The Stationery Shop(70)

She had, of course, imagined seeing him over the years. People bumped into each other all the time. She was married to Walter because her elbow had spun his coffee cup off a counter, wasn’t she? Look at you, Sister, sitting like a fool in that beef-stinky place looking out the window! Talk to him at least! Look at him!

“I worried about seeing you. I was so nervous. But it’s you. Khodeti. It’s you.” He spoke again in Farsi, in that voice she’d never stopped hearing.

A lifetime ago, Bahman had not shown up; he’d married another and not looked back. She would say what she’d come to say.

“I forgive you.”

It came out clear and lucid, as if she’d practiced in front of a mirror. But it was not what she’d planned on saying at all. Why? she had wanted to ask him. But now that she was here, right next to him, the answer to that question no longer seemed important. They were in the evening of their lives; they were beyond all that and then some.

“I beg your pardon?”

Was it a question, or a plea for forgiveness? She turned to take him in; she’d bear the glare, squint if needed. He looked vulnerable, shaken. “I forgive you, Bahman.” It felt odd to say his name to his face again, to say his name at all. “We were kids. What did we know?”

His eyes were confused. Had he not heard her? Maybe he had a hearing aid he never used, like so many friends she and Walter knew.

“I’m not here to find fault, Bahman,” she said louder. “I don’t even want an explanation. Maybe I did before. But not anymore.”

“You forgive me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, my regret lies in myself.”

“For what?”

“For thinking it could be different. All I’m saying is that life happens and I forgive you and I wanted to see you again. Just to see you. To think we didn’t talk all those years. Why? Of course, I heard your news from Jahangir—may God rest his soul—I knew for a while how you were. Until I later learned from Zari that Jahangir, poor Jahangir, died in the war. But we’re too old to hold grudges. I just wanted to let you know.” She had the urge to reach over and pat his hand. But she didn’t dare. It was him, and he still had power over her, she could barely believe it, but in his presence—it was quite astonishing—she was filled with love. To see him so old! Her Bahman. The boy who would change the world in this wheelchair, in this place.

Yes, she loved him. The truth of that was like a wave that washed over and submerged her in salty torrents, knotting her hair and stinging her nose, pulling the life out from under her. Of course she loved him. The earth was round, day turned into night, he was in front of her and she loved him. She could see, in his face, the kindness she remembered. How he had taken care of her and trusted her, shared with her everything. How he’d rested his head on her shoulder when he was filled with sadness at his mother’s rage and lack of reason. Ultimately, his mother had more power over him than Roya ever did. But what could either of them have done at seventeen? Fate had its own plans.

“You forgive me?” His voice sounded far away.

Another unexpected wave hit. This time it was icy, cruel. Of course. He kept repeating things. Why had she expected anything different? Memory loss. Possibly dementia. It was quite likely Bahman didn’t even remember her. Maybe she’d come too late after all.

“Bahman?” she said slowly, as if she were talking to a child. She should just reach out and hold him. He had held her so many times.

“You don’t know how happy you’ve made me by coming here,” he said. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you. It was my dream.” Without hesitation, he took her hand.

She remembered, of course, his touch. It was so familiar, she ached. She could smell his woodsy cologne. Had he worn it for her visit? Were they like young teenagers eager to please each other again? She had certainly refused to wear snow boots, just to look good.

“I waited for you all afternoon.”

“It’s morning,” she reminded him gently.

“No, I mean at the square.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was so worried you got caught up with the mobs, that you’d been hurt. When you didn’t come, I just prayed that nothing had happened to you. When I learned you were safe, it was a huge relief. That’s what mattered, that you were okay. That’s all that still matters.

“I want to know how you are now,” he went on. “Tell me how you are. Tell me everything.”

The cruelty of old age, degeneration of the mind! Poor man did not know their history.

“Shahla died,” he suddenly said.

The tall, wavy-haired girl who’d sized her up at Café Ghanadi, who’d sidled up to her at Jahangir’s house, who’d fumed at the chandelier and tangoed past them, was suddenly present in the room. The taste of the crushed melon at the party that night, the ice inside Roya’s cheek. Death was nothing new, several of her friends had died in recent years; they’d both lost Mr. Fakhri—she’d lost her own child! But of course the words struck her with sadness. “I am so sorry,” she said.

“We raised two wonderful children. Twins.”

“My goodness. Mashallah,” she said. And then she forced herself to add, “I met your son, Omid.” She didn’t mention the shop. It would open up too many worlds to even ask him about the shop. She couldn’t just yet.