“Khanom, that’s why if I ever get married, my hope is to find a decent orphan as my groom,” Kazeb chimed in.
Zari burst out with an approving laugh. “Good plan!”
Maman shook her head. “Roya Joon, you need to be respectful. Go and talk to Mrs. Aslan, you can’t ignore her.”
Roya wanted to stay in the familiar coziness of the kitchen with her mother and sister and Kazeb, enveloped in the scent of basmati rice and saffron, arranging elephant ear and tongue-shaped pastries onto plates and discussing the crispiness of the bottom-of-the-pot crunchy tahdig rice. It was strange to be in the role of soon-to-be-bride. As her mother arranged the pastries, Roya wondered how things had happened so fast. She and Bahman had danced their way out of the Stationery Shop and into Café Ghanadi and met each other’s families and gotten engaged almost in fast-forward motion, like the old Charlie Chaplin films shown on repeat at the cinema.
“Off you go!” Maman shooed her out.
Roya reluctantly walked back into the living room.
Bahman no longer fanned his mother. He now stood with a group of men including Baba, holding court. It was good to see him back to his old bold self. The subservient boy fanning his mother’s face had been hard to watch. Above the din of voices, Baba’s laughter rang out. He was clearly enchanted by his future son-in-law. Roya felt a surge of gratitude for Bahman: his energy, his kindness, his ability to delight his audience. Surely she could talk to his mother.
She made her way between the groups of guests to the far corner where Mrs. Aslan sat. She would be polite, she wouldn’t argue, she would dutifully listen to Mrs. Aslan complain about how hot it was in the room even as she sat there in a winter shawl.
As she approached Mrs. Aslan’s chair, Roya was surprised to see a man leaning over her. She couldn’t tell who it was; she could only see his back. He wore a crisp linen suit. Was he a relative? Bahman had told her how part of the reason his mother had such a hard time was that she was so alone. Her relatives were all down south and she did not see them much. Mrs. Aslan was isolated in Tehran, counting on only a few neighbors and a social network that, due to Mr. Aslan’s timidity and her own difficult personality, was scant.
Roya drew closer to Mrs. Aslan and the unidentified man. This time it looked like Mrs. Aslan’s complaint was about much more than the temperature of the room. She talked rapidly to the man, clutching her shawl with one hand and gesticulating with the other. She stopped when she caught sight of Roya and pursed her lips and motioned to the man. He turned around. “If it isn’t the young bride!”
Roya recognized the voice before the face. “Mr. Fakhri?”
She’d never seen him so sharply put-together. At his shop, he usually wore a simple shirt and comfortable pants and had a professorial look, but tonight he was all dressed up. He cleaned up well.
“Oh, girl, don’t look so surprised!” Mrs. Aslan sounded annoyed.
Roya blushed. The engagement party was for family and close friends. It wasn’t a big affair; it was in their home and was simply an opportunity to share pastries and tea with their closest circle. But Maman, in typical fashion, hadn’t been able to resist cooking a feast. To the traditional menu of pastries and tea, she had added her famous jujeh kebab chicken dish. Of course, she’d then had to make rice too, and white rice alone wasn’t enough, she’d said, she couldn’t not make the rice adorned with barberries, slivered almonds, pistachios, and orange rinds. “Manijeh Joon, it’s not a wedding, it’s just an engagement party!” Baba had protested. “I’m just making a little something!” Maman promised as she rushed around getting everything ready. “We don’t want to overdo it now, we may jinx it!” Baba had appealed to Maman’s superstition. “Don’t worry!” Maman had said, and Baba rubbed his face the way he did when he worried. Roya knew he was tallying up the cost of everything. He was always thinking of how they could make their budget: pay Kazeb, buy chicken and meat, purchase the fabric so their dresses could be on par with the other girls’. She thinks we’re not good enough, I know! She thinks her son can do better. She’s just one of those greedy women who want to climb the social ladder! She wants even more money, higher status.
“Come, girl, all the color has jumped from your face!” Mrs. Aslan had the irritated tone of one addressing an inferior.
“I just . . .” Roya stammered. She turned to Mr. Fakhri. “I’m just surprised to see you here.”
“I invited him. It is my son’s engagement party, after all. Or don’t I have the right to invite old friends?”
“You know each other?”
Mr. Fakhri laughed nervously. “My dear, it was in my shop, on my watch, under my bookshelves, with my pages surrounding you, that your romance began. You know that. That is all Mrs. Aslan means.”
Roya remembered how Mr. Fakhri had told her to exercise “severe caution” with Bahman that second time he’d come into the shop. Had he meant because of Bahman’s mother? This difficult woman who made her feel unwanted and second-best? Did Mr. Fakhri know that Shahla had been planned for Bahman? How did he even know Bahman’s mother?
“What a masterpiece you’ve conducted, indeed. Brought my son and this girl together, now didn’t you, Mr. Fakhri? Bravo! What a miracle-maker you are.” Mrs. Aslan snorted.
Beads of sweat formed on Mr. Fakhri’s forehead. “You give me far too much credit, Mrs. Aslan,” he said quietly. “I don’t have the miracle-making powers you claim.”
“Oh, aren’t you just so humble. Such a perfect gentleman! The kind who would harm no one, not one soul. Not . . . one . . . child,” Mrs. Aslan said slowly.
The scent of saffron rice wafted from the kitchen. They would eat soon. The guests would eventually leave. The engagement party would be over. She and Bahman would marry at the end of the summer. Mrs. Aslan would come around. She would get well. She had to get well.
“Take a bow!” Mrs. Aslan said shrilly. “Take your bow, Mr. Fakhri. Look at what you did!” She whirled her arm in a huge circle above her head. “You brought two young lovers together! How absolutely magical of you!”
Roya felt weak and sick. She was embarrassed to see Mr. Fakhri look so uncomfortable and defensive. And Mrs. Aslan’s sarcastic tone was off-putting and unsettling.
Then a slight breeze, like a fresh gust of wind. The particles of air around her shifted. Bahman was next to her. He had strode toward them, like a captain recognizing the warning signs of a sinking vessel. He put his arm around her waist, and suddenly Roya was on safer ground. Right in front of Mr. Fakhri and his mother, he pulled her close to him. She could smell the soap on his skin. She could feel the crispness of his white shirt against her arm.
“Is everything good here?” Bahman asked pointedly. “Mother? Everything all right?”
It was a warning as much as a question. Roya knew that Bahman did not want his mother to spoil this evening. His torso touched hers as they stood as a unit in front of Mrs. Aslan and Mr. Fakhri, protectively, daringly.
Mrs. Aslan slumped in her chair. The rouged cheeks looked more ridiculous than ever against her wan skin.
“I was just congratulating Mr. Fakhri, Bahman Jan. He changed the course of your life, he surely did! You could have had your pick of any number of beautiful, wealthy young women. You know I’ve had my eye on one in particular for so very long—she is the perfect match for you! But Mr. Fakhri and his books and papers came to the rescue and provided love. How quaint! The two of you, just like the characters in those books you read, the novels from the West. Artificial romance—”
“Mother, can I get you anything?” Bahman interrupted. His voice was strained. “Mother, can I please ask you to stop?”
“I am simply thanking Mr. Fakhri,” Mrs. Aslan continued, “for his services. He is so good at finding the right match for love. For him, love is what matters above all else. Mr. Fakhri would do anything for it. He is just so pure of heart.”
Mr. Fakhri stared at his shoes. He didn’t say a word.
“It is hard for me . . .�
� Mrs. Aslan’s voice faltered. “. . . to tolerate this. I cannot tolerate . . .” She gazed off into the distance. “Tolerate is all I’ve done.” Her voice choked up.
Bahman’s arm slipped from Roya’s waist. Something in the texture of the air had changed again. Bahman stepped away from Roya and knelt by his mother. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Perhaps I can get you more tea. Let me get you more tea.”
Mrs. Aslan tilted her head and brought her knitted black shawl to her face. She sobbed.
“Mother.” Bahman took her hand. “Oh, Mother.”
Most of the other guests were deep in conversation. The room was filled with their laughter. Roya envied them for their obliviousness to the scene in the corner. They did not have to bear Mrs. Aslan’s anger, the drama created by her presence. On this sinking ship, she, Bahman, and Mr. Fakhri were alone.
Bahman knelt in front of his mother and pulled her head to his chest. Roya and Mr. Fakhri stood frozen, spectators to a painfully private moment, as the mother sobbed into her son’s chest.
When Bahman got up, his white shirt was stained crimson. The red rouge his mother wore sat in splotches near his heart.
Roya wanted to take Bahman’s shirt and scrub it clean, scour off his mother’s stains. But she was paralyzed, numb.
“I’ll get more tea,” Mr. Fakhri finally said.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” Mrs. Aslan murmured.
“I won’t,” Mr. Fakhri said quietly. “You like your tea strong.”
With small, nervous steps, he moved away.
Mrs. Aslan tightened her shawl around her shoulders and looked at Bahman. “This place is too cold and the lights are all wrong.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” Bahman said softly. “I am just so sorry.”
Everyone went home, and the engagement party ended. Afterward, Maman burned incense to get rid of any jealous energy. She waved the fumes of incense over Roya’s head and muttered for the jealous eye to be blinded.
“Oh, don’t let them cheshm you, Roya Joon, give you the evil eye,” Zari said, even though she’d been quite vocal that she didn’t like the idea of Roya with Bahman from the very beginning. “There is nothing worse than the power of the evil eye. Jealous fools see that you’re happy and successful now with that boy, and then zap! They jinx it all. Watch out!”
Chapter Nine
1953
* * *
Tangled Tango Troubles
Roya’s life kept getting bigger, deliriously exhilarating. Just when she thought she had reached the cusp of something (for example, after she’d finished all the translations of Russian novels that Mr. Fakhri stocked in his shop), another exciting frontier came along. The country was awakening artistically with a new class of intelligentsia. The city blossomed with publishing, cinema, theater, literature, and art.
Now that they were engaged, she and Bahman could mix without chaperones and go out openly, even in the evenings, without worry.
Bahman’s friend Jahangir had a bona fide gramophone. He owned records from the East and the West. They started attending his social gatherings as a couple. At his parties, Roya heard songs in a foreign tongue that was so sexy it was sinister. So smooth, it softened hardship.
Jahangir’s dance soirees were on Thursday nights, the eve of the Friday holiday. His parents had access to all the latest gadgets, such as the gramophone. Bahman said that when his mother first found out that Jahangir’s family dripped with wealth, she’d greedily encouraged his friendship with him. Roya grimaced at this; Mrs. Aslan no doubt had been excited about the sophisticated, rich young ladies like Shahla who could be prospects for Bahman at Jahangir’s house.
“Bah bah, come in, come on in!” Jahangir hugged Roya and Bahman when they arrived. “Look!” he shouted to the other guests. “It’s the Perfect Couple! Do we know two more good-looking people? Just look at them! Tabrik! Congrats!”
Roya and Bahman’s engagement was shiny and fresh, their couplehood something to be celebrated. And based on the expressions of a few women in the crowd, something definitely to be envied.
“What’s on the menu for tonight?” Bahman asked.
“Tango, my friend!”
Roya couldn’t even make it to the table laid with goblets of crushed melon and ice. She and Bahman were surrounded. Bahman glowed with his usual charm as everyone jostled around him. Though Jahangir owned the gramophone and the music and the dance know-how, it was Bahman everyone wanted. With him, they practiced their first steps. For him, they flirted. Bahman had memorized the lyrics, in a language he did not speak, of Sinatra songs and Rosemary Clooney ballads. From being with him at other get-togethers since their engagement, Roya knew that if a part of the room grew quiet, if for a minute the conversation went stale, Bahman’s presence lit everything up again. It was hard not to be glued to his movements as he danced. Roya was well aware that she wasn’t alone in being enchanted by him. The girls laughed in high staccato near him, swooned when he told jokes.
“Come with me.” Bahman took Roya’s arm and pushed past everyone. He led her to the middle of the living room. A song for a waltz had just started. This she could do—it was one of the first dances Bahman had taught her, and she’d practiced with Zari for weeks. Zari had pulled Roya back and forth in their bedroom, scolding her when she made a mistake. Roya, remember. This isn’t our twirling hands/swaying hips Persian dance. This is serious. Concentrate! With Bahman’s instruction week after week and Zari’s forced practice, Roya’s confidence grew. Now she glided with Bahman across the room, inhaling his familiar scent.
“I need a drink,” she said when they finished.
He let her go.
At the refreshments table, Roya picked up a goblet of crushed melon-ice and a spoon. The sweet melon-ice filled her parched mouth. Suddenly there was a sharp tap on her shoulder.
She expected to see Bahman, but instead a tall, wavy-haired woman with olive skin and a movie-star mole above her lip (real or drawn on? If Zari were here, she would know) stared down at her. Shahla, the girl from the café.
“Thirsty?” she asked. Her voice was husky, coarse.
“Yes,” was all Roya could think to say. No hello, no introduction, no niceties.
“Well, you cast your net and caught him. Hoorah! He’s always been a slippery one. But somehow”—the girl studied Roya’s hair, her green dress—“somehow you did it. It’s mind-boggling.”
The melon and ice stayed in Roya’s cheek, frozen.
“To think, Jahangir didn’t want me to come tonight because he was worried it would upset Bahman or . . . you. Jahangir and I have been friends almost all our lives. Why should I not show up to his party? Besides, I had to see for myself up close what made Bahman such a lover boy. And now”—she looked Roya up and down again—“I get to see what the fuss is about.” Shahla looked down at Roya’s shoes. They weren’t the baby-doll shoes of her high school uniform. They were mules that had belonged to Maman: green suede with a small brass buckle on the side. “Please God, look!” Shahla shook her head, snorted, and then walked away.
“Everything good?” Bahman came over, face flushed from dancing. Roya hadn’t even noticed who he’d danced with after their waltz. She couldn’t stop people from being lured to his side. Men and women would always flock to him.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.
Roya cracked down hard with her teeth on the ice. “Nothing.”
Bahman glanced in the direction of the wavy-haired movie star look-alike, who had slinked to the other side of the room. “Please. Don’t worry about her. I saw her talk to you. I can’t believe she had the audacity to show up tonight. What did she say?”
Roya couldn’t speak.
He took the goblet from her hand and rested it on the table. He pulled her close and touched her neck. “Hey, Roya, come on. She’s nothing to me.” He kissed her forehead, right where Maman would claim her destiny was written in invisible ink. Shahla, wavy-haired and pouting from across the room, could not have mis
sed this kiss either.
“She can see you. Stop. Everyone can see you.”
“Good. Let them. I want”—he kissed her again—“to kiss you in front of the whole damn world.”
“Basseh, enough,” Roya said. But after the fourth kiss, after he was so close that she could feel the perspiration on his shirt, she had almost forgotten about Shahla.
The soirees and the dancing, the music and the women mixed with men, the songs from America and the dances, the crushed melon in ice-cold goblets sometimes spritzed with what she was sure must have been alcohol—all of this was an unexpected secret scene for her. Who knew that the boy who would change the world even knew how to dance? That he had this group of friends? That he was so close to the ever-popular wealthy playboy Jahangir?
“I hope they all writhe with jealousy,” Bahman said, and nuzzled his face into her neck.
“I think you just want to writhe.” Roya giggled.
“With you? Always. How much longer till we get married?” He gently kissed her throat.
“Now, you behave, mister. I am a virtuous girl,” she teased. But she let him feel the contours of her neck with his mouth.
He looked up then with his dark eyes twinkling—the eyes that had struck her as filled with joy that first day at the Stationery Shop. “I’m counting down the days till we can be together. Roya, I love you so much.”
They stood like that, face-to-face. His breath was warm. Her heart pounded against his chest.
“Well, you’re stuck with me!” she finally said.
“I want to be stuck so badly,” he groaned, and laughed.
She picked a piece of lint from his collar. “Now then. As the boy who would change the world, can you please be a role model in front of all these people?”
“Bacheha! Kids!” Jahangir lifted his arms into the air and wiggled his waist. “The time has come to taaaango!”
The Stationery Shop Page 7