about him lately. What’s going on with you two? It’s not like you to not divulge every detail. Why so quiet? Look, I know you’re not saying anything because you’re worried about how I might react. Well, don’t worry! If you’re happy, I’m happy for you. You don’t have to protect me. If you’re in love, then you should stay in Tehran.”

Zari removed pins from her hair. Ever since Mrs. Aslan had called to tell Roya about Bahman’s wedding plans, Zari had stopped wrapping her hair in newspaper strips to create waves. She pinned her hair to the sides during the day. It made her look older, more mature. It befitted a girl in her last year of high school studying English on the side. Roya marveled at how much older her little sister looked in these past six months. It was as if the breakup of Roya and Bahman and the death of Mr. Fakhri had forced Zari to grow up faster too.

“Never you mind, Sister.” Zari’s hands stayed at the nape of her neck. She looked like a sculpture described in an ancient poem.

“You’re willing to leave everything behind?”

“If you go, I go. We’ll start together. And anyway. It’s only for a few years, right? Maybe I should try to make something of myself too. It’s a new world. We are the pioneers of the new generation of liberated young Iranian women!” She imitated Baba perfectly.

Stunned and secretly relieved by her sister’s willingness to accompany her on this journey, Roya went to bed feeling as though she were about to dive off a cliff into freezing, choppy waters.



The letters arrived by post at the beginning of summer. Baba took them to his boss, who translated them for him. Yes, his boss reassured him, the letters said yes. Both Roya and Zari had been accepted to the small women’s college in California that Baba’s boss had recommended because it had a special scholarship program for international students. Yes, each had gotten a spot. They would start in the same class because Roya had waited a year after her own high school graduation, and yes, yes, yes, indeed, they had been accepted. No, they wouldn’t be the only Iranian women there, a few others had gotten accepted this year! Probably the Shah’s relatives, Maman said with worry. But she stayed up late sewing the girls new clothes, making each of them a trunkful of blouses and skirts and blazers. Her daughters would not go to Amrika without the finest clothes that she could sew. She made each of them a dress (light green for Roya and pastel blue for Zari) from the finest, softest cotton she could get at the bazaar, darting her needle around the collars to add her unique embroidery of tiny flowers. She cut batiste fabric and worked late into the evening stitching together blouses in four different colors for each of them: cream, white, light pink, and a baby yellow. She bought blazers and pleated skirts from the shops in the north of town and ironed them painstakingly. At the bottom of each trunk, she carefully placed underwear and stockings bought at the bazaar. Roya and Zari helped Maman pack their trunks with disbelief. All the rest of the savings that Baba had went into the purchase of plane tickets and the portion of the tuition not covered by the scholarships. He sold the collection of gold sekeh coins that his own father had given him when he married. He worked late hours for extra income. He even asked Maman to take the small inheritance she had from her parents’ deaths and send it to America with the girls.