The Stationery Shop(52)

He followed her into the kitchen. Roya had prepared all the ingredients before Walter’s arrival. She showed them to him and explained a little about the dish she was making.

“It’s called khoresh-e-bademjan. We usually make it with beef.”

He just nodded.

Blood rushed to her face. “But I couldn’t get beef. So we’ll make it with chicken today.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Walter smiled.

She sliced an onion thinly, chopped it, then sautéed it in a large pot until the onion was just transparent. With a mortar and pestle that Mrs. Kishpaugh kept on the top shelf, she crushed precious threads of saffron till they were ground into a fine powder.

Walter sat at the kitchen table and watched with a delighted expression. “You should see my mom on Sundays when she’s making the roast,” he said. “She likes to cook too.”

“Yes? See now, this is the saffron. You see how it is . . . crushing?” She pressed the saffron threads against the mortar with the pestle. “See?”

“I sure do see it crushing. That’s neat.”

Her self-consciousness began to evaporate as she cooked. Just like in the café with him, and at their few dinners with Zari and Jack, she actually felt comfortable. It had never been her intention to spend time in America with someone so cheerful. She found too much good cheer undesirable, smacking of falseness. How did Americans keep up their good spirits day in, day out, year-round? It had to be the brand-shiny-newness of their country. It had to be all that freedom. No thousands of years’ worth of stultifying rules to observe. Just easy-peasy rolling with the flow. But she’d get used to the good cheer. She liked Walter, and his positive mood made her feel good.

Suddenly she remembered Bahman, but with a pang she pushed him out. It would be ridiculous to feel anything that dangerous again.

She added a few teaspoons of boiled water to the saffron and mixed. Walter couldn’t possibly care about her recipe as much as he let on, but he nodded as she did it, as though he were watching an important event. Then he got up. “Would you like me to cut the chicken?” he asked gently.

She hadn’t expected his participation. Not once had Baba cooked. Iranian men loved to eat, but she knew very few who loved to cook. In fact, she’d known none who cooked until . . . Of course she’d been surprised at how Mr. Aslan and Bahman bustled in and out of the kitchen in their home. With Mrs. Aslan so unwell, her moods paralyzing her, they had no choice. She took a knife and rinsed it. Here was Walter, waiting to help. Here was Walter, waiting. She had better things to do than think of anyone else. She handed Walter the knife and proceeded to describe, as best she could, how the chicken needed to be cut.

He obeyed her instructions and made sure the sullied knife didn’t touch anything else. He washed his hands with soap when he was done. She was impressed at how diligent he was and how he worked with such care. That he genuinely worried about the size of the chicken pieces because he knew it mattered to her. A part of her couldn’t help but be moved by his thoughtfulness.

When he finished, Roya dropped the chicken pieces into the pot of sautéed onions. The chicken sizzled. They stood next to each other, but not touching. Other than shaking his hand at the café that first day, at the “coffee shop,” she had not touched Walter. He was a perfect gentleman on all their dates.

“We add the salt and the pepper now. And the secret ingredient,” she said. It was getting hot standing near the stove. She had to stay focused.

“And what would that be?”

“This . . . turmeric.” She wasn’t sure how to pronounce turmeric. Walter’s eyes twinkled, but she couldn’t tell if she’d pronounced it incorrectly or if Walter had no idea what turmeric was. She sprinkled the yellow spice liberally onto the sautéing chicken.

“Without a doubt,” Walter said, “this dish will be unlike anything I have ever tasted.”

“Now we add water to the chicken and onions to cover them.”

“I have made a note of it.”

“I don’t see you writing down.”

“It’s all here.” He tapped his head.

“You let the water come to boil, then you lower heat and chicken can, um . . . what do you say? Cook . . . gently.”

“Simmer?”

“Yes. Simmer.” It was a big word, not because it was long but because it was the kind of word that made her feel like a native speaker. What Iranian woman in this country for less than two years walked around saying “simmer”? Turmeric, simmer—she was becoming quite the professional.

“As the chicken simmers”—Roya took care to use the correct verb tense—“we peel and slice eggplants. Then we add salt to eggplant, rinse them, dry them, and fry them. Yes?”

“Oh yes.”

Together they peeled the eggplants. He handed them to her when done and watched how she sliced each one. He then lifted the knife carefully as though to ask if he could take a stab at slicing. She let him cut, impressed. He worked carefully at following her eggplant instructions, but she knew it would take too long to salt the eggplants the way she had seen Maman and Kazeb do back in their kitchen in Tehran and then wait for the bitterness to leach out. So she just took each slice from Walter and dropped it into another pan she’d heated with oil. They worked quietly in unison. Walter peeled and sliced, Roya dropped and fried. Meanwhile, the chicken simmered.