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.”
She wanted to see him. Just to ask why. Just so she could know once and for all. And so, a week after her visit to the stationery shop on Walnut Street, and six decades after she had last seen the boy from the Stationery Shop in Tehran, she picked up the phone.
A receptionist. How can I help you and hold on, let me see, I will speak to him and get back to you, and then another phone call, and yes, please do come, Mr. Aslan will be expecting you.
Just like that.
After the phone call, she waited for the floors to crack open, for the walls to close in.
But Walter dried the dishes with a kitchen towel printed with a yellow chick holding an umbrella as she told him she had made an appointment to see that boy from long ago. And the world did not crack open.
And they would drive in the snow, she and Walter together. He had that in him—he was that kind. He said he didn’t believe in his wife sitting around moping and crying. If she needed to talk to him, then she should. We’re too old to suffer for no reason, he said. Lord knows that life is fragile enough.
And he would get out of the car to make sure her knitted scarf protected her nose and mouth against the wind, and they would climb the steps of the gray building labeled DUXTON SENIOR CENTER. Inside, a blond administrator would lead Roya to a hall where an old man in a wheelchair sat by the window, and she would see once again the boy whom she’d once believed would always be hers.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
2013
* * *
Reunion
When the administrator turned and clicked her way out, Roya and Bahman were alone in the overheated dining hall. He wheeled his chair around and smiled—his eyes still, somehow, filled with hope. “I’ve been waiting.”
It was an effort not to fall. Her heart jumped, as if it mattered, as if it wasn’t all just too late for the two of them. The gust of wind that blew through Mr. Fakhri’s stationery shop when Bahman strode in that first Tuesday in January so many years earlier—the same force that held her then—seized her now. He was hers, he’d been hers, his voice was the same. It was as if she hadn’t stopped hearing it for sixty years. Here was the boy who’d danced with her at Thursday night soirees, who’d kissed her by the jasmine bushes when they decided to marry, who’d written love letters that summer of the coup.
She looked down, and the sight of her gray little-old-lady shoes with thick soles and tiny bows jolted her back to the present. She was seventy-seven. No longer seventeen and in love for the first time, anticipating a life with this boy who was going to change the world. An old sadness rose up like bile. “I see. But all I’ve wanted to ask you is why on earth didn’t you wait last time?”
She was dizzy again; she had to sit. She walked over to the plastic chair by the window and plopped into it. She couldn’t fall flat onto the floor in front of him. He said nothing, but there was the whir of his electric wheelchair, and then he was next to her. They sat like that, side by side, facing the window. She didn’t dare look at him. It would have been like staring directly at the sun or into the beam of a strong flashlight. It hurt too much.
The glass pane was thick and wavy. Or was that just her vision blurring? The clangs from the radiator and Bahman’s heavy, labored breathing filled the room. Flake by flake she watched snow accumulate on the windowsill, on the hoods of the cars in the lot, on the roof of the other wing of the building, on crevices in the sidewalks, on the tops of the trees in Duxton. Her thoughts were like the snow: they needed to land and gather for this new scene. She and Bahman were together again. They were alone. After sixty years, they sat together alone.
She had, of course, imagined seeing him over the years. People bumped into each other all the time. She was married to Walter because her elbow had spun his coffee cup off a counter, wasn’t she? Look at you, Sister, sitting like a fool in that beef-stinky place looking out the window! Talk to him at least! Look at him!
“I worried about seeing you. I was so nervous. But it’s you. Khodeti. It’s you.” He spoke again in Farsi, in that voice she’d never stopped hearing.
A lifetime ago, Bahman had not shown up; he’d married another and not looked back. She would say what she’d come to say.
“I forgive you.”
It came out clear and lucid, as if she’d practiced in front of a mirror. But it was not what she’d planned on saying at all. Why? she had wanted to ask him. But now that she was here, right next to him, the answer to that question no longer seemed important. They were in the evening of their lives; they were beyond all that and then some.
“I beg your pardon?”
Was it a question, or a plea for forgiveness? She turned to take him in; she’d bear the glare, squint if needed. He looked vulnerable, shaken. “I forgive you, Bahman.” It felt odd to say his name to his face again, to say his name at all. “We were kids. What did we know?”
His eyes were confused. Had he not heard her? Maybe he had a hearing aid he never used, like so many friends she and Walter knew.
“I’m not here to find fault, Bahman,” she said louder. “I don’t even want an explanation. Maybe I did before. But not anymore.”
“You forgive me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, my regret lies in myself.”
“For what?”
“For thinking it could be different. All I’m saying is that life happens and I forgive you and I wanted to see you again. Just to see you. To think we didn’t talk all those years. Why? Of course, I heard your news from Jahangir—may God rest his soul—I knew for a while how you were. Until I later learned from Zari that Jahangir, poor Jahangir, died in the war. But we’re too old to hold grudges. I just wanted to let you know.” She had the urge to reach over and pat his hand. But she didn’t dare. It was him, and he still had power over her, she could barely believe it, but in his presence—it was quite astonishing—she was filled with love. To see him so old! Her Bahman. The boy who would change the world in this wheelchair, in this place.
Yes, she loved him. The truth of that was like a wave that washed over and submerged her in salty torrents, knotting her hair and stinging her nose, pulling the life out from under her. Of course she loved him. The earth was round, day turned into night, he was in front of her and she loved him. She could see, in his face, the kindness she remembered. How he had taken care of her and trusted her, shared with her everything. How he’d rested his head on her shoulder when he was filled with sadness at his mother’s rage and lack of reason. Ultimately, his mother had more power over him than Roya ever did. But what could either of them have done at seventeen? Fate had its own plans.
“You forgive me?” His voice sounded far away.
Another unexpected wave hit. This time it was icy, cruel. Of course. He kept repeating things. Why had she expected anything different? Memory loss. Possibly dementia. It was quite likely Bahman didn’t even remember her. Maybe she�
�d come too late after all.
“Bahman?” she said slowly, as if she were talking to a child. She should just reach out and hold him. He had held her so many times.
“You don’t know how happy you’ve made me by coming here,” he said. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you. It was my dream.” Without hesitation, he took her hand.
She remembered, of course, his touch. It was so familiar, she ached. She could smell his woodsy cologne. Had he worn it for her visit? Were they like young teenagers eager to please each other again? She had certainly refused to wear snow boots, just to look good.
“I waited for you all afternoon.”
“It’s morning,” she reminded him gently.
“No, I mean at the square.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was so worried you got caught up with the mobs, that you’d been hurt. When you didn’t come, I just prayed that nothing had happened to you. When I learned you were safe, it was a huge relief. That’s what mattered, that you were okay. That’s all that still matters.
“I want to know how you are now,” he went on. “Tell me how you are. Tell me everything.”
The cruelty of old age, degeneration of the mind! Poor man did not know their history.
“Shahla died,” he suddenly said.
The tall, wavy-haired girl who’d sized her up at Café Ghanadi, who’d sidled up to her at Jahangir’s house, who’d fumed at the chandelier and tangoed past them, was suddenly present in the room. The taste of the crushed melon at the party that night, the ice inside Roya’s cheek. Death was nothing new, several of her friends had died in recent years; they’d both lost Mr. Fakhri—she’d lost her own child! But of course the words struck her with sadness. “I am so sorry,” she said.
“We raised two wonderful children. Twins.”
“My goodness. Mashallah,” she said. And then she forced herself to add, “I met your son, Omid.” She didn’t mention the shop. It would open up too many worlds to even ask him about the shop. She couldn’t just yet.
“Omid told me. I’m glad you saw what we built. I wanted to”— he squeezed her hand—“just have our shop.”
She felt like she might drown all over again. Remembering the shop in Newton also made her see the one in flames in Tehran. “What happened to Shahla?” she dared to ask.
“Thank God, she suffered not too long. They told us the Tuesday before Thanksgiving of 2004. By Nowruz, it was over.”
“Cancer?”
“Pancreatic.”
Nowruz would have been the first day of spring. Roya calculated four short months from diagnosis to death. “May God protect her soul.”
“She was a good wife,” he said, and then he paused. “But she wasn’t you.”
Roya looked at the floor.
“Tell me. How’s your son?” he asked.
“How do you know I have a son?”
“I’ve searched for you on the Internet. He’s a doctor, I saw. Congratulations. Forgive me, I hope you don’t think I am snoopy. I couldn’t help it. I know too that you are married to a Walter Archer, a retired lawyer with Lippinscott and Mackevy. The Internet . . . it knows everything!” He looked slightly uncomfortable as he said Walter’s name. He pronounced it “Valter.” He pronounced Lippinscott “Lee-peen-es-scot.”
“Like Jahangir. He was our World Wide Web of info,” she said.
Bahman’s face lit up at the mention of his old friend. “Yes, he was always news central! Remember his parties?”
“How could I forget? Those songs on his gramophone!”
“Roya.”
When he said her name, it did not matter: the decades, the children, the cancer, the betrayal, the loss, the coup, the rewritten history. He said her name the same way he had always said her name. They were Bahman and Roya again, the couple dancing, talking breathlessly as they leaned against the books in the shop. She held on to the seat of the plastic chair. It was not an option to fall.
His breathing grew louder as though his chest held a broken motor. She turned to the window. The snow had picked up even more. No one came into the hall—there was no bingo, no lunch was served even though the smell of beef stew hung in the air. They were utterly alone. Would the window be cold to touch? Even with all this heat cranked up inside, if she leaned over to touch the glass, would she feel ice? She was with a stranger here. She was with her love. She held these two truths in her mind at the same time and found it hard to speak.
“I missed you very much,” he said.
Maybe old love just ran through the decades unfettered, unimpeded, even when denied.
“Me too.”
“Are you comfortable here?”
“Of course.” She shifted in her chair, not letting go of his hand.
“In America, your life.”
“You bet,” she said in the American way.
“Don’t feel sorry for me for being in this place. I know it’s looked down on in our culture. But my daughter and her family visit regularly. They live right here in Duxton. Omid and his wife and kids visit too. It was just too much to take care of me. They tried. But I didn’t want to be a burden to them. Especially after my Parkinson’s. This is a good place. They call me ‘Mr. Batman’ here.”
“Parkinson’s?” She stiffened. “You don’t—”
“I don’t shake? Rattle and roll, as the Americans say? Some days are better than others. I thought I’d be trembling all morning, seeing you. But in fact, I feel better.”
“I didn’t know. . . .”
“I feel better than I have in ages. It’s because of you.”
“Please, stop. We’re not seventeen.”
“We’ll always be seventeen.”
“Okay, mister.” Now that they had warmed up a bit, it was easy to slip into the old banter, the teasing. But she couldn’t go down this slippery slope too far. “So, tell me. How many grandchildren?”
“Six!”
“Oh my! May they live long lives with their parents’ shadow guarding them.” Thank goodness for old customs. These Persian expressions were a reflex and a relief when you didn’t know what else to say.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you. What I’m trying to say, Roya Joon, is that I have not stopped thinking about you since that day in the square.”
She dropped his hand. Then she just patted his arm, the arm that had once made her feel so safe. His sleeve was wooly and worn. “It’s okay, Bahman, it’s okay.” This was all she could do. Never with Walter had she had to worry about memory loss. Nor with Zari, oh God, that would be a nightmare. A few of her friends sometimes complained of forgetting. But this—well, these were uncharted waters for her. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to just go along with his version of things. She’d heard that dementia patients could get violent from the rage of not being understood.
“That day at the square? Roya, I stood there for hours waiting for you. I wanted to see you so badly. I had all the paperwork set so we could go to the Office of Marriage and Divorce and get everything stamped and official. I waited as the thugs came and took over, when they marched to the prime minister’s house. Pro-Mossadegh people in the crowd asked for my help, but I didn’t join the fight. I didn’t move. All I could think was what if you came and I wasn’t there. I didn’t want to leave you there. I waited for you. I waited because all I wanted was to see you, to explain everything, to hold you again. But you never came.”
Roya tried to remember what she knew about Parkinson’s. Was this one of its symptoms? “I forgive you,” she whispered again.
“Forgive me, but why? I would have given you everything. If only you had let me.” His mouth turned down like a small boy’s.
“You married Shahla. It’s fine. We just . . . we just were not meant to be.”
“I married her because I lost you.”
“You lost me because you married her!”
Bahman’s hand shook. “It was one thing to have Mossadegh toppled and Mr. Fakhri and so many people die. That was a huge loss.
But the biggest loss for me? It was losing you. Nothing in my life has been more painful. I’ve thought about you constantly for sixty years.”
He went on, “But I wasn’t about to stand in your way. When you wrote to me that you couldn’t, in the end, marry into my family with all the burdens and sacrifices my mother’s moods and rages would entail, I was heartbroken. I was so very hurt. What could I do about her mental state, about her? I couldn’t change it. We had already been shunned by my father’s relatives because of it. I was used to being shunned. How could I not let you go? I didn’t want to burden you with what was, back then, our shame. You didn’t want to see my family and all its dysfunction anymore, and I didn’t want to get in your way. Shahla didn’t have the same bias against my mother’s condition. She just didn’t, and I suppose a part of me felt gratitude toward her for that. . . .”
Madness. He had completely lost it. Roya spoke kindly but firmly. “Bahman. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know you may not remember everything. I never said those things. Never would I have said or felt anything like that. Leave you because of your mother? Shun you because of her mental instability? I wanted to be there for you, to be with you every step of the way. To help you and your father. Your mother too! You are the one who told me you wanted to move on. Remember?”
Bahman did not move. He studied her face quietly for a few seconds. Then he suddenly took in a sharp breath that sounded like a strangled gasp.
She had to get this conversation back on track from his absurd ramblings before he worked himself up more. She said in as calm a voice as she could muster, “I was in the square. Okay? I worried for you. You’re the one who didn’t come. Your mother wanted Shahla for you; it was different times. Honestly, it’s all right. Think of your children. Your grand—”
“No.” His head and neck and shoulders trembled. “Oh my God.”
The Stationery Shop Page 22
