The Stationery Shop(78)

But Claire led her down another hall entirely. It was the color of every hospital corridor she’d ever seen, the color of the place where she’d held Marigold one last time. She used all her effort to put one foot in front of the other. By the time they got to the room where Claire entered, Roya was sweating. She should have taken off the down coat she wore.

It was dark inside the room, the drapes drawn. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a bed, a chair next to it, a nightstand with a vase, a table in the corner by a sink. And in the bed lay Bahman, his breath like a broken machine.

“Let me help you with your coat.” Claire pulled off one sleeve and then the other, and together they removed Roya’s puffy coat. Roya made her way to the chair by the bed and sat down. She was so close to Bahman that she could now see the lines around his mouth. His eyes were closed. There were no plastic tubes coming out of his nose. He wasn’t hooked up to volumes of liquid; he was fully there, her Bahman. He had to be fine.

“I’ll be right in the lobby if you need anything. Just press the buzzer by the bed and I’ll be here instantly. But, Mrs. Archer?”

“Yes?”

“Take your time.”

“Oh,” was what she said. But what she really wanted to say was: Why is he in this bed and not in his chair, and please don’t leave.

When the click of Claire’s heels receded, Roya was once again alone with him. His chest rose and fell under a white sheet and a blanket the color of turnips. She wanted to open the drapes, let light into the room.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said. He opened his eyes. “How was your drive? How are you?” His voice was small, hoarse.

“It was all good. What happened, Bahman? What happened to you?”

“I’m just fine. Hanging in there, as the Americans say. My daughter was here this morning. She’s coming back tonight.”

Roya should have come sooner. She thought of him writing his letter to her. All those confessions. Suddenly none of it mattered. Someone had changed their letters when they were young. Whether it was Mr. Fakhri because of Mrs. Aslan, as Bahman seemed to suspect, or even Shahla or Jahangir, she might never know. She wanted him only to know that she, too, had days where he was the very first person she thought of, days where she had wanted nothing more than to be with him. Something had happened when they were young, something inexplicable and irreversible. They were bound, attached to each other in a way that was impossible to fight. She had loved him and her love for him had never quite stopped. She had tried to push it down, hide it, make it disappear. But it was always there. It floated in the branches of the trees outside her California college boardinghouse, it was in the layers of the clouds in New England, it had been in the red puffed-up chest of a bird that sang in winter. It was everywhere. Still.

“Bahman?”

His breathing had slowed. She took in the stubble on his face, the lines on his forehead.

“I missed you. Every single day,” he said.

“I missed you too.” As she said it, tears ran down her cheeks. She pulled her chair as close as possible to the bed and took his hand. It was dry and felt smaller than when she’d held it two weeks ago. A scent of pungent soil, a puddle of rain, came from the vase of flowers on the nightstand, like something forgotten.

She stood up. She balanced herself on her left foot and then with everything she had, she hoisted herself up onto the bed. His eyes widened when she lay next to him. She put her arm across his body. They fit perfectly next to each other. How natural this felt, to lie beside him. She nuzzled her head into his shoulder.

“Roya Joon.”

The sheets smelled like toothpaste. He smelled like the wind, like water and salt, like all their time together when they were young.

In a parallel universe, the boy who had first shown her what it meant to fall in love, who promised he would wait for her, would have always been hers. She was in the bed in the center and she was pressed against the bookshelves for stolen kisses. She was in both places all the time. He would always be right there.

She held him under the toothpaste sheets and, too, in the pastry shops of a city long changed as they went through the lobby of Cinema Metropole with its red circular sofas to kiss under the sky. Before she knew it they were in Jahangir’s living room, familiar patterns of navy-blue and white geometric shapes on the Persian rug as they practiced their dance steps. “Look at me.” Bahman raised her chin gently. He interlaced his fingers with hers. The gramophone had a huge brass funnel through which tango music filled the room. Bahman could not have known what to do, how did he know what to do, but he took charge. Their movements were clumsy at first; they couldn’t get their feet in sync. Couples around them danced as perspiration trickled down her spine. He held the small of her back; they caught the rhythm and then were one. It felt as though he carried her as they moved together in that hot living room. The music settled into the folds of Roya’s green dress, landed in her hair. She was drunk on his scent. Together they swayed, their bodies against each other. He guided her face to his and kissed her. She thought it would have felt like flying, but no, it was like landing. In a place soft and sweet.

In the bed, beneath the toothpaste sheets, Roya stroked his chest, searched for his arms, the muscles she had known so well. She kissed his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips. She pressed her cheek against his heart and lay there, grateful for the time she’d had with him, however short or long it had been, grateful she had known him, grateful that once, when she was young, she had experienced a love so strong that it did not go away, that decades and distance and miles and children and lies and letters could never make it disappear. She held him in her arms and said to him all she needed to say.