1953
Love: How It Tangles
Look at love
How it tangles
With the one fallen in love
Look at spirit
How it fuses with earth
Giving it new life
Roya read Rumi’s poem again and waited for Bahman to show up. He hadn’t missed a single Tuesday at the Stationery Shop since that first time when he’d burst in. It had made for a winter filled with anticipation, conversation, excitement. When did you fall in love, Sister? Tell me. He recited a word from a poem and that was it?
Of course not, Roya told Zari. It wasn’t one word, one moment. That kind of thing only happened in American films, didn’t she know?
Roya wanted wholeness, she wanted warmth, she wanted escape and comfort. The Stationery Shop and its books gave her that. Then Bahman filled it with his presence. But if she had to determine a day when she actually fell in love beyond repair, it was the seventh Tuesday. That day signaled winter’s end. It was the kind of day when the chill and frost and dispirit of the season gave way to the promise of blooms and greenery and new beginnings. It was a day ready to rupture. The whole country was gearing up to celebrate the first day of spring: Persian New Year.
Mr. Fakhri flitted about the shop on that seventh Tuesday with hyper-eagerness and nervous energy, helping mothers buy New Year’s gifts for their children, wrapping sets of pens, ringing up customers with an effusive and heartfelt “May you always feel joy and live long!”
“A present for my son,” a woman purred, “he did so well on his report card and he loves to read.” The pride on her face made Bahman smile—Roya caught him. Another man bought colored pencils that Mr. Fakhri bunched together like flowers in a bouquet and wrapped with green ribbon. Poetry collections were, of course, the hottest item—the thirst for Persian poetry was bottomless, as always. Roya and Bahman steered clear of each other as the crowd in the shop swelled after school. He focused on the political treatise being featured as a pamphlet near the counter; she stayed in the back, by the translations of foreign novels.
And then, as quickly as the crowd had descended, it dissipated. Books bought, presents selected, advice gotten—the customers scattered, and there they were, the two of them, engrossed in their own private browsing but of course each aware of the other, feeling nothing if not the presence of each other. Mr. Fakhri closed his cash register with a loud clang.
“My goodness, they are shopping lots for Nowruz these days. Did all the children in this town get such good report cards to deserve so many presents for the New Year?”
Roya and Bahman remained quiet in their safe parts of the shop.
“Now then!” Mr. Fakhri looked around as if he were speaking to a huge audience. “A shopkeeper can’t complain about the sales, but I should get this cash to the bank.”
Neither Roya nor Bahman moved.
“I was thinking of stepping out, might have to close the shop, then.”
“I’ll be here,” Bahman said quietly.
“Pardon?”
“I can be here. If a customer comes, I will tell them you’ll be right back.”
“Oh.” Mr. Fakhri looked at Bahman and then uneasily at Roya.
Roya sensed Mr. Fakhri’s discomfort. She was petrified at the idea of being alone with Bahman. Of course she couldn’t be alone with him. “I need to go home now. Have a good day, Mr. Fakhri!”
“Well, if you are leaving . . . yes, Roya Khanom, have a wonderful day!” Mr. Fakhri looked relieved. He glanced at his watch again. “Bank’s about to close. I don’t have much time. Thank you, Bahman Jan. I’ll take you up on that offer.” Mr. Fakhri grabbed his coat and hat and looked pointedly at Roya. “Good-bye, Roya Khanom. Get home safely. Before it’s too late.” He pressed the black chapeau onto his head. “Bahman Jan, I’ll be back soon.” He rushed out, and Roya followed him to the door.
“Stay.”
Bahman’s voice was clear, certain.
“Good-bye.” She stopped just short of the door. Her back was to him. She could see Mr. Fakhri disappear down the street.
“Please stay.” His voice sounded less certain now.
She turned to tell him why she couldn’t possibly stay. But when she saw him, she could barely breathe. He looked nervous. His face was red, although his expression was kind.
She would leave. She had a lot to do. Maman and Zari needed help getting the house ready for the New Year. All that spring-cleaning. Lots of dusting, endless beating of carpets, vinegar-washing of the windows. There was no possible way she could stay here alone with this boy.
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.