The door slammed.
Roya only looked at her hands as she sat on the sofa. Her whole body shook. Bahman had warned her, he had told her about his mother’s illness—how she descended into rages, how she could not control her moods. She would have to please this mother-in-law for decades to come, but even now it seemed she could do nothing right in Mrs. Aslan’s eyes. Mr. Aslan looked like he had been kicked by a horse. They had pretended for a while to be normal and to have tea and to visit in the traditional way. But Mrs. Aslan had made zero pretense of liking Roya, and now she had rushed out in panic and anger. What was this illness, this “mood monster that takes her over,” as Bahman had once described it? Mr. Aslan was constantly trying to make up for his wife’s rudeness. Now he offered Roya another glass of tea, another piece of baklava. When Roya said no thank you, Mr. Aslan closed his eyes and leaned back, assuming the pose many Iranians took when they were about to recite the ancient Persian poets.
For a minute, Mr. Aslan remained in this position, breathing deeply. Then he got up too. “Excuse me,” he said with a slight bow. His eyes were teary. “I’ll be right back.”
Roya watched him shuffle out of the room. She stayed seated on the couch next to Bahman, next to the son of these parents who were so different from any other couple she had met, who seemed so very far-gone and alone.
When his mother acted this way, when her rage took over and she abandoned the niceties of social etiquette, Bahman changed. He became quiet, deflated.
The sound of Mrs. Aslan’s sobs landed like bullets against the closed bedroom door.
Roya squeezed his hand. “It doesn’t bother me,” she lied. “It cannot be helped.”
The muffled sound of Mr. Aslan comforting and cajoling his wife came through.
Bahman didn’t say anything. He just looked straight ahead. After a few minutes that felt endless, he quietly rested his head on Roya’s shoulder. She felt his cheek even through the tiny stitches on the seam of the blouse that Maman had sewn. He burrowed his face into her. It was as though he wanted to disappear.
Roya kissed his head, stroked his hair. She would save him from this.
When Mr. Aslan finally came back, he looked depleted. “Now!” he said in a tone of forced cheer. “Who would like another tea?”
Babies die rang in Roya’s ears.
Bahman stood up and went to the kitchen to bring more tea. It was all for her sake, this charade of holding the edges together. Of keeping the door shut to Mrs. Aslan’s room, of pretending that her sobs did not continue. Bahman came back with fresh tea from the samovar, the glasses balanced on a silver tray. He was used to this, to getting tea, navigating the kitchen, serving, possibly even cooking. Women’s work. He and his father did more of it than any men Roya had ever seen. The woman in their house was ill. Father and son picked up the pieces, picked up the slack. They made sure the house functioned. Bahman had told her that any servant who was hired to help was eventually fired by his mother—she could not take their gall, their presence. She did not get along with the help. It was better this way, he said. They were a private family; better for others not to be exposed to her moods anyway. As he stood with the tray of tea now, it was clear he would have preferred to protect Roya from this embarrassment of emotion, this lack of control.
Bahman carefully placed the tray on the table.
It would be worth it. She would accept his mother, do her best to get along with her. For this boy, she would do anything.
Chapter Eight
1953
Engagement Party
Their engagement party was on a summer evening in July, several weeks after Roya and Bahman had both graduated from high school. Maman and Baba had invited family and close friends to their home for the celebration. Maman and the girls worked for hours in the kitchen, cooking and preparing. On the day of the party, Kazeb, a woman they sometimes hired to help with the housework, came over to go shopping with Zari for last-minute items while Roya and Maman focused on the star main dish: jeweled rice.
By the kitchen sink, her brown hair up in a bun, her kind, round face damp from exertion, sleeves rolled up so her chubby arms were visible, Maman cleaned the zereshk. These small dried barberries would be nestled into the basmati rice when the dish was done. Roya stood next to her mother and inhaled her familiar lemony scent. She helped her pick out any pieces of dirt or tiny stones from the barberries and then watched her put the dried berries in a small sieve and rinse them.
“Do you think it will be different, Maman?” Roya asked.
Maman put the sieve in a bowl of cold water to soak.
“What will?”
“Us. You and me.” Much as Roya yearned for a new life with Bahman, it was strange to think of the changes ahead. Would this house with its white lace curtains and kitchen so meticulously organized still feel like her home? Would everything change? Would she still be able to joke with Zari and be one of the family like before?
Maman sighed. “This is what was intended, Roya Joon. Girls grow up. They marry and move out.” She pulled the sieve of barberries out of the bowl of water and shook it several times over the sink. “Would I want you to be living in this house with me till the day I die? I cannot lie. There are selfish moments when the idea of my children never leaving my side seems fine by me! But of course you need to start your own life. You have your own future. May you and Bahman have a long and happy life together, inshallah, God willing.”
A long and happy life together. The ground would shift in so many exciting and scary ways when she and Bahman got married at the end of the summer. Maman handed the sieve to Roya and Roya laid the barberries on a kitchen towel, patted them dry, and scattered them onto a big plate—all movements she’d mastered with Maman’s guidance over the years. But this time she was keenly aware that though she was cooking with Maman like always, it was for an event that would take her further away from her mother.
“We’ll still be close. You’ll only be forty minutes away, Roya Joon!” Maman laughed as if she could read her mind. “We can see each other every day, if you like. If you don’t get tired of your maman.”
Roya and Bahman had decided to lease a few rooms in a house with levels for rent conveniently located near his parents’ home. That way Bahman could still keep an eye on his mother in her volatile state. The new rooms were a bit far from the newspaper office where Bahman would start working in the fall, but he could take the bus to work. Eventually they would get a bigger place of their own, of course, but this would be a good stepping-stone. Roya was so relieved that Bahman had said no to their staying at his parents’ home; it was a common custom for newlyweds to start married life in the groom’s parents’ house. But Bahman insisted that he didn’t want Roya to feel like a caretaker to his mother, and that he and his father could handle it all as long as they lived close by.
Maman wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “In this new stage of life, with your husband’s blessing, of course, you can decide your next steps. Many will expect you to stay home and have babies, and that is a fine path too. Or if you like, you can try pursuing at least for a bit the science studies your father so cherishes?” Maman slit open a sack of rice and poured the grains into a large bowl. The grains clinked against the sides and landed in a mound inside.
Baba and his lectures. Madame Curie! Roya took the rice and filled the bowl with water to get the extra starch out. “I know he was so excited and proud of us for even having the option to study science. But it was never what I . . .”
“Wanted to solely study?” Maman finished the sentence for her. Maman’s hair shone in the sunlight that came through the kitchen window. A few strands of gray were visible in the light. “My daughter who loves her novels. Who loves to read. You will figure it all out, Roya Joon. Baba is so happy for you, as you know. He loves Bahman.” She stroked Roya’s cheek. “You will always be my baby. Forty minutes is nothing.”
Roya finished washing the rice and set down the bowl. Together they woul
d slightly sauté the barberries in a pan. They would take chicken pieces and sprinkle them with salt, pepper, and turmeric and roast them till they were golden brown. They would boil the rice and drain it and pour it back in the pot with a cloth under the lid to catch the steam. Together she and Maman would drizzle lime juice and dissolved saffron over the roasted chicken pieces and arrange them on platters. They would chop up pistachios and sliver almonds with a knife and add the pistachios and almonds to the cooked rice. They would fold in a few curly orange rinds that Maman had dried in the sun. For her engagement party, they would serve a dish actually worthy of a wedding. It was a time of joy. Of new beginnings. Maman was right. Roya could come by anytime to say hello, ask for advice, sit with her in the kitchen and drink tea.
Zari and Kazeb came in, talking loudly as they carried large pink boxes of pastries.
“These are so heavy; my back won’t recover for a while!” Zari plopped the boxes onto the kitchen table. She took a look at Roya. “What’s wrong with you? Why the serious face? Aren’t you excited?” Zari’s tone was slightly taunting but also concerned.
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You aren’t nervous?”
“A little. But a mother will still—” She meant to tell Zari that Maman had reassured her they would still remain close.
That was all Zari needed to take the baton and run. “It’s his mother getting you down, isn’t it? 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. Right? She’s thinks Baba’s job as a government clerk is beneath their family. She looks down on us!”
“Zari, enough!” Maman said.
“No, really. How will you put up with her?” Zari asked Roya.
“I love him.”
“She was against your engagement! Doesn’t that tell you something? Is that really what you want? To be married to someone whose mother hates you?”
“Enough with the dramatics, Zari. Please,” Maman said.
Zari sucked in her lips but went on: “How naïve you are sometimes, Sister! His mother has done nothing but try to sabotage you. Sons are putty in their mothers’ hands. This son more than most. ‘Oh, what can I get you, Mother? Oh, do you want another tea, Mother? Oh, let me get that for you, Mother!’ ”
“That’s what good sons do!” Maman said.
“To this extent?”
“Yes!” Roya said. “And anyway, she finally agreed, didn’t she? So it’s not as if she’s against us marrying now.”
“Just be careful, basheh, okay?”
“Zari.” Roya lowered her voice and looked around as if about to divulge a difficult secret. “She is not well.”
It was only when Roya had met Mrs. Aslan a few times that she realized Bahman compensated for his mother’s fragile state by trying to be everything to her and the family. It was as though his competence and kindness and generosity were in direct response to his mother’s lack of those qualities. He met his mother’s pit of nerves with steadiness. Where she was unkind and rude, he was generous and forgiving. His mother’s fragility seemed to create in him the need to suck everything he could from life and to be strong. Was that why Mr. Fakhri said he was the boy who would change the world? Roya had always thought it was because of his activism for Prime Minister Mossadegh. But maybe it was because seeing his mother trapped by the whims of her illness, isolated in her house most of the time, unable to converse well with others or navigate social situations effectively, drew from Bahman an ever-stronger desire to stamp his mark on life. To steer his own ship, right wrongs, “change the world,” as Mr. Fakhri put it.
“Look, Zari. There are things about Mrs. Aslan that you just don’t know. So maybe you can be a little more considerate. Just leave it be. You don’t know the whole story,” Roya whispered in the kitchen.
“I know about her crazy moods. Who doesn’t! That’s no secret!”
Roya put down her spatula, defeated.
Roya, Maman, and Baba stood in a row near the entrance, smiling and greeting each guest as they arrived. Aunts and uncles, close friends and relatives came in with flowers and pastries, congratulated Roya and her parents, and made themselves comfortable around the living room. The women sat, chatted, and drank tea on one side while the men stood in groups on the other, tea glasses in hand. Roya had expected Bahman and his parents to be the first to get there, but they were late. Where was he?
Finally the door opened and a worn-looking Bahman came in, leading his mother by the arm. His father looked ravaged as he shuffled in behind them.
“Sorry to be so late,” Bahman greeted Maman and Baba, then kissed Roya on the cheek. Roya was shocked by the gesture. They were engaged, yes, but it still felt forward and bold. Displays of affection like this in front of elders were disrespectful. But her body grew warm from the kiss and she softened.
“Is everything all right?” she whispered.
“We just had some . . . trouble,” Bahman mumbled.
Trouble meant his mother. Mrs. Aslan must have been in one of her moods. “Fragile and forceful” was how Bahman had described her once.
Roya stiffened as her future mother-in-law approached her in a black blouse, black skirt, and thick black stockings. On a beautiful summer evening! Most of the other women were dressed in light colors: Maman shone in an elegant turquoise dress. Zari wore pink, just like the Hollywood movie stars she so admired. Roya had slipped on the green dress that Maman had sewn for the occasion. But Mrs. Aslan looked like she was attending a funeral. She even clutched a dark knit shawl around her shoulders. Two circles of rouge stood out on her cheeks. She smelled of a cloying, flowery perfume.
Maman did not approve of makeup. She derided women who needed “war paint” to prove their beauty. As Zari toiled in front of the mirror putting newspaper strips in her hair to create perfect waves, Maman would lecture, saying, “Beauty should speak for itself. No need to edit God’s work.”
“Some of us need to edit, Mother,” Zari would retort. “Some of us have to help him out.”
“Oh dear, Mrs. Aslan, aren’t you hot in that shawl?” Maman asked gingerly, and nudged Roya. “Roya Joon, take Mrs. Aslan’s shawl for her.”
Before Roya could take it, Mrs. Aslan tilted one rouged cheek, then the other, for Roya to kiss.
The pasty rouge on her future mother-in-law’s face tasted like withered roses. Roya withdrew her face and reached for the shawl. But her hand was met by a dry and brittle slap. “Don’t!” Mrs. Aslan snapped.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Roya’s face grew hot.
Bahman quickly grabbed his mother’s arm. “Let’s sit you down, Mother. You need to take a breath.” Bahman led Mrs. Aslan to the far corner of the room and placed a chair against the wall, away from the other guests.
“So odd!” Zari whispered as she sidled up to Roya holding a tray filled with nuts she’d been offering to the guests. “It’s boiling outside! Who wears that?”
“She’s probably just . . . never mind! Just pass around the nuts!”
Zari raised her eyebrows, shook her head, and trotted away.
“My girl, don’t worry. Mrs. Aslan had some difficulties getting ready for the festive occasion tonight, that is all,” Mr. Aslan said, walking up to her. “Some days are better than others. You must forgive. Seeing you young people fills our hearts with joy. It is the best thing.”
He looked like he meant it. Roya felt sorry for him. Mr. Aslan smiled at her now, his eyes kind. They both turned their gazes to the far corner of the room where Bahman had seated his mother.
He hovered over her, holding her bag in one hand and adjusting her chair with the other. Mrs. Aslan was talking nonstop. Bahman shook his head adamantly in response to what she was saying. But Mrs. Aslan didn’t stop; she looked like she was pleading. Bahman stared at the floor, quiet. Mrs. Aslan fumed, pointing to her bag. Finally Bahman opened the bag and took something out
. Roya’s eyes widened. It was a rectangular bamboo flag, the kind used to fan flames when grilling kebab. Balancing himself on his haunches, Bahman slowly fanned his mother’s face with the bamboo flag. Mrs. Aslan stopped talking, closed her eyes, and leaned back in the chair.
Roya looked away.
“If only,” Mr. Aslan said in a voice tinged with sadness, “she would take off the shawl. She won’t listen, Roya Khanom. She will not budge from her ways. Please, forgive. It’s just not in her hands.”
In the kitchen, pink boxes from Café Ghanadi covered the counters. Kazeb and Zari took out the elephant ear and tongue-shaped pastries they had bought earlier that day and Maman arranged them onto platters with care, as if not one crumb could be out of place. She looked up, her face flushed from working in the hot kitchen. “What are you doing here, Roya Joon? Go back to the living room and mingle with the guests. You should be talking to everyone. Go on!”
“I want to help.”
“No, you’re the future bride! Please, go and talk to the guests. Especially Mrs. Aslan. You mustn’t be rude now. If you’re going to have a happy marriage, you need to please your mother-in-law. That is what every woman knows as God’s indisputable truth!”
“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.
The Stationery Shop of Tehran Page 6