The Stationery Shop of Tehran

The following Tuesday, Bahman disappeared. When she called his house, no one answered. When she knocked on the door, no one came out. Not a tired, wan Mrs. Aslan with rouge on her cheeks. Not a pleasing, generous Mr. Aslan asking her if she wanted tea. No one. Neighbors shrugged. One of them suggested they’d maybe gone to the North? To the sea? To escape the heat. That must be it. Just innuendos, just guesses, nothing clear.

After three days of no news from Bahman, Roya was weak with worry. Finally she broke down and went to the one place that had been at the center of it all: the Stationery Shop. She was afraid of what she might discover there—what Mr. Fakhri might know about political arrests. She had avoided going there at first, but now she had to know.

“My dear girl, are you not aware? Prime Minister Mossadegh has a lot of enemies. He wants to take our country forward, but foreign powers and our own two-faced traitors are trying to topple him. At any cost.”

“We’re engaged. Look, Mr. Fakhri, your kindness is not overlooked—we’ll always be grateful for how you helped us, how you let us . . . meet. But it was one thing when we came here before in secret. Now we’re getting married. At the end of the summer! Please, just tell me what you know. One of his neighbors told me he might have gone up north to be by the sea. But why wouldn’t he tell me? He would tell me, right?”

She was embarrassed to be so open and desperate with Mr. Fakhri. It was completely unbecoming. Zari would have a fit if she knew Roya was pleading so intently, practically begging for information. Roya had finally told her family that Bahman was missing. Baba, convinced that the Shah’s thugs had arrested Bahman, couldn’t sleep. Maman prayed for his safety holding the prayer beads of her tasbih, muttering Quran verses under her breath as she slid each bead to the other side.

“They’re rounding them up left and right, I know. Please tell me what you’ve heard.”

“Don’t worry yourself, my dear. These things are just quite complicated. You need to rest. Don’t worry—”

“Rest? He’s missing! Tell me, in a city like this where everyone is in everyone else’s business all the time, how is there no word about him or even about his father or his mother—”

“Everyone I talk to knows nothing! How could no one know a thing?” It wasn’t how a young woman should behave in front of an older man, raising her voice and making demands. But it nauseated her to think of Bahman in jail.

“His . . . family.” Mr. Fakhri’s face was pale. He quickly cleared his throat. “Are they all right? What have you heard?”

“Nothing! That’s why I’m asking you!” Roya had the sudden urge to hurl the nearest book at him. Why was he giving her the runaround, acting like he had no idea what she was asking about? She spoke again in a deliberate, calm voice. “I know a lot of the political activists come through here, Mr. Fakhri. We all know that your shop is a safe haven for the pro-Mossadegh people. That you disseminate the information from here for the National Front and even for some of the communist Tudehi groups. Please tell me what you know. I can take it. I can be discreet.”

“Okay then, young lady.” Mr. Fakhri was silent for a moment. His expression was hard to read. “Fine. Did you know the government police come here too? That not everything is easily said?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m telling you that you shouldn’t worry. Just . . . trust in God. God is big.”

Of course. She had been so blinded by her worry for Bahman that she’d completely overlooked the danger for Mr. Fakhri. She looked behind her, making sure no one else was present for this conversation. Spies could be anywhere. Was Mr. Fakhri on a watch list now? Had he been interrogated?

Mr. Fakhri leaned forward as though he was about to say something of great importance. Roya remembered her second encounter with Bahman—how Mr. Fakhri had leaned in and told her to practice “severe caution.” She forced herself to remain calm. She couldn’t lose his trust.

“My dear girl,” Mr. Fakhri whispered, “Bahman is . . . busy. That is all. And he cannot be seen romancing right now.”

Something changed in his composure; his intensity gave way. Mr. Fakhri looked around the shop with fear. Finally he sighed. “Bahman told me that anything you’d like to say to him can be said through letters.”

Her mind raced; she tried to think of all the possibilities that could warrant an exchange of letters. Why couldn’t they talk? He had to be in hiding to avoid arrest.

“You must know how to reach him?” She was walking on eggshells; she didn’t want to sound too forward. If he were to renege on his offer . . .

“Roya Khanom, how do you think a lot of young people who can’t call each other or see each other in this city get their messages across?”

“My young lady. It’s in the books. They give me their notes and I place them between the pages of the books. And when the next person comes to ‘buy’ a book, they receive the volume with the note inside it.”

Roya glanced around the shop, at the bookshelves filled with the volumes she loved so much. She’d had no idea that these books were used as vehicles of communication. That people placed notes inside them using Mr. Fakhri as a conduit. The shop she had loved, where she had spent so many afternoons in study and sanctuary, suddenly seemed slightly sinister. So it was not only a place where political material was secretly disseminated, but a hub of letter exchange as well?

Not wanting to lose her only potential strand of communication with Bahman, she took in a deep breath. “Of course. I appreciate it. I’ll have a letter for you tomorrow.”

When she walked out into the harsh sunlight, the city reeked of heat and worry. Talk of a coup had been circulating for a while; Bahman’s fear that the Shah’s forces could team up with foreign powers and overthrow the prime minister was now shared by many others. Wherever he was, Bahman had to be involved with activists trying to stop a coup. Maybe that meant he hadn’t been arrested; maybe he was just hiding. Surely Mr. Fakhri couldn’t transfer letters to him if Bahman was actually in prison. Of course, Mr. Fakhri knew more than he was letting on. It was absolutely clear. But for some reason he was holding back. Fine. At least she could write to him. At least she had that.

She composed her letter on a tablet of paper she’d bought in Mr. Fakhri’s shop, blue ink from her fountain pen filling the page with words of longing. She had endless questions. Sometimes she couldn’t help but write in a certain rhythm, a rhythm that someone kind (unlike her senior-year literature teacher, Mrs. Dashti) might call poetry.

The next day, when she gave the letter sealed in an envelope to Mr. Fakhri, he promised he’d get it into Bahman’s hands. He said it with a worried sigh, as if he was doing all of this against his will.

Mr. Fakhri shook his head and mumbled something about young love and “flagrant acts of hope.” But he took her envelope.

When she went back to the shop a few days later, a few men in bowler hats and black pants lingered inside. She worried that they could be undercover hired spies for the Shah’s forces. Mr. Fakhri handed her a copy of Rumi’s book of poetry with a formal smile. She took it, exited, and walked for a few blocks with a heart that felt like it would explode; then and only then did she dare open the book.

In its pages, nestled tightly inside, was an envelope. She held on to it so hard that her knuckles hurt. Then she placed it back inside the book, not daring to open it in the street and read its contents in public, as if doing so were somehow illegal. She would have to wait until she was alone.

She clutched the book to her heart all the way home. But of course, the minute she got home, Zari complained that her fingers were tired from peeling all the eggplants as Roya gallivanted in the streets. That Roya never did her fair share of the work. Kazeb, the housemaid, eyed Roya suspiciously, her headscarf askew, her face sweaty from the eggplant-peeling, which apparently was the chore for the afternoon. Maman motioned for Roya to sit on an overturned bucket in the kitchen, and together they all finished peeling the eggplants, slicing them, salting them, rinsing them, drying them, frying them. Baba loved this dish, and at dinner that night he marveled at what cooks they all were. The more he talked about the eggplants and only the eggplants, the more Roya knew he was worried about Bahman and trying to cover up his anxiety. And she could not wait for dinner to be over so she could go to the room she shared with Zari, wait for her sister to fall asleep, and finally open and read Bahman’s letter.

When they were in their nightgowns, after Zari had wrapped sections of her hair with newspaper strips, Roya itched for her sister to snore away. But Zari was in a talkative mood. “All this eggplant peeling is ruining my hands. Look at my skin, Roya. Just look at it. It’s all raw and getting coarse. I can’t stand it.”

“Your hands are fine,” Roya mumbled. Please, just let Zari sleep so she could read the letter.

“No thanks to you, Roya! Where were you this afternoon anyway? Kazeb and I had to do almost all the peeling. It’s not fair. Just because you’re a bride-to-be—” Zari stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about him. You were so quiet at dinner tonight. I know that all you do is think about Bahman. But you have to admit . . . you just have to agree that—”

“That maybe it’s fate that Bahman skedaddled. Maybe you just can’t expect much more from someone so obsessed with the prime minister. He is probably planning some political intrigue in hiding. Who knows? Perhaps we were all dumb to think he’d go against his mother and just marry you.” Zari crossed her arms. “It could be he just couldn’t do it, Roya. I hate to say it. But it could be. Roya?”

Roya didn’t say much; she just listened as her sister droned on. When Zari got on one of her rants, it was best to ignore her. She didn’t want to prolong the conversation. She just wanted to read the letter. Zari didn’t know that Bahman had written to her!

“Change the world, my foot! It was foolishness supreme to think he’d stand up to his mother like that. But don’t worry, Sister! At least now you won’t have Mrs. Aslan chipping away at your soul for the rest of your life. Right?”

Finally, when her sister’s breathing had relaxed and Roya was sure she was asleep, she got out of bed, and sat down by the window to read Bahman’s letter by moonlight. She opened the envelope with great care, as though the words inside could break or tumble out of order if she didn’t handle the letter correctly.

My dearest Roya,

When I got your letter, I thought I’d die of happiness. God, I miss you so much. I can’t think, I can barely eat. I’ve wanted to crawl out of my skin these past few days. It feels like I haven’t seen you for years. I am sorry that I had to leave so suddenly. I wish I could tell you why—I will one day. For now, please know that I am fine, that you need not worry. I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can. It’s just complicated right now and I have to figure it all out, to find a way. I can’t wait till you’re in my arms again.

I was so relieved to get your letter! Tell your parents not to worry about me. I’m fine, I promise. I hope Zari isn’t torturing you too much.

You are in everything I see. In every moment, you are with me, Roya Joon.

In the hopes of seeing you again—the sooner the better.

You are my love.

Bahman

She ran her fingers across the letter, willing his scent to rise from the paper, wanting part of him to sink through the pads of her fingers. She had only seen his handwriting once before, the inscription he’d written inside the notebook he’d given her as a gift for the new year. Seeing his handwriting again felt like holding a piece of him. In each stroke, with each curve and dip of the letters on the page, she could feel him. And when she read the letter over and over and over again, his voice was inside her.

Naturally her response was effusive and filled with longing. She tended to be more reserved in what she said even when they were alone together. But somehow on paper, she was able to say what she’d had trouble saying in person. She could be just as loving. But she also could be direct; she could ask him difficult questions. Where are you? she wrote. Why can’t I see you?

When she handed the letter to Mr. Fakhri the next day, she felt naked. But the envelope was sealed. Besides, surely Mr. Fakhri had better things to do than read the sweet nothings of two teenagers. She thought of her words being placed inside the pages of a Persian poetry book, hugged by the verses of the ancients. Their love was safe there. In a way, it belonged there. She tried to imagine one of Bahman’s friends or a fellow activist coming into the shop, picking up the book, then delivering it to Bahman, wherever he was.

Until his next letter arrived, she was restless, distracted, preoccupied. She walked into walls, stared into space; nothing could shake her thoughts of him. Only when she received a reply was she temporarily at peace. To read his words, to see the strong script of his hand, the way he made his Farsi n so confident and intense, the way his lines sloped slightly upward at the end . . . It felt like hearing him, to hold that thin sheet of paper in her hand.

More and more frequently, the government police came to the Stationery Shop. Unlike just a few months ago, it was no longer a haven of privacy. A policeman or two lingered by the stacks of books—at first randomly, and then, it seemed, consistently. They watched who bought whose speeches. They took note of customers asking for pro-Mossadegh works, and they especially paid attention when anyone wanted anything Marxist. Mr. Fakhri looked beleaguered and tired. Like anyone being watched by government agents, his movements were self-conscious, his words robotic. He would still select for Roya works by the best writers and would still make sure that she got her weekly dose of poetry. But he was distracted and preoccupied now. Roya no longer lingered in the shop. She took her book from Mr. Fakhri in as natural a way as possible, careful not to show that she knew the volume contained not just the author’s words, but Bahman’s. Then she ran outside and waited for a time to be completely alone to read his words.

My dearest Roya,

I think of you all the time—every single day, every night. Truth is there are no times when you are not on my mind, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. One day we’ll look back on this separation and laugh. I can’t wait till it’s all behind us. Everywhere I see your beautiful face. If you are worried about me, please know I am safe, healthy, I only lack you, which means that I lack everything, of course. I am counting down the days, Roya Joon. Things are just a little difficult now. And the prime minister, his administration, it’s all in jeopardy, but we will be the ones who’ll look back on this time in history with pride. We are cementing our future in democracy. And here I go again, I know you don’t like it when I speak too much of politics. Well, then, let me tell you that I can’t wait to be married.

I dare to dream of our children.

I have it all planned out. I should be back in a few weeks.

In the hopes of seeing you again—the sooner the better.

You are my love.

Bahman

Chapter Ten