The Stationery Shop(67)

She walked along one aisle and then another, as if in a dream. In front of the main counter, she stopped short. There within a big glass case lay shiny fountain pens and inkwells, just as the cashier had said. They were arranged like jewelry: the ink bottles shone in sapphire blue and emerald green, even purple. One bottle held ink the color of pomegranates. She wanted to unscrew a fountain pen and pump its cartridge carefully with ink, glide it across a fresh, clean page. She’d had a special blotter for those letters she’d written so long ago so the ink wouldn’t run, so not one word could be smudged before she placed it in an envelope to be hidden in a Rumi book of poetry.

“Find everything okay?”

She turned as if she’d been caught stealing. A man with salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin, and dark eyes stood by a door in the back.

“Oh yes—” Her voice caught. She was suddenly dizzy. Her chest tightened and the room began to swim.

“Are you all right?” the man asked. His voice. His voice was like something she should know.

“Of course.” But she was sinking. “Please, may I sit?”

He came to her and gently took her arm. He helped her behind the counter to a chair with a pink cushion. She slid onto the chair with relief and leaned back. Her forehead throbbed.

“Ma’am? Can I get you some water?”

“No, no. I just need to catch my breath.”

“Let me get you some water.”

His insistence, his politeness, something about his body language was just so familiar. Then she realized what she wanted to ask. The dark eyes, olive skin. A slight accent. “Are you Iranian?”

“Khanom, salam.” He bowed his head. “Man fekr kardam shoma ham Irani hasteed. Miss, hello. I thought you were Iranian as well.”

“Hastam. I am.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said in Farsi. “Let me get you something to drink.”

He went through a door behind the counter. She rested her head against the back of the chair. He came back after several minutes holding a tray with a chai estekan and a saucer of sugar cubes.

“You didn’t have to,” she said. “I am fine.”

“It’s no trouble. We have a small samovar in the back. You know how it is. Persians have to have their tea.” His Farsi was impeccable. He must have lived in Iran as a child or his parents had had the discipline to teach him the language.

He set the tray down. “Befarmayeed, this will make you feel better.”

She sipped the tea. The flavors of bergamot and cardamom mixed with the slightest hint of rose petals took her home. “You certainly know how to make real tea. Thank you.”

“My parents taught me.” He shrugged.

Her head began to clear with the steam and fragrance of the tea. This man was probably in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He could have come here as an older child with his family as part of the wave of Iranians who immigrated after the 1979 revolution.

“Hope I didn’t startle you,” she said. “I just lost my balance for a minute. And my wits a little bit.” She rested the tea glass on the tray and studied him. “Also, if I may, you just look so familiar to me.”

“All us Iranians look alike, right?” He smiled.

And when he did, she was gripped by a tightness in her chest that felt like it could fold her over. She stared at the tea and then looked around the shop again. The shelves were aligned in diagonal rows, the glass case held the fountain pens in parallel lines. In one corner was a rack on its own, filled with paperback books. She hadn’t noticed that rack before. She could make out the covers from where she sat: they all had artwork similar to Persian miniature paintings. The image of a turbaned man holding an old-fashioned setar instrument flashed from most of the covers.

“You sell books too?” she asked weakly.

“Oh, some,” the man said. “Coloring books for kids. Craft books. Sticker books. Things like that.”

“But those?” She pointed to the rack that should have held greeting cards, that should have been filled with calendars printed with photos of dogs and kittens and oceans. Instead it held slim volumes of a book series she recognized. She had bought those very books for Kyle so he could read in English the poetry she had loved since she was young, so he could see for himself the wisdom and passion in the words of her favorite poet of all time. “You sell Rumi?”

The man shrugged again. “It was kind of my dad’s thing. He always had a very particular vision of what he wanted this place to be. Down to a T.”

“He did?”

“Oh yes. It was tough setting it all up. And staying afloat over the years. But my sister and I have pushed through.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah, my twin. Anyway, Dad had his vision and we worked so hard at making it happen. And now . . . well, we like to keep it just how he wanted it.” He smiled again. “We’ve managed to stick around.”

Roya’s heart suddenly beat so fast she thought she might have a heart attack. The shop fashioned like this. The slim Rumi volumes arranged on a circular rack. The blueprint. The vision. But it couldn’t be. It could not be.

“Your father,” she asked breathlessly. “May I ask his name?”

“Sure. We’re originally from Tehran. My dad’s name is Bahman Aslan.”