The Stationery Shop(71)

“Omid told me. I’m glad you saw what we built. I wanted to”— he squeezed her hand—“just have our shop.”

She felt like she might drown all over again. Remembering the shop in Newton also made her see the one in flames in Tehran. “What happened to Shahla?” she dared to ask.

“Thank God, she suffered not too long. They told us the Tuesday before Thanksgiving of 2004. By Nowruz, it was over.”

“Cancer?”

“Pancreatic.”

Nowruz would have been the first day of spring. Roya calculated four short months from diagnosis to death. “May God protect her soul.”

“She was a good wife,” he said, and then he paused. “But she wasn’t you.”

Roya looked at the floor.

“Tell me. How’s your son?” he asked.

“How do you know I have a son?”

“I’ve searched for you on the Internet. He’s a doctor, I saw. Congratulations. Forgive me, I hope you don’t think I am snoopy. I couldn’t help it. I know too that you are married to a Walter Archer, a retired lawyer with Lippinscott and Mackevy. The Internet . . . it knows everything!” He looked slightly uncomfortable as he said Walter’s name. He pronounced it “Valter.” He pronounced Lippinscott “Lee-peen-es-scot.”

“Like Jahangir. He was our World Wide Web of info,” she said.

Bahman’s face lit up at the mention of his old friend. “Yes, he was always news central! Remember his parties?”

“How could I forget? Those songs on his gramophone!”

“Roya.”

When he said her name, it did not matter: the decades, the children, the cancer, the betrayal, the loss, the coup, the rewritten history. He said her name the same way he had always said her name. They were Bahman and Roya again, the couple dancing, talking breathlessly as they leaned against the books in the shop. She held on to the seat of the plastic chair. It was not an option to fall.

His breathing grew louder as though his chest held a broken motor. She turned to the window. The snow had picked up even more. No one came into the hall—there was no bingo, no lunch was served even though the smell of beef stew hung in the air. They were utterly alone. Would the window be cold to touch? Even with all this heat cranked up inside, if she leaned over to touch the glass, would she feel ice? She was with a stranger here. She was with her love. She held these two truths in her mind at the same time and found it hard to speak.

“I missed you very much,” he said.

Maybe old love just ran through the decades unfettered, unimpeded, even when denied.

“Me too.”

“Are you comfortable here?”

“Of course.” She shifted in her chair, not letting go of his hand.

“In America, your life.”

“You bet,” she said in the American way.

“Don’t feel sorry for me for being in this place. I know it’s looked down on in our culture. But my daughter and her family visit regularly. They live right here in Duxton. Omid and his wife and kids visit too. It was just too much to take care of me. They tried. But I didn’t want to be a burden to them. Especially after my Parkinson’s. This is a good place. They call me ‘Mr. Batman’ here.”

“Parkinson’s?” She stiffened. “You don’t—”

“I don’t shake? Rattle and roll, as the Americans say? Some days are better than others. I thought I’d be trembling all morning, seeing you. But in fact, I feel better.”

“I didn’t know. . . .”

“I feel better than I have in ages. It’s because of you.”

“Please, stop. We’re not seventeen.”

“We’ll always be seventeen.”

“Okay, mister.” Now that they had warmed up a bit, it was easy to slip into the old banter, the teasing. But she couldn’t go down this slippery slope too far. “So, tell me. How many grandchildren?”

“Six!”

“Oh my! May they live long lives with their parents’ shadow guarding them.” Thank goodness for old customs. These Persian expressions were a reflex and a relief when you didn’t know what else to say.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you. What I’m trying to say, Roya Joon, is that I have not stopped thinking about you since that day in the square.”

She dropped his hand. Then she just patted his arm, the arm that had once made her feel so safe. His sleeve was wooly and worn. “It’s okay, Bahman, it’s okay.” This was all she could do. Never with Walter had she had to worry about memory loss. Nor with Zari, oh God, that would be a nightmare. A few of her friends sometimes complained of forgetting. But this—well, these were uncharted waters for her. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to just go along with his version of things. She’d heard that dementia patients could get violent from the rage of not being understood.

“That day at the square? Roya, I stood there for hours waiting for you. I wanted to see you so badly. I had all the paperwork set so we could go to the Office of Marriage and Divorce and get everything stamped and official. I waited as the thugs came and took over, when they marched to the prime minister’s house. Pro-Mossadegh people in the crowd asked for my help, but I didn’t join the fight. I didn’t move. All I could think was what if you came and I wasn’t there. I didn’t want to leave you there. I waited for you. I waited because all I wanted was to see you, to explain everything, to hold you again. But you never came.”