“Don’t I know it. They’re good kids though. We constantly get new inventory. Can you blame them?”
“Of course. It’s just so . . . huge,” Roya murmured.
“Oh, this place is great for some. Got everything! Moms love it for back-to-school shopping. But it still dizzies me sometimes when I walk into work. Let me tell you”—she leaned in and whispered—“at the end of the day, I’m a small-neighborhood-shop gal myself. Don’t tell my boss!”
Walter fumbled for his wallet and slipped out a credit card, swiped, and waited for his receipt.
“Those days are gone,” Roya said. “The small neighborhood shops.”
“Oh, there’s one or two mom-and-pop stationery shops left here and there,” the cashier said, bagging the paper clips and hand sanitizer while Walter loaded the paper shredder back into the shopping cart. “I’m not talking drugstores, now, with their stationery supplies in one aisle—cheap spiral notebooks and such. But you know. Old-school. Real shops. Like the one in Newton on Walnut Street. Best fountain pens there. Inkwells! Don’t know how much longer they can stay open with all the competition from stores like ours. And online. But that one is a throwback, let me tell you.”
“Well, thanks. Now, you have yourself a good day,” Walter said, and signed the receipt and quickly steered his cart away from the cashier. He had no interest in her recommendation.
Roya felt a sudden pull toward this kind lady. “Thank you so much.”
“Now, you have yourselves a good rest of the day,” the cashier mimicked Walter, and winked at Roya.
Roya winked back and then followed Walter into the cold parking lot.
“She was an odd one,” Walter groaned as he hauled the paper shredder into the car trunk.
“I thought she was very helpful.”
“Poor lonely old bat,” Walter said, and then added quickly, “I’m kidding!”
They drove home through the icy streets with the paper clip jar and the hand sanitizer in a plastic bag on Roya’s lap.
The message on their answering machine was from Walter’s podiatrist’s office.
“Did you hear that, Walter?” Roya said. “You need new molds made for your orthopedic shoe inserts.”
“New molds for the inserts. The fun never ends!” Walter said.
“That it doesn’t,” Roya said as she got out some fish sticks to bake. She was too tired to make Persian food so much these days. Some things just had to go in your seventies.
The following week, Roya waited with Walter in the orthopedic clinic. They always went to the clinic in Belmont, but it was under renovation and the podiatrist’s secretary had directed them to a new clinic near the Newton-Wellesley Hospital instead. Roya shifted in her seat. It seemed like every high school athlete and obnoxious child from the suburbs had an appointment that day.
“You don’t have to wait here. Go get some fresh air, Roya. We finally have some nice weather,” Walter said.
“I can wait with you. I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to. Poke around the shops. Grab a coffee if you like. I’ve got my reading to keep me company.” Walter patted a law journal. “This could take a while.”
Roya was relieved to get out of the stuffy waiting room with its noisy children and teenagers glued to their phones. Outside, the air was almost pleasant. Walter was right: it was the warmest it had been in months. What a rare day in the middle of January! She hadn’t been able to walk outside for weeks. And why you don’t just leave that freezing place and move to California is beyond me, Sister!
Roya walked the blocks outside of the orthopedic clinic carefully. Last thing they needed was for her to lose her balance. Thank goodness she had her good shoes on: the thick-soled gray ones with the small bows on top. After a few blocks she reached the heart of the neighborhood center. Behind the glass of a bagel shop, a cat lounged and gazed lazily at her. Outside an old-fashioned cobbler’s, shoes stood in rows next to tins of polish. She liked this part of Newton. It was less fancy than the other shopping centers and felt more authentic. No big-box stores here.
As she walked past a tiny pizza place, the smell of sweet tomato sauce tempted her to stop and get a slice. She was pondering whether she should go inside and indulge when a sign down the block caught her eye. From a second-floor trellis hung a sign with gold lettering on a black background. Spelled out in curlicue letters were the words THE STATIONERY SHOP.
Best fountain pens there. Inkwells! The words of the cashier from the big-box store rang in her head. Was she on Walnut Street? She must be. Propelled by a force she couldn’t explain, she headed toward the sign.
When she opened the door of the shop, a familiar chime rang out. It had been a long time since she’d been in a store with one of those bells. My goodness, all those old-fashioned bells sounded the same.
It took a few beats for her eyes to adjust to the slightly dark, musty interior. But when they did, she saw shelves filled with colored journals and notebooks in all shapes and sizes. On her left was a table stacked with gifts and gadgets: alarm clocks, puzzles, tea mugs, fancy soap. In the middle of the shop, pens and pencils of all kinds sat in small boxes on the shelves. She walked through the aisle of writing utensils. People had tried out the pens with multiple squiggles: hellos and doodles were scribbled on the sides of the small cardboard boxes holding the pens. Old-fashioned sharpeners and fancy new pencil cases lay in neat rows.
She walked along one aisle and then another, as if in a dream. In front of the main counter, she stopped short. There within a big glass case lay shiny fountain pens and inkwells, just as the cashier had said. They were arranged like jewelry: the ink bottles shone in sapphire blue and emerald green, even purple. One bottle held ink the color of pomegranates. She wanted to unscrew a fountain pen and pump its cartridge carefully with ink, glide it across a fresh, clean page. She’d had a special blotter for those letters she’d written so long ago so the ink wouldn’t run, so not one word could be smudged before she placed it in an envelope to be hidden in a Rumi book of poetry.
“Find everything okay?”
She turned as if she’d been caught stealing. A man with salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin, and dark eyes stood by a door in the back.
“Oh yes—” Her voice caught. She was suddenly dizzy. Her chest tightened and the room began to swim.
“Are you all right?” the man asked. His voice. His voice was like something she should know.
“Of course.” But she was sinking. “Please, may I sit?”
He came to her and gently took her arm. He helped her behind the counter to a chair with a pink cushion. She slid onto the chair with relief and leaned back. Her forehead throbbed.
“Ma’am? Can I get you some water?”
“No, no. I just need to catch my breath.”
“Let me get you some water.”
His insistence, his politeness, something about his body language was just so familiar. Then she realized what she wanted to ask. The dark eyes, olive skin. A slight accent. “Are you Iranian?”
“Khanom, salam.” He bowed his head. “Man fekr kardam shoma ham Irani hasteed. Miss, hello. I thought you were Iranian as well.”
“Hastam. I am.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said in Farsi. “Let me get you something to drink.”
He went through a door behind the counter. She rested her head against the back of the chair. He came back after several minutes holding a tray with a chai estekan and a saucer of sugar cubes.
“You didn’t have to,” she said. “I am fine.”
“It’s no trouble. We have a small samovar in the back. You know how it is. Persians have to have their tea.” His Farsi was impeccable. He must have lived in Iran as a child or his parents had had the discipline to teach him the language.
He set the tray down. “Befarmayeed, this will make you feel better.”
She sipped the tea. The flavors of bergamot and cardamom mixed with the slightest hint of rose petals took her home. “You ce
rtainly know how to make real tea. Thank you.”
“My parents taught me.” He shrugged.
Her head began to clear with the steam and fragrance of the tea. This man was probably in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He could have come here as an older child with his family as part of the wave of Iranians who immigrated after the 1979 revolution.
“Hope I didn’t startle you,” she said. “I just lost my balance for a minute. And my wits a little bit.” She rested the tea glass on the tray and studied him. “Also, if I may, you just look so familiar to me.”
“All us Iranians look alike, right?” He smiled.
And when he did, she was gripped by a tightness in her chest that felt like it could fold her over. She stared at the tea and then looked around the shop again. The shelves were aligned in diagonal rows, the glass case held the fountain pens in parallel lines. In one corner was a rack on its own, filled with paperback books. She hadn’t noticed that rack before. She could make out the covers from where she sat: they all had artwork similar to Persian miniature paintings. The image of a turbaned man holding an old-fashioned setar instrument flashed from most of the covers.
“You sell books too?” she asked weakly.
“Oh, some,” the man said. “Coloring books for kids. Craft books. Sticker books. Things like that.”
“But those?” She pointed to the rack that should have held greeting cards, that should have been filled with calendars printed with photos of dogs and kittens and oceans. Instead it held slim volumes of a book series she recognized. She had bought those very books for Kyle so he could read in English the poetry she had loved since she was young, so he could see for himself the wisdom and passion in the words of her favorite poet of all time. “You sell Rumi?”
The man shrugged again. “It was kind of my dad’s thing. He always had a very particular vision of what he wanted this place to be. Down to a T.”
“He did?”
“Oh yes. It was tough setting it all up. And staying afloat over the years. But my sister and I have pushed through.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah, my twin. Anyway, Dad had his vision and we worked so hard at making it happen. And now . . . well, we like to keep it just how he wanted it.” He smiled again. “We’ve managed to stick around.”
Roya’s heart suddenly beat so fast she thought she might have a heart attack. The shop fashioned like this. The slim Rumi volumes arranged on a circular rack. The blueprint. The vision. But it couldn’t be. It could not be.
“Your father,” she asked breathlessly. “May I ask his name?”
“Sure. We’re originally from Tehran. My dad’s name is Bahman Aslan.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
2013
Appointment
By the time Roya walked back to Walter to hear about how the molding of the inserts had gone, she was flushed and ready to collapse. You might think that the world is complicated and full of lost souls, that people who’ve touched your life and disappeared will never be found, but in the end all of that can change. One shop, one glass of tea, and all of that can simply flip.
Bahman’s son, Omid—he’d told her his name—had been easygoing. A benefit of living in America, a benefit of his generation. He was open and willing to share. Not guarded and suspicious the way he would have been if he’d been her age. When she told him that she had known his father once upon a time, his eyes widened. “Seriously? Wow. Are you kidding?” She couldn’t bring herself to form the words to ask if he was alive or dead. Ever since Jahangir had passed away, she had lost news of Bahman. She had pushed him to the bottom of the bucket anyway.
But the son said, “Shall I tell him I saw you? He’d be tickled to know I met an old friend of his.”
“That won’t be necessary, absolutely not,” she said. “Don’t bother him. We were barely acquaintances. I’m just happy to know he is . . . well. And to meet his son. It was a pleasure to talk to you. Thank you for the tea. I have to go now. My husband waits.”
“Oh, sure. He’s at the Duxton Senior Center now, just so you know. He gets pretty lonely. My sister and I visit as much as we can. But you know how it is with these crazy busy lives.”
She couldn’t imagine the boy who would change the world in a nursing home. What had happened to Shahla? But she didn’t dare ask this nice man about his mother. She said she had to go, and they both repeated over and over what a small world it was and how she should come again.
The new inserts were made of foam, Walter told her when she returned to the clinic. He said that even so they were surprisingly firm, how do you like that? They got in the car, and Walter groaned at the top-of-the-hour news. “Can’t they ever get it right in Washington? We should vote them all out.” And then: “What’s the matter, Roya? You look pale. Roya? Roya, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just felt a little faint earlier, that’s all.”
“Should I stop?”
“No, Walter, carry on. Let’s just carry on.”
Once home, she was still winded, shaking.
“I’ll heat up the coffee,” Walter said. “It’ll perk you up. No pun intended.” He slipped on his moccasin slippers and headed to the coffeemaker. Drip. Not the fancy espresso machine with the pods, which Zari kept encouraging them to buy. Walter preferred coffee brewed in an old Mr. Coffee machine, left to stand in the pitcher all day long.
“Thanks. Just going to the bathroom!”
Walter’s camel moccasins, beige fur peeking out around the ankles, were just a flash as she rushed past him.
Driven by an energy that was new and frightening, she climbed the stairs faster than she had in years. She hurried to the desk Walter had built in their bedroom, sat, and turned on their laptop. Her hands were sweaty (must be from the thermal gloves) and her heart pounded. Maybe these were symptoms of an impending heart attack after all. Like Mrs. Michael, their neighbor, she’d have a stroke, her head would fall on the keyboard, and Walter would find her, never knowing what she’d intended to type. Maybe she should stop. But tears ran down her cheeks as she heard again the bell from the Stationery Shop. She clicked on the browser just like Kyle had taught her. When the cursor hovered in the search bar, she typed: Duxton Senior Center.
How you haven’t googled him in all these years is beyond me, Sister! Lord knows I’ve searched for every man I ever loved. Yousof from Tehran is a retired neurosurgeon in Maryland now—I saw his photograph on a website. Did you know? But you insist you want to leave the past in the past. As if that’s possible!
Her fingers shook. Well, if she was going to have a stroke, then at least let her find out what had happened. By those jasmine-soaked bushes on that summer night, she had kissed him hard. From him, she had learned the tango. It was his letters that she’d run to get day after day that blasted summer, because of him that she had written page after page with a fountain pen in blue ink. For him, she had waited in the square.
Walter would be pouring a cup of oily coffee. Roya reached for her reading glasses.
Images and words came into focus on the screen. The Duxton Senior Center was a community center with its own assisted-living facility, in the heart of beautiful Duxton, Massachusetts. Photos of trees near a lake, seniors ballroom dancing, a close-up of a plate with beef stew and carrots and corn and the caption Delicious homemade meals! filled the website. She felt like she was witnessing something forbidden but also absolutely normal and mundane. The boy who had built their stationery shop in America was at this center—which, according to the directions she now googled, was 53.5 miles south of this house. The house where Walter waited. How do you like that?
The center had a phone number, a fax number, step-by-step directions on how to arrive at its front doors from north, south, east, and west. Roya pressed the corners of her eyes. Ridiculous old lady revisiting something she thought she had reconciled a thousand years ago.
She got up to go downstairs to Walter.
But then, with a pull that outdid any k
ind of gravity, she landed back on the chair again. Just to ask him why. Why did he lie? Why did he leave her there? Why did he break it all off so abruptly? Why did he change his mind? She deserved that, at least, after all these years. Who knew when the heart could attack? Let her just know once and for all.
She clicked on the “Contact Us” link and there was the phone number.
But she didn’t call. Instead, she went downstairs. Walter asked again what was wrong.
In the early days of their courtship in California, she had mentioned to Walter that she’d had a beau back in Tehran. Just a high school crush. No biggie, nothing doing. Didn’t we all?
It felt strange to mention the Newton stationery shop to Walter now, as though she were revealing someone else’s secret, not her own, as though she were pulling back the curtain on something sacred and sweet but filled with danger.
In the days that followed, she would cry for no reason. Out of nowhere, out of the blue, every time she thought of that shop sitting on Walnut Street for all these years, in the state in which she lived, a few towns down from where she spent her days, not that far from her colonial home with its shutters on the windows—she fell apart. She was losing it in her old age. And now when she thought of Bahman’s son, Omid, arranging the inventory in the shop, she was filled with a sense of the surreal, with a mix of nostalgia and disbelief. She remembered more than ever the kind stationer who had guided her in that shop in Tehran in the first place. Trauma and loss never went away—of course those memories had always been with her. But now she cried like she hadn’t cried in years, not since the early years after Marigold died. She was grieving all over again for something she thought she had finished with years ago.
Get a grip, Sister! Zari would have said.
But with each passing day, she would also remember the son’s kind comment: “Shall I tell him I saw you? He’d be tickled to know I met an old friend of his.”
The Stationery Shop of Tehran Page 21