The Stationery Shop of Tehran

by Marjan Kamali

  California was new and shiny. Everything in it looked like a toy that had just been bought and opened. Sun-drenched buildings, sparkling streets, gleaming shops, tight shirts on men’s bodies and glamorous clothes on the women could have come out of a film at Cinema Metropole. Despite the dazzling sunniness of her new home, Roya was beset by a chronic homesickness. Zari was all that tied her to her previous life.

  The two sisters relied on each other to survive. They learned how to live in their new boardinghouse and how to navigate the campus of Mills College in the Bay Area. Together they learned how to practice their new language. At first Roya felt like a mime, hand motions and exaggerated shrugs making up for her lack of English words. All she lacked were painted tears.

  Being in a new country felt like being plunged into a darkened room. In the beginning, nothing was distinguishable; it was all blurry blobs at best. But eventually, her eyes adjusted. Forms that were previously incoherent came into slow, painstaking focus. Roya and Zari guided each other even though it was often the blind leading the blind. They smiled politely at their landlady, Mrs. Kishpaugh, in whose home they boarded along with several other female students.

  Roya hadn’t wanted to leave Tehran behind, even with all its pain and heartbreak and its political mess. Yet she had no choice but to create—stitch by stitch—a new life. She had to move forward. And Zari surprised her. In Tehran, Roya had often thought of her sister as vain and self-absorbed. But in this fresh chapter of their lives, and with a focus that bordered on obsession, Zari absorbed the new American culture as though she were inhaling the air that would keep her from drowning. By their second year at the women’s college, both Roya and Zari were doing well in their studies and had a small group of friends with whom they went to the movies and ate dinner and sometimes shared strawberry milkshakes. Even through the homesickness.

  Successfully mastering the language and her classes in chemistry and biology was more than enough. Roya had sworn off men. But Zari remained open and giggly and silly even as she thrust herself into America. Soon a young man, Jack Bishop, whom she’d met at a classmate’s house, spent more and more time with Zari. Yousof, not to mention all the Hassans and Hosseins and Cyruses back home, didn’t seem to hold a candle to this Jack. Jack looked like a lumberjack: he had broad shoulders, a stocky build, and dirty-blond hair that needed a cut. He was constantly smoking and grinning and shaking his hair out of his eyes. His father was a traveling salesman, but Jack wanted to break the yoke of capitalism and get to know the works of Walt Whitman better. Zari was swept off her dainty feet. Roya watched her sister transform from the busybody Iranian girl who wanted to go to fancy parties and marry a rich man to a girl who wanted nothing more than to understand why Jack Bishop loved poetry so. Roya realized, not for the first time, the fickleness and unpredictability of young love. Zari levitated in Jack’s presence. Just like that, she fell hard in love.

  At a round table in a café on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, behind her stack of books, Roya wrote in her lab notebook, trying to make sense of the chemistry problems that plagued her, avoiding eye contact with others, wanting more than anything to head back to her room in Mrs. Kishpaugh’s house to sleep. It was late afternoon and the clamor and din in the café did little to calm her nerves even though she had specifically come here hoping the background noise would somehow help make studying less arduous. On Tuesday morning at 9 a.m.—in three short days—she would take her chemistry final. She felt completely behind and unprepared as she tried to make sense of the words and symbols and numbers in her textbook. She should have studied a lot earlier; she had left too much for these last few days. Now she was drowning in material and had to catch up. Baba often sent encouraging letters from Iran: he was so proud of his scientist daughters studying cutting-edge topics that would ensure their place in the world! And they both were mastering English so fast even though it was such a difficult language! Roya had never really wanted to be a scientist. But after the horror of the coup and Bahman’s betrayal and her heartsickness in Tehran, it had become clear that what she wanted mattered little. She needed to survive. What good had the poetry books and foreign novels done her? She ferociously pursued science at Mills College not just to please Baba but because a degree in chemistry could maybe inoculate her against at least some of the uncertainties in life.

  But the elements and molecules in her textbook made her head spin. Her body was in knots at the thought of Tuesday morning, 9 a.m. How on earth would she be ready for that exam? She took a chug of her strong coffee, put the cup down, and stirred the liquid nervously with her teaspoon. She could not fail. She had to get good grades and attain that chemistry degree with honors. Baba and Maman had sacrificed so much for her to be here.

  He walked in wearing a blue blazer and gray pants, his hair like a sand dune on top of his head: a blond version of Tintin from the French comic series. Gold buttons shone on his blazer, and he moved with ease in the line and placed an order.

  She tried not to stare at him. She had loved those Tintin comics as a child, and Mr. Fakhri had even stocked the stationery shop with a few of them. But this young man was far more handsome than the comic book character. She was inexplicably transfixed by his good looks. So much so that her teaspoon fell out of her hand and onto the floor. Oh God. She bent over, picked it up, and walked to the counter to get a new one from the basket near the jugs of milk and cream and the sugar dispensers. When she reached for a spoon, her elbow knocked over a cup of coffee. The cup bounced on the floor, dark liquid spilling everywhere, soaking the tiles, landing in streaks all over. Roya’s squeal was high-pitched, so Persian, a “Vaaaaay” that came out of embarrassment and shock. She grabbed a few napkins and squatted on the floor, mopping up the mess she’d made, but it only made things worse. The napkins disintegrated as she tried to soak up her mistake.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  She looked up and saw Tintin kneeling eye-level to her. His eyes were Sinatra blue. “Don’t worry about it,” he said gently.

  His gray pants were wool, she saw now, as they knelt together in close proximity. Who wore wool in California? Roya hadn’t seen wool since she left Tehran.

  “I am so sorry,” she mumbled. Oh, how she must look, squatting as if poised over an old-style Iranian toilet, mopping up her humiliating spill. Please let the café fully resume its clatter and noise. Please let the attention fall on anything but her.

  “It’s really no big deal. You know what? I wanted a different coffee anyway.” The blue-eyed man smiled.

  Roya was relieved when the din around them picked up again. Café staff who’d glanced their way went back to taking orders, leaving the mess to the two of them. They both wiped the spilled coffee with napkins. He smelled like shampoo, the kind they sold in American supermarkets that created gigantic foamy bubbles and frothed between your fingers.

  “Tell you what. I’m going to get another cup of coffee. And you’re going to just stop feeling bad about this. Sound like a plan?”

  It didn’t sound like a plan of any sort that Roya knew, but she was charmed by his simple way of putting things. She nodded and smiled and nodded again, aware that she was “nodding like a foreigner,” as Zari would have put it. She went back to her table and slid onto the chair and pressed her pen into the notebook again, drawing hexagonal shapes for molecules. UC Berkeley students dominated the café, but there were a fair number from Mills College as well. The air was sharp with caffeine and stress. Everyone was cramming for finals. Christmas vacation loomed like a mirage beyond torturous obstacles—so much work to get through before that much-needed break.

  Suddenly the shapes in her notebook were darkened by a shadow. She looked up, and the man in the blue blazer was standing next to her table.

  “If I may?” That smile again.

  She wasn’t sure what to say.

  “This coffee shop is more crowded than usual today, don’t you think?”

  Coffee shop. The phrase seemed
intensely American, as wholesome as small towns in the Midwest she had never been to but had seen in movies. Coffee shop. Who spoke that way? Café, café, café was all she and Zari ever said. Here was this blond Tintin with his coffee-shop smile, in a blazer that was out of a Robert Mitchum film, wearing flannel trousers that belonged in London, not Berkeley, California.

  “Please.” Roya piled her books in a neat stack to make room on the table. She felt like she was parting the sea. She wasn’t sure if she was being too forward. But wouldn’t it have been rude to say no? She wished she knew the rules in this country. Sometimes there didn’t seem to be any rules. It had been far easier in Iran where tradition and tarof and who your grandfather was often dictated how to behave.

  “Walter. I’m from Boston.” His hand was extended.

  Should she shake it? They did that here. Americans liked to shake hands, as if they were business partners, making a deal, sealing some contract. She placed her hand in his, and his easy grip surprised her. She was sure her face went red. It had been a while since she’d felt a man’s hand around hers. When he sat down across from her, she was a trifle alarmed by his audacity, but that was how it was here, wasn’t it, everything easy-peasy—no strict social mores that would shame your entire family if you broke them, no crazy rules like back home.

  She expected him to pull out his own books, to huddle behind them like most of the other students, to sigh and complain about all the upcoming finals. But instead he stirred his fresh cup of coffee and sipped it as if he were on a piazza in Italy overlooking the mountains, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing too pressing. Everything about him was clean and well tended. Clearly she could not study with him sitting there. Why had she said yes to him? When he asked her what year she was in, Roya imagined soap bubbles coming out of his mouth. This man was freshly showered; she could not see him ever sweating. But it wasn’t his picture-perfect image that impressed her. It was his manner. Even the way he sipped his coffee was measured and relaxed and without haste. He seemed . . . safe.

  She had known a boy of haste once, had been swept up in his passion and fervor and unpredictability. She would not make that mistake again. Excitement was overrated. In fact, after Bahman and his betrayal, Roya had vowed never to tether herself to a man. She would study very hard in America, return to Iran, get a good job, and be financially independent, living a spinster life of equations and experiments and pure science. She would stand her ground with reserve and a steeliness that made even the most determined give up and leave for easier, less thorny prey.

  But this man, this blue-blazered coffee-shop boy, was simply sweet, and she had let him sit at her table. He smiled and made polite conversation that was stunning in its purity. There were no innuendos, hardly any flirting. There was respect. He simply asked her questions, questions she answered. She flinched at the idea of being drawn to anyone. She could never again be that malleable, putty-like girl in Bahman’s arms.

  “And do you find the chemistry satisfying?” Walter looked at her earnestly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re taking the advanced chemistry, correct?” He pointed at her textbook. “Is it what you expected? Because a classmate of mine, Omar Said, hails from Lebanon. And he tells me that what he was studying in Beirut was actually more in depth than what we offer here. So I was just wondering . . .”

  “Well, I never went to university in Iran. I only went to high school there. So yes, this is quite . . . deep. I mean, satisfying. The chemistry. The class.” Why was she flustered talking to this boy? For crying out loud.

  He studied her for a moment, then leaned in and whispered, “This California culture is a bit new to me too.”

  Of course he would have assumed her newness from her accent, her dark hair and eyes. But did she give off foreignness in everything? She imagined a waft of rosewater and saffron hovering above her wherever she went. He continued to talk to her in an easy way, however, as though nothing about her was strange. He told her how he had moved to the West Coast for his undergrad education but felt like a foreigner in California. He spoke of New England, and winters spent sledding, and summers at the Cape, eating lobster rolls and cheering for a team called “the Red Socks.” The Red Socks? What an absurd name for a team. Walter’s description of his New England childhood reminded Roya of scenes from an American film she had seen at Cinema Metropole with Bahman.

  She focused on what Walter said. He was comforting, it was surprising just how much. He was like a character from a family TV show. He hadn’t left a country whose prime minister had been overthrown in a coup. He hadn’t seen men shot at his feet. He went sledding and drank hot chocolate. Behind the blue blazer he wore, Roya was aware of an innocence that most people would give anything to own. She envied him this simplicity, this lack of complication.

  As they sat together, she listened mostly and shared a little. In her still halting English, she continued to answer questions about her background, the boardinghouse where she lived, her sister, Zari. Yes, she wanted to be a scientist.

  When he finished his coffee, Walter got up and came back with two more. As he handed her a cup, she remembered another man standing in a café handing her coffee, asking her if she liked it. She quickly took the cup from Walter and sipped, even though it was too hot. They continued to talk. Sitting across from him, listening to him, something in her opened. The tension she’d been holding on to for so long loosened just a bit. She felt more relaxed than she had in a very long time. An hour went by with very few hexagonal molecules being drawn. He asked if he could maybe take her to the Powerhouse Gallery after finals were over, before he went back to Boston for the break. Sound like a plan? he asked her.

  His blue eyes met hers.

  It sounded exactly like a plan should.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1957

  Alternate Plan

  Most days I walk home from work through Baharestan Square. The lady dressed in red stands by the fountain, still. Her eyes are smeared with kohl, her hair is matted and dry. They say she hasn’t changed her dress since she was stood up by her lover all those years ago. And she goes there every day—poor lost soul.

  I shouldn’t walk through that square; there are other ways to get home. But I can’t help it. I am filled again with longing and regret. This endless desire to turn back time.

  I remember the expression in your eyes in the Stationery Shop the day we met. I remember your shoes. I remember how being with you made me happier than I’d ever been.

  Mother’s mood swings have decreased. She’s calmer, but almost too calm. The wild rages and angry lashings-out are mostly gone. But she has a low-level chronic sadness. She nurses her inner wounds quietly now. Mr. Fakhri’s death hit her so hard.

  Roya Joon, how I wish you hadn’t changed your mind. How I wish her mental state had been tolerable for you. But you made your choice, and I wasn’t going to force myself into your life.

  Gozasht, it’s past.

  So Mossadegh is gone. The Shah has more and more control. A younger version of myself would be outraged and want to fight. But I am done with fighting. It’s been four years since the coup. People lament the loss of a leader, but all I feel is the loss of you.

  I don’t know if Jahangir told you that my father passed away about a year ago? I’m so glad that you and Jahangir still telephone occasionally, by the way—it’s my only way to get news of you. We held a small funeral for my father. Mother wrote elaborate invitations and sent them to the family who had shunned us all these years. She learned to read and write from my father. Her family was poor, illiterate. His family was learned. Their marriage broke class boundaries; it was a disgrace for my father’s family. He was outcast for the decision. But he loved her! I know that he loved her. He loved her when she was young and he loved her when they experienced indescribable loss and he loved her through her depression.

  That is the unconditional love I have strived to give her too, hard as it’s been at
times. I thought you could grow to love her too. Despite it all.

  Others saw my father as weak, but I no longer do. He was intelligent, devoted. He tried very hard to be fair. In many ways, he didn’t belong in the patriarchal system of our society. He respected my mother. He tried to help her through her sorrows and moods. He did not judge her in the harsh way that our culture judges those who struggle with their mental state.

  Because they both married outside of their class, I always thought, albeit foolishly, that my mother would respect love. Marrying for love. I know it’s seen as romantic nonsense by some. The poets, our own, wrote so much of love, and the American films are obsessed with it. But of course there still stands the tradition of marriage as a contract to attain or maintain status.

  After I met you, I was engulfed—drowned in you. All I could see was you. I dared to imagine a future together. My hopes soared as our plans solidified. I couldn’t think of anyone but you. But my mother kept insisting on Shahla.

  So I told her I was in love with you.

  She was doing calligraphy when I told her—I’ll never forget it. It calmed her to copy the letters and the doctor had recommended it for her nerves. For a brief moment a look of tenderness crossed her face. But then she stiffened and said, “Basseh.”

  Enough, she said. Stop the nonsense.

  Our financial situation was wobbly, much as my mother liked to boast about our “villa” by the sea. I knew her boasting drove you crazy. It made me want to melt with shame when she said those things about our “wealth” in front of you. Even now, I want to disappear just thinking of some of the things she said to you. But the truth is that my father had been passed up for promotions. He stagnated at his engineering job. Even though he came from a wealthy family, his relatives’ rejection of him after he married my mother meant he could never ask them for help of any kind, especially financial. Over the years, my mother’s mental state was all the more reason to avoid his relatives, because the few times his sisters did see us, they made it clear her illness only confirmed that she had been wrong for him all along.