Epilogue
August 19, 1953
* * *
The Keeper of Secrets
Others, even of his class, go to the main bazaar downtown every now and then. It’s good for gold and rugs and bangles to adorn the thin wrists of elegant women like Atieh. Saffron is sold in heaps of crimson. Lingerie of lace is hung with clothespins on string. Colorful mosaic boxes are piled in pyramids for the masses. But Ali avoids the bazaar the way one would avoid heartache. To smell the fruit sitting in the sun, to hear the hawkers shout about their wares, to detect even the slightest scent of melon could make him blind. No need for shopping there. Why? The house is stocked. Atieh runs their home with regularity and reliability. His sons don’t give him much grief. The daughters have grown and married well. What more could he even ask for? For God’s sake. For all that is decent, Ali.
He opens the shop to help the young. He makes it a priority to carry books as much as stationery. Titles from all over the world, spines with lettering that beckon, words of the old greats and the new, tomes of knowledge and risk. This shop—this haven—has saved him, especially since his father’s phlegmy laugh denied a future with the one whose melon-scented skin he still wants. Decorum and tradition and “for God’s sake, for all that is decent, Ali” lead him to a marriage of stability and happy parents on either side. He and Atieh seal their future, and that girl who balanced the tub of melon rinds on her hip and kissed him in the square behind the bazaar is disposed. To be almost forgotten.
The children, when they come, happen in quick succession. Four in all, and all in good health, as it so happens, thanks be to God. Raised under the care of their mother and with his own guidance. Two sons who make their mark in scholarship (Ali’s father feels vindicated to see at least his grandsons follow in his academic footsteps, even if Ali has stooped to selling wares “like a merchant, like a bazaari”).
Today, Wednesday, 28 Mordad, he works alone. The prime minister has asked people to stay off the streets. The shop is quiet save for the scrape of the stepladder he drags across the floor of the back storage room. He is seized by the memory of Badri on that stepladder just a few weeks ago. The knife entering her throat. The droplets of blood on her skin.
He is suddenly drenched in sweat. It will pass—this rush of panic, this mess of his insides that mean minutes of immobilizing pain. It has to pass.
Forget the girl, Ali.
He needs to finish organizing books. He has to go home soon. Atieh is waiting, and sometimes when he is late, he can tell she suspects that he is seeing someone else.
Ali picks up the broom and sweeps the floor, and again she is with him. Stunning how he can carry her with him all the time. When she reentered his life right here in this shop, charging in with her young son after all those years, he was behind the garbage bins in the bazaar again. Had he really ever left that place? Where they had for themselves everything while the rest of the world held up their hands in prayer.
He misses her now. He misses her still. Why does he do the things he does for her? Why can he not say no to her? She tells him over and over again that Roya and Bahman cannot end up together.
She tells him to change the letters. She makes him swear to do it, and he does. Because he owes her. Because he slurped her up in that square behind the bazaar. He impregnated her, stole her honor, ended her innocence. Because he was a man—a young man, yes, but still a man—who took advantage of a fourteen-year-old. And then when he should have married her, he left and listened instead to his father and his mother and married Atieh. Atieh, whose skin is papery-thin and white. Atieh, whose personality is like yogurt. Atieh, who deserves better than a man who wants Badri.
He wants nothing more than to help these kids who come in so hungry for knowledge. He wants to save them from predictability and stagnation. Free them from the trap of custom. He disseminates the political speeches and treatises because he believes in democracy. He knows Prime Minister Mossadegh is a fair and just leader. When boys like Bahman Aslan come in (oh, that first day when his mother brought him in—the pain and pleasure of seeing Badri again), he wants to help them grow. Maybe he can guide these idealistic boys and girls to use their smarts and skills to better the country and themselves. Maybe he can save them.
All those days when Roya Kayhani rushed in after school, when she asked for book recommendations, he was fulfilled.
Nothing makes him happier than when he nurtures romances with letters in books. The love letters he passes along give so many young couples a mode of communication they would otherwise not have. A small release from the pressures of their parents and the suffocating mores under which they are—all of them—trapped. He transports those love notes for couples he knows cannot be seen with one another. Couples separated by class or religion or cultural dictates but not by desire. For girls whose clothes are too shabby for rich boys. For boys whose income prospects are too hopeless for elite girls. For Muslims in love with Jews. For communists in love with monarchists.
And he is happy to do it. He wants them to have that which was denied him: the freedom to love.
Abbas and Leila Gholami, one of the most philanthropic couples in Tehran, would not have been able to have their courtship without his assistance. Jaleh Tabatabayi and Cyrus Ghodoosi, a communist activist and a monarchist, will probably marry. He’s done well by them. It helps to remember the ones he’s helped. To hang on to the good.
And he helped Bahman and Roya fall in love. Hadn’t he rushed off to the bank knowing they’d be alone together? Hadn’t he gone to the back storage room again and again so they could speak in peace? He helps them along, gives them a sacred space of privacy. The time to be with each other. With delight, he watches Badri’s son fall in love with Roya right there under his roof. And later he exchanges their letters.
Until she tells him to put an end to it.
Why doesn’t his heart let go? Why do some people stay lodged in our souls, stuck in our throats, imprinted in our minds?
Forget the girl, Ali.
Roya is in the square now. Waiting.
God forgive him. God give exoneration.
Badri told him that she had aborted their own child with her own devices, that her body was wrecked for all the rest. Save Bahman. And so Ali tries to save Bahman. To give him all he wants: books, politics, love. But Badri does not want one thing for him and that is for her plan to go awry. For Bahman, she has plans. And they do not include Roya.
When she pierced her neck like that and almost died, when she went away to the north afterward to be by the sea, to recover, she continued to manipulate him. She made him promise.
And yes, at her bidding, he rewrote Bahman’s letter. He changed but one word. That was all. Just the name of the square. But it was the cruelest word to change. To give them that hope, to have them wait at different locations, to not just end it. Badri wanted to draw it out. To see Roya suffer. She kept calling him on the telephone from up north by the sea to make sure he had done it just as she had demanded. She had enjoyed the drama of it. The danger and the cruelty. And to his dismay, Badri dictated two more letters: one from Bahman to Roya and another from Roya to Bahman, and made him promise to write them and mail them a few days before the kids were to “meet” at the squares. So each would receive the other’s shortly after their planned meeting, while both were stung by being stood up.
So Badri could end it her way.
He had agreed. He had not wanted to, but he had agreed. He did as she said, in order to make up for his past failure. Although he knew he was creating even more heartbreak.
His penmanship was perfect—always had been. He could copy anything. Hadn’t he been trained from a very young age at the best schools to master calligraphy, to train as a scholar? He was a product of the age when excellent handwriting signified status. Few could match the control of his hand.
Can God forgive him?
Badri would blame him if Bahman and Roya got married. And then what would he do? What would sh
e do? Would she kill herself? He couldn’t live with that.
He sits on the stepladder, still shaking. Is he really just doing Badri’s bidding? Or is there a part of him that, despite the best of intentions, is jealous of what those two kids would have? A life of love. What he never had.
He remembers how Roya looked at that boy in his shop.
He is drenched in sweat. And as he rests there with his head in his hands, he knows.
No. It is wrong.
He knows in his heart what he must do.
He closes the shop.
And he runs.
He runs and runs and runs. He has not moved this fast since he himself was young, since he himself was in love. With each yard covered, with each stride, there is a sense of new lightness in his heart. Badri is wrong. They cannot do this to the young couple. He cannot forget the girl. The girl who stands in the square.
The alleys and the streets and the swelling crowds of people are a blur as he runs. He finally reaches his destination, entirely out of breath. He pushes and shoves through the mob of people. So much for no more demonstrations. Will the people ever learn? Roya. Roya. Roya. Of course he knows where she stands. He pushes his way through. And then, in the middle of the mob and the chaos, he sees her. He forces himself past angry bodies to her. He grabs her shoulder.
“Roya!” He could cry with relief. He has found her. And he will tell her.
She looks worn out and tired. She is pale and her lips are dry. He is filled with a desire to protect her, help her, carry her away from this mess. He needs to tell her.
“Oh, thank God! Mr. Fakhri! Have you seen—”
“Roya Khanom, please listen to me. . . .” He clutches her shoulders with both hands.
“I just need to find Bahman,” she says.
“Roya Khanom, I need for you to please know something—”
She moves away from his grasp. And then the force of a blast. He is sent up into the sky and onto the ground at the same time. He is shocked by the impact. He struggles to breathe. He knows only that he is now on the ground and his chest is wet and it won’t stop being wet. He wants to find Roya to tell her what he did wrong to tell her she is in the wrong place because of him and that she should go to Bahman who is at Baharestan Square that they should go to the Office of Marriage and Divorce that they should seize this moment that they should not forgo their love that they should have many years together growing old together they will grow up and get older and softer and fuller together they will raise children they will do wonderful things they will grow into old age together he wants to tell her that he is sorry he wants to tell Badri he is sorry and he remembers the square behind the bazaar with the flies and the melon rinds and he remembers how he built that shop inch by inch book by book and he thinks of his children and their squeals of joy when they were young he is wrong and he sees Atieh sitting in her chair at night quietly sewing and he wants to burn onto this world that he is sorry and the child that Badri removed from her womb would be thirty-six years old this summer and he never got to know that child, he never got to hold its hand. And he is sorry. He is sorry. Roya’s face is in front of him. And several others now. A man is pressing on his wet chest and he cannot breathe he is floating. Badri from the bazaar stands there, balanced on her toes for what seems like a snatch of time separate from all the rest. Her lips are warm and sticky on his face. She feels like a burst of fire. And now a snatch of melon cloth on his heart. Is he dreaming it? He looks in the direction of his stationery shop the one he built to make up for his sins to spread knowledge to nurture love and he thinks he sees smoke but he’s sure it’s not that. It will live on. People will walk into his stationery shop even after he is gone. He doesn’t know how but he knows they will someone will not let it go someone will keep it going he is disappearing he is shrinking the sky is becoming darker the curtains are drawing closed from either side he is leaving but the love will continue to live the young will continue their hope the fight for democracy won’t die his books the words the notes the letters the hope cannot ever end. It is a love from which we never recover.
Acknowledgments
For a long time I sat with this story alone, writing at my desk and shaping these characters from scratch. I was convinced they would only be mine. But once the draft was done and I dared to show it, the generosity of others stunned me. For all those whose time and energies played a role in bringing this story into the world, I am forever grateful.
Wendy Sherman has been with me since the very beginning and is an indefatigable supporter and brilliant superagent. She sat back when I needed time for these characters to bubble up and develop and gently encouraged me when I needed a push. I am so very lucky to have her in my life and am awed by the journey we’ve shared.
Writers dream of editors like Jackie Cantor who “get” their characters and story on a visceral level and whose wisdom and guidance come from the heart. When Jackie responded to my manuscript, it made me believe in magic. Her belief in this book and her intense commitment to it have made all the difference and I am so very thankful for her.
I owe a huge thanks to the entire team at Gallery Books, where this book was lucky enough to land. Thank you to Wendy Sheanin for a super exciting prepublication tour, to Meagan Harris and Michelle Podberezniak for all their publicity talents, and to Sara Quaranta for being there during every step. A special shout-out goes to copy editor Joal Hetherington, whose thoroughness is much appreciated, and to art director Lisa Litwack and her brilliant team for the book jacket design.
The coup d’etat of 1953 is seared in the memories of those who lived through it and the ripple effects of that event have affected the world. For historical research, All the Shah’s Men by Stephen Kinzer (which opens with the same Harry Truman epigraph) was extremely helpful. For poetry, author Melody Moezzi helped me select Rumi verses translated by Nader Khalili, Coleman Barks, and her own brilliant self. And thank you to the elders in my family who put up with my endless questions about that tumultuous time, including my mother-in-law, Maman Pari, who shared fascinating anecdotes of her school days.
In the cold of Boston’s winter after I thought my revision would be a puzzle I’d never solve, editor Denise Roy swooped in and lent her expert eye and brilliant mind to my draft. Her spot-on advice and guidance is much appreciated and I am so grateful for the conversations we shared. My friend and fellow author Susan Carlton met with me on many a winter’s day and summer afternoon in the library and later over burgers and bagels. Her advice and support made such a difference and I don’t know what I would have done without her. Thank you also to Maria Mutch for reading the first draft and for being such a source of joy and light in my life, to Ilan Mochari for his friendship and wisdom over the years, and to my classmates from the NYU MFA days who will always be my cohorts: Courtney Brkic, Cara Davis Conomos, Jeff Jackson, and Sophie Powell. A very special thank-you to the luminous Lara Wilson, who sat across from me at a serendipitous lunch and calmly suggested a plot twist (without having read a word of the manuscript). Thank you, dear Lara, for your friendship. And for being the first to read the finished book and to share their reactions before the advance copies came out, a huge glorious thank-you to Elinor Lipman and Whitney Scharer. Your early support means the world to me.
If there ever was a Hogwarts for writers, it is GrubStreet in Boston and I am so lucky to have found this community of fantastic artists. Thank you to Eve Bridburg for creating what is no doubt the best writer’s organization in the country and for her friendship, to Christopher Castellani for always supporting me and being generous and kind and inspiring, to Sonya Larson and the entire staff at Grub for all they do, and to Dariel Suarez for giving me the opportunity to teach incredible writers. I am so proud of all my students and love being part of their journeys.
So much of my own growth as a writer was shaped by generous teachers whose words and advice I still carry: Charles Muscatine, Leonard Michaels, Maxine Hong Kingston, and Bharati Mukherjee at UC Berkeley;
Alexander Chee, who believed in me when I was trying to find my way; and E. L. Doctorow, Chuck Wachtel, and Paule Marshall at my MFA program. And I would be remiss if I didn’t include Mr. Garcia, my sixth-grade teacher at P.S. 144 in Forest Hills, Queens, who treated a newly arrived immigrant girl from Iran with respect and dignity and encouraged me to write and tell stories.
I also owe thanks to friends who keep me grounded: the entire Lavangar crew of Stephanie, Julia, Rachel, Abby, Lily, and David Lawrence (David is the photographer extraordinaire and his author photo has followed me around the world!), Victoria Fraser, Marjorie Travis, Pam, Peter, Jane, and Claire Lawrence, Alexandria Snyders Dykeman, Margaret Dykeman, Linda K. Wertheimer, Pam Wolfson, Kwi Young Choi, and Laurie Buchta. I will never forget Jay Buchta’s generosity and he is dearly missed.
Thank you to the readers of my first novel, Together Tea: your notes and emails, as well as the many face-to-face interactions we had at readings and in book clubs, kept me going. A special shout-out to all the talented writers I’ve had the privilege of working with through Solstice Literary Magazine and the Arlington Author Salon. And thank you to poet and professor Persis Karim, who has supported my work and the work of so many Iranian-American writers.
My sister, Maryam, encouraged me to read and write when we took shelter in the basement as bombs fell on Tehran during our childhood and that’s only the first time writing saved me. I love to laugh with her and see her beautiful girls grow and I am so grateful for our unbreakable bond. My mother’s courage and good humor in the face of hardship inspire me every day. Her love has sustained me and I only hope to have half the stamina and strength she has. Thank you, dear Maman, for everything. You are everything. To my children, Mona and Rod: you fill my life with joy and your wit and your kindness are the best gifts in the world. I have loved all our days. There is no one whose company I enjoy more . . . except maybe your dad’s. Thank you, Kamran Joon, for wiping my tears after I wrote certain sections, for listening, for being there, for believing in me from the start. I love you.
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