The Stationery Shop(72)

Roya tried to remember what she knew about Parkinson’s. Was this one of its symptoms? “I forgive you,” she whispered again.

“Forgive me, but why? I would have given you everything. If only you had let me.” His mouth turned down like a small boy’s.

“You married Shahla. It’s fine. We just . . . we just were not meant to be.”

“I married her because I lost you.”

“You lost me because you married her!”

Bahman’s hand shook. “It was one thing to have Mossadegh toppled and Mr. Fakhri and so many people die. That was a huge loss. But the biggest loss for me? It was losing you. Nothing in my life has been more painful. I’ve thought about you constantly for sixty years.”

He went on, “But I wasn’t about to stand in your way. When you wrote to me that you couldn’t, in the end, marry into my family with all the burdens and sacrifices my mother’s moods and rages would entail, I was heartbroken. I was so very hurt. What could I do about her mental state, about her? I couldn’t change it. We had already been shunned by my father’s relatives because of it. I was used to being shunned. How could I not let you go? I didn’t want to burden you with what was, back then, our shame. You didn’t want to see my family and all its dysfunction anymore, and I didn’t want to get in your way. Shahla didn’t have the same bias against my mother’s condition. She just didn’t, and I suppose a part of me felt gratitude toward her for that. . . .”

Madness. He had completely lost it. Roya spoke kindly but firmly. “Bahman. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know you may not remember everything. I never said those things. Never would I have said or felt anything like that. Leave you because of your mother? Shun you because of her mental instability? I wanted to be there for you, to be with you every step of the way. To help you and your father. Your mother too! You are the one who told me you wanted to move on. Remember?”

Bahman did not move. He studied her face quietly for a few seconds. Then he suddenly took in a sharp breath that sounded like a strangled gasp.

She had to get this conversation back on track from his absurd ramblings before he worked himself up more. She said in as calm a voice as she could muster, “I was in the square. Okay? I worried for you. You’re the one who didn’t come. Your mother wanted Shahla for you; it was different times. Honestly, it’s all right. Think of your children. Your grand—”

“No.” His head and neck and shoulders trembled. “Oh my God.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just let all of this go. Please.”

His face twisted in pain. “You don’t understand. Roya Joon—” A wheezing cough took over his body. It was so forceful, she was afraid he could have a heart attack right there. When he finished coughing, he looked at her again. “Where were you?”

“I’ve been here, in the US. You know I came to study in California. Remember? My father applied for one of the first college spots available to Iranian women in America?”

“Jahangir told me, yes, I know all of that. Roya Joon, where were you that day?”

She sighed. This was really so difficult, the poor man. “In the square.”

“Which square?” He wasn’t shaking anymore; he was still as a rod, his breathing less labored after his coughing fit. He looked like he was actually holding his breath.

“Where you told me to meet you. Sepah Square.”

“I said Baharestan Square.”

Oh dear. So he remembered some things, but not the details. He had his own version of reality, of the truth. It was so sad to see. She wanted to go back to Walter, to the safety of lobster rolls and uncomplicated histories, to Walter’s steady memory. “You don’t remember, it’s okay,” she murmured.

“The letters—”

The sound of clicking heels interrupted him. It was Claire; she walked in with a plastic bean-shaped tray filled with prescription bottles. “Mr. Batman, it’s time for your meds!” As she came closer, her face went red. Bahman was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, I’m interrupting. I can come back in a few—”

Roya got up. “I should go anyway. I really should go. My husband is waiting.”

“Stay,” Bahman said. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’ll come right back,” Claire said.

“No, Roya, you. Please. You stay. We have a lot to discuss.”

“My husband is waiting.”

“I’m beginning to see,” he whispered.

“Would you like lunch?” Claire asked her gently.

Roya stood there in her gray heavy-soled shoes. Seeing Bahman like this, with his mind half-gone, his memories jumbled up, his Parkinson’s and dementia, broke her heart. She wanted the boy she used to know, the boy who would save the world. To think that she still loved him! She was suddenly exhausted.

“The snow,” she finally said. “It’s coming down so fast. We have a long drive ahead of us. I can’t afford to wait. We don’t want the conditions to get dangerous.”

They had switched to English in front of Claire. That’s what you did in front of Americans. It was strange to hear him speak it. She wanted to hug him good-bye, hug him hello, hug him for forgetting, hug him for remembering a little, just hug him again.