The Stationery Shop(8)

She was alone with him. She was alone with him in this shop, and suddenly the sanctuary held the possibility of absolutely changing everything.

“What’s your favorite book?” he asked quickly.

“I don’t have one.”

“Oh, it’s just that . . . I assumed you loved to read.”

“I do. I mean I don’t have just one. Too many.”

He grinned and his face, still red, opened up a little.

“Mr. Fakhri tells me you want to change the world.” She walked toward him, aware of jumping off a cliff, surprised that she was putting one foot in front of the other. She stopped when she was just an arm-length’s away. His khaki pants, the flop of hair on his head, the continued redness of his face blared.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Bahman looked down at the floor.

“But you’re siasi, political, no?”

He looked up, surprised. “Is there anyone in this country who isn’t?”

“I’m not,” she half lied.

“You have to be political. Especially now.”

“Well, I don’t like it. All the arguments. The demonstrations.”

“It’s all we have. We have to stay involved. We can’t let them oust Prime Minister Mossadegh. . . .”

“You believe those rumors? That he’ll be overthrown?”

“I’m worried about it, yes. Foreign powers could do it. Or our own countrymen, traitors in our midst, it’s a growing—” He stopped. “I won’t bore you with this.”

“I’m used to it. My baba says much the same thing.”

Bahman smiled. “He does?”

“Oh, yes. I get my fill.”

He didn’t say anything. His eyes were locked with hers. They just stood facing each other. It unnerved her to be under his gaze and yet it thrilled her. They could not touch. They must not touch.

“You love to read, I know. You love poetry and novels,” he said softly.

“How do you know?”

“Every Tuesday, I see you. You love that aisle.” He nodded toward the area where Mr. Fakhri kept the translations of foreign novels.

“Oh, you come here every Tuesday? I didn’t notice!”

He laughed. And when he did, his face opened up entirely. His eyes carried the laughter; they filled with a kindness that was breathtaking. “I’ve come here on other days. You’re never here. Only on Tuesdays.”

“That’s the only day I can come,” she said.

“What are you doing the rest of the time?”

“Studying.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She gazed at him steadily. “My father wants me to become a scientist. Or a published writer . . . like Helen Keller.” She mumbled the last part.

“And you?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you want?”

It was an absurd question. Roya wasn’t sure if anyone had ever asked her that. Wasn’t it enough that she had such a supportive father, so progressive in his championing of his daughter? Wouldn’t a pro-Mossadegh activist like him be impressed? “My parents want me to finish school and go to university to become a scientist, most likely.”

“And what would you do if you could do what you want?”

The audacity of the question threw her. “I would . . . I would listen to my father. My mother . . .”

He came closer. A mixture of musk and a windy scent made her feel like she might fall. Then he reached out and took her hand. She had never felt a boy’s hand before. He wrapped his fingers around hers, and Roya’s heart jumped. His touch startled her and yet was strangely comforting.

“You love novels. I’ve seen you.”

“So?”

“So, read them. As much as you want.”

How many times had Maman told her she’d bleed her eyes out for reading so much? How often had Zari thrown her books off the bed as she swore she’d never met anyone who burrowed her face into books like this, it would ruin her posture, by God it would? How many times had Baba preached the importance of studying for a serious profession in this world, and if one couldn’t be a scientist and chose to read books instead, then one had better produce books like that Keller woman?

“Unless you really want to be a scientist or a writer. In which case, then of course do that. Do what you want.”

The worrying, striving feeling that overpowered her in school and at home evaporated a bit. She wanted to hear more, talk to him, not let go.

The bell jangled and Mr. Fakhri swooped in, out of breath, his hat askew. When he saw them, his face flushed. He looked away, cleared his throat, and they dropped their hands as though they had been burned, as though they were both holding a ball of fire. It felt like she’d been caught stealing. But even though her hand dropped to her side, even though she looked hard at her shoes, mumbled, “I have to go,” and hurried out, she knew that she would come back to this shop forever and ever, despite what Mr. Fakhri or anyone else might think. The contact was irreversible, irreparable, and she did not want to take it back.





Chapter Four


1953



* * *



Chained

In the dusty, cool space of that shop filled with books and fountain pens and ink bottles, they continued to meet. The unwanted boys appeared at every street corner, but the one Roya actually felt charged by was only to be seen on Tuesday afternoons at the Stationery Shop. He asked her things like what she thought about Saadi’s Golestan poems. Roya was surprised at her own solid answer. Her voice came out a lot more confident and stronger than she’d thought it would. Before long (because it did not take very long when Roya was seventeen and in Iran and simply dreaming of bigger things), she was convinced that he was the most intelligent boy she had ever met and possibly the best-looking.