The Stationery Shop(48)

“Please.” Roya piled her books in a neat stack to make room on the table. She felt like she was parting the sea. She wasn’t sure if she was being too forward. But wouldn’t it have been rude to say no? She wished she knew the rules in this country. Sometimes there didn’t seem to be any rules. It had been far easier in Iran where tradition and tarof and who your grandfather was often dictated how to behave.

“Walter. I’m from Boston.” His hand was extended.

Should she shake it? They did that here. Americans liked to shake hands, as if they were business partners, making a deal, sealing some contract. She placed her hand in his, and his easy grip surprised her. She was sure her face went red. It had been a while since she’d felt a man’s hand around hers. When he sat down across from her, she was a trifle alarmed by his audacity, but that was how it was here, wasn’t it, everything easy-peasy—no strict social mores that would shame your entire family if you broke them, no crazy rules like back home.

She expected him to pull out his own books, to huddle behind them like most of the other students, to sigh and complain about all the upcoming finals. But instead he stirred his fresh cup of coffee and sipped it as if he were on a piazza in Italy overlooking the mountains, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing too pressing. Everything about him was clean and well tended. Clearly she could not study with him sitting there. Why had she said yes to him? When he asked her what year she was in, Roya imagined soap bubbles coming out of his mouth. This man was freshly showered; she could not see him ever sweating. But it wasn’t his picture-perfect image that impressed her. It was his manner. Even the way he sipped his coffee was measured and relaxed and without haste. He seemed . . . safe.

She had known a boy of haste once, had been swept up in his passion and fervor and unpredictability. She would not make that mistake again. Excitement was overrated. In fact, after Bahman and his betrayal, Roya had vowed never to tether herself to a man. She would study very hard in America, return to Iran, get a good job, and be financially independent, living a spinster life of equations and experiments and pure science. She would stand her ground with reserve and a steeliness that made even the most determined give up and leave for easier, less thorny prey.

But this man, this blue-blazered coffee-shop boy, was simply sweet, and she had let him sit at her table. He smiled and made polite conversation that was stunning in its purity. There were no innuendos, hardly any flirting. There was respect. He simply asked her questions, questions she answered. She flinched at the idea of being drawn to anyone. She could never again be that malleable, putty-like girl in Bahman’s arms.

“And do you find the chemistry satisfying?” Walter looked at her earnestly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re taking the advanced chemistry, correct?” He pointed at her textbook. “Is it what you expected? Because a classmate of mine, Omar Said, hails from Lebanon. And he tells me that what he was studying in Beirut was actually more in depth than what we offer here. So I was just wondering . . .”

“Well, I never went to university in Iran. I only went to high school there. So yes, this is quite . . . deep. I mean, satisfying. The chemistry. The class.” Why was she flustered talking to this boy? For crying out loud.

He studied her for a moment, then leaned in and whispered, “This California culture is a bit new to me too.”

Of course he would have assumed her newness from her accent, her dark hair and eyes. But did she give off foreignness in everything? She imagined a waft of rosewater and saffron hovering above her wherever she went. He continued to talk to her in an easy way, however, as though nothing about her was strange. He told her how he had moved to the West Coast for his undergrad education but felt like a foreigner in California. He spoke of New England, and winters spent sledding, and summers at the Cape, eating lobster rolls and cheering for a team called “the Red Socks.” The Red Socks? What an absurd name for a team. Walter’s description of his New England childhood reminded Roya of scenes from an American film she had seen at Cinema Metropole with Bahman.

She focused on what Walter said. He was comforting, it was surprising just how much. He was like a character from a family TV show. He hadn’t left a country whose prime minister had been overthrown in a coup. He hadn’t seen men shot at his feet. He went sledding and drank hot chocolate. Behind the blue blazer he wore, Roya was aware of an innocence that most people would give anything to own. She envied him this simplicity, this lack of complication.

As they sat together, she listened mostly and shared a little. In her still halting English, she continued to answer questions about her background, the boardinghouse where she lived, her sister, Zari. Yes, she wanted to be a scientist.

When he finished his coffee, Walter got up and came back with two more. As he handed her a cup, she remembered another man standing in a café handing her coffee, asking her if she liked it. She quickly took the cup from Walter and sipped, even though it was too hot. They continued to talk. Sitting across from him, listening to him, something in her opened. The tension she’d been holding on to for so long loosened just a bit. She felt more relaxed than she had in a very long time. An hour went by with very few hexagonal molecules being drawn. He asked if he could maybe take her to the Powerhouse Gallery after finals were over, before he went back to Boston for the break. Sound like a plan? he asked her.

His blue eyes met hers.