The Stationery Shop(77)

She knew I waited for you at the square. She knew I was heartsick with worry over you. And when I read your last letter and told her in anger and confusion that you had said you wanted to see no more of me (how could I tell her that the letter said you couldn’t take her?), she laughed. She told me, “Good, I told you so, I told you that girl is no good,” and she promised to starve herself to death if I tried to reconcile with you, if I tried to get you back.

I was supposed to be the “boy who would change the world.” But life has a way of squashing dreams, plans, ideals. In the end, I barely served my country. I was an activist working to spread political material of the National Front, sure. In 1953 I was active. But how disillusioned I became with politics and all the rest of it after the coup in ’53. And I could barely rejoice as others did in 1979 to see the Shah gone. I was too worried that worse would follow. In the end, Jahangir did more than I did. He went to the front! He followed in his father’s footsteps and became a doctor. And he treated soldiers and the wounded in Ahvaz during the war. He died in a bombing. So no, during those weeks apart I was not in prison. I was not in hiding for political reasons. I was simply trying to keep my mother alive and figure out how to solve this problem of her threats, of her closeness to doing it all again, of our irreconcilable plans.

Remember how much you used to worry that we would be jinxed by the evil eye? I scoffed at it all being just superstition back then. But I look at the life I have lived without you, and who knows? Maybe there is something to our culture’s obsession with the evil eye. Look at what ended up happening with my mother.

Even after I received your last letter requesting that I never see you again, never contact you—I never stopped loving you. And I hate to think about the possibility there—was that really what you wrote? Because now I just don’t know.

And, my dearest Roya, when we met here at the center last week, I could see in your eyes a certain worry that maybe I had lost my mind or my memory. But please know this. I may not remember certain things—what I ate for lunch two days ago or which darn pill to take when. For that, I need Claire’s guidance. But my mind is sharp as a knife when it comes to remembering everything that happened that summer. When it comes to knowing my heart.

The truth is, Roya Joon, I was never as happy as when I was with you. So many wonderful moments with my children and, yes, with Shahla, but I was never as happy as I was with you. There have been years when you were the first thing I thought about when I woke up. Just about everything reminded me of you. Of course I knew you belonged to another, as did I. But, Roya, you have always been a part of me. Some things can’t be helped.

And now I find I must stop.

It is when I think of the purple sky on the evening of our engagement, and the moments we shared, that I remember beauty in this world. But after what has happened to our country, and really, when I look around at this modern world, I can’t help but think there is an ugliness, a streak of cruelty in all of it. I have tried to remain positive, as the Americans so encourage, I have attempted to not be one of those grumpy old men! Claire here at the Duxton Center has been good to me. She calls me “Mr. Batman.” She doesn’t tire of my stories. I have confided in her. Even told her about our young love. The moments of beauty and connection keep me going. I see my children and my grandchildren and I am happy. The rest of it—the politics, the mental illness that drowned my mother, the cruel twists and turns—well, there is a fetid underside to life sometimes. When I think that way is when I get the most hopeless.

I loved you. I loved you then, I love you now, I will always love you.

You are my love.

Bahman





Chapter Twenty-Nine


2013



* * *



Toothpaste Sheets

Roya found her phone and searched for the number of the center. Mrs. Aslan and Mr. Fakhri. A first baby who was never born. And then Mrs. Aslan’s body turned on her and killed all the others. Except for one.

She could see Mrs. Aslan, the rouge on her cheeks that night at the engagement party. She knew how the loss of one child could render everything broken. To have lost four? Oh, it was different times then, Sister, don’t you remember? People lost children all the time.

She had waited long enough, for goodness’ sake. No matter the snow, forget it. She had to go there again and see him face-to-face.

“You don’t have a lot of time, I’m afraid,” Claire said on the phone.

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s taken a turn for the worse, Mrs. Archer. His son and daughter have been here for the past two days.”

“But I saw him less than two weeks ago. I got his letter. . . .”

“He wrote that as if his life depended on it. He asked me to mail it. Look, sometimes these are just scares. Sometimes there are dips, the Parkinson’s flares up, and then he’s fine again. We’re hoping.”

“Oh.”

“But if you’d like to see him . . . well, I would come as soon as you can.”



When she got to the center, the ice had barely melted. Snow still covered every corner of the parking lot, only it was gray now and dull, its crevices filled with dirt.

Once inside, Roya expected Claire to take her to the dining hall. The same stink of beef stew filled the lobby. (Did they ever eat anything else for lunch over here?) She wanted Claire to lead her down the corridor to the dining hall to see Bahman in his wheelchair by the window. They had probably placed a plastic chair for her in the same spot. They could look out at the parking lot again, at the snow, even though it was gray and dingy now. She’d pull out the letter from her purse, and Bahman’s eyes would fill with that same damn hope, and she would talk to him about all the history she had not known until now.