The Stationery Shop(7)
2013
Roya rested her head against the glass of the car window and watched New England pass by, stoic in its iciness.
She wanted to focus on Walter and how much they’d enjoy dinner together. She would make the fish sticks he loved. She wanted to forget that boy, the visit she’d just had at the center. But the words from his letter wouldn’t go away. She had unwittingly memorized them sixty years ago.
I promise you, my love. Meet me at Sepah Square, at the center . . . Wednesday . . . 12 noon. Or a little later, if I can’t help it. Meet me there, and once and for all we will be one. The excitement of seeing you will keep me going through these next few days.
“Oh, Walter,” she said. And she leaned her forehead against the window and wept.
Chapter Three
1953
* * *
Love: How It Tangles
Look at love
How it tangles
With the one fallen in love
Look at spirit
How it fuses with earth
Giving it new life
Roya read Rumi’s poem again and waited for Bahman to show up. He hadn’t missed a single Tuesday at the Stationery Shop since that first time when he’d burst in. It had made for a winter filled with anticipation, conversation, excitement. When did you fall in love, Sister? Tell me. He recited a word from a poem and that was it?
Of course not, Roya told Zari. It wasn’t one word, one moment. That kind of thing only happened in American films, didn’t she know?
Roya wanted wholeness, she wanted warmth, she wanted escape and comfort. The Stationery Shop and its books gave her that. Then Bahman filled it with his presence. But if she had to determine a day when she actually fell in love beyond repair, it was the seventh Tuesday. That day signaled winter’s end. It was the kind of day when the chill and frost and dispirit of the season gave way to the promise of blooms and greenery and new beginnings. It was a day ready to rupture. The whole country was gearing up to celebrate the first day of spring: Persian New Year.
Mr. Fakhri flitted about the shop on that seventh Tuesday with hyper-eagerness and nervous energy, helping mothers buy New Year’s gifts for their children, wrapping sets of pens, ringing up customers with an effusive and heartfelt “May you always feel joy and live long!”
“A present for my son,” a woman purred, “he did so well on his report card and he loves to read.” The pride on her face made Bahman smile—Roya caught him. Another man bought colored pencils that Mr. Fakhri bunched together like flowers in a bouquet and wrapped with green ribbon. Poetry collections were, of course, the hottest item—the thirst for Persian poetry was bottomless, as always. Roya and Bahman steered clear of each other as the crowd in the shop swelled after school. He focused on the political treatise being featured as a pamphlet near the counter; she stayed in the back, by the translations of foreign novels.
And then, as quickly as the crowd had descended, it dissipated. Books bought, presents selected, advice gotten—the customers scattered, and there they were, the two of them, engrossed in their own private browsing but of course each aware of the other, feeling nothing if not the presence of each other. Mr. Fakhri closed his cash register with a loud clang.
“My goodness, they are shopping lots for Nowruz these days. Did all the children in this town get such good report cards to deserve so many presents for the New Year?”
Roya and Bahman remained quiet in their safe parts of the shop.
“Now then!” Mr. Fakhri looked around as if he were speaking to a huge audience. “A shopkeeper can’t complain about the sales, but I should get this cash to the bank.”
Neither Roya nor Bahman moved.
“I was thinking of stepping out, might have to close the shop, then.”
“I’ll be here,” Bahman said quietly.
“Pardon?”
“I can be here. If a customer comes, I will tell them you’ll be right back.”
“Oh.” Mr. Fakhri looked at Bahman and then uneasily at Roya.
Roya sensed Mr. Fakhri’s discomfort. She was petrified at the idea of being alone with Bahman. Of course she couldn’t be alone with him. “I need to go home now. Have a good day, Mr. Fakhri!”
“Well, if you are leaving . . . yes, Roya Khanom, have a wonderful day!” Mr. Fakhri looked relieved. He glanced at his watch again. “Bank’s about to close. I don’t have much time. Thank you, Bahman Jan. I’ll take you up on that offer.” Mr. Fakhri grabbed his coat and hat and looked pointedly at Roya. “Good-bye, Roya Khanom. Get home safely. Before it’s too late.” He pressed the black chapeau onto his head. “Bahman Jan, I’ll be back soon.” He rushed out, and Roya followed him to the door.
“Stay.”
Bahman’s voice was clear, certain.
“Good-bye.” She stopped just short of the door. Her back was to him. She could see Mr. Fakhri disappear down the street.
“Please stay.” His voice sounded less certain now.
She turned to tell him why she couldn’t possibly stay. But when she saw him, she could barely breathe. He looked nervous. His face was red, although his expression was kind.
She would leave. She had a lot to do. Maman and Zari needed help getting the house ready for the New Year. All that spring-cleaning. Lots of dusting, endless beating of carpets, vinegar-washing of the windows. There was no possible way she could stay here alone with this boy.