The Stationery Shop(6)

Mr. Fakhri and Roya stood silently as the store settled back to normal after the effect of the boy’s presence, as though they had ridden in a hot-air balloon that was only now landing and deflating.

“Who was that?” Roya asked, feeling, for no reason at all, charged. It was disorienting and confusing to have this excitement surge through her just from the boy’s brief visit.

“That, my dear girl,” Mr. Fakhri said, “is Bahman Aslan.” A look of concern crossed his face. He drummed his fingers on the counter. “That is the boy who wants to change the world.”

Roya carefully placed her Rumi book into her satchel. She stared at the doorway. She felt slightly infected, as though she had witnessed something overpowering and surprising but also deeply personal, something of the inevitable beat of hope and life and energy. She said good-bye to Mr. Fakhri in a daze.



For days she looked for him on the streets. Snot-nosed Hossein followed them to and fro; it annoyed her so much. Bold and loud Cyrus insisted on opening doors for her and Zari. Yousof stole a few glances at Zari as they crossed the street and then pretended that he was actually concentrating on the lamppost. It seemed everywhere they went the students from the boys’ schools filled the streets. The boys participated in the different demonstrations in groups. But the one boy who had burst into the Stationery Shop and made the world move a little faster, a little more briskly, with a lot more vigor—even if for just a few minutes—was nowhere to be seen.

Roya went to school and back with Zari every day, ate her mother’s khoresh stews, and listened to Baba tell them all about Prime Minister Mossadegh’s plans. He was going to make their country independent of foreign influence once and for all so no one could steal their oil again. He would thrust them into a future of democracy!

Roya studied geometry and scribbled some poetry and smiled when Baba repeated that she’d be the next Madame Curie, by God she would, forget Helen Keller. But nowhere did she see the boy with the joyful eyes—the one who’d made Mr. Fakhri deliver a pile of papers with swiftness and importance as though he were delivering a weapon to a warrior.



In the Stationery Shop the following week, Roya picked up a metal pencil sharpener and ran her thumb against the tiny ridges on its sides. Again the wind blew pages of the piled books askew when the door exploded open and in he strode.

This time, he stopped whistling as soon as he saw her. He seemed a little less sure of himself and more shy. “Rumi,” he said to Mr. Fakhri, but glanced quickly at her as he said it. His dark mop of hair was combed carefully to the side. His white collared shirt was ironed. His eyes sparkled and he smiled politely.

With the same speed and desire to please, Mr. Fakhri retrieved a copy of the very book that he’d given to Roya the week before. He cleared his throat. “Here you go, Bahman Jan.”

This time Bahman thanked Mr. Fakhri, bowed slightly to Roya, then strode back into the street.

“What is his rush? Where is he going? What’s so important?” she said, once she’d gathered her wits. She would show Mr. Fakhri that this boy did not render her speechless.

“I told you, Roya Khanom. The boy wants to change the world. That requires rush.” Mr. Fakhri picked up a rag and dusted his countertop. “It requires vigilance.” He stopped rubbing the surface of the counter. “It requires”—he looked pointedly at her—“severe caution.”

Roya sniffed. She put down the sharpener. She straightened her back. “I don’t know how he intends on changing the world. He walks too fast. He’s not very polite. He whistles for no reason! He barely spoke to you the other time he came in here last Tuesday. He acts like he’s so important. His hair is funny. I’m not quite sure how a boy like that will change the world.”

“Severe”—Mr. Fakhri put both hands on the counter and leaned toward her—“caution.”



She had been warned. A few more times she saw Bahman in that shop—each time he came right after school on a Tuesday as though he knew she’d be there. Each time, Roya pretended to be busy browsing through books or examining new stationery or looking anywhere but at him. Each time, of course, she couldn’t help but steal a glance at him, until the fifth Tuesday when she couldn’t bear the silence between them any longer.

She pretended that she had a poetry question and addressed it to Mr. Fakhri, who for some reason didn’t respond, and so it had to be answered by the boy.

The boy who would change the world managed to say, “Fire,” in answer to her question about which word followed in the stanza she’d just quoted from one of Saadi’s ancient poems.

Her face grew hot.

“Fire,” the boy repeated.

Of course he was right, that was the word that came next in the Saadi stanza. He said it with such surety that Roya half hoped he’d be wrong and half wanted to sit and talk with him for hours. But she had to go; her sister was waiting.

Zari was extra moody when Roya met her across the street. She’d gone deaf listening to all the political demonstrators, she complained, while her sister lingered over pencils and books in that godforsaken shop. She said she needed to go home and lie down with a hot water bottle because she had excruciating menstrual cramps and was starving to death, she’d been waiting so long, and that Roya needed to learn to respect other people’s time maybe for a change? Roya listened to Zari grumble all the way home. But she kept looking around wondering when, if ever, she’d see that boy anywhere but in the Stationery Shop.