My dearest Roya,
When I got your letter, I thought I’d die of happiness. God, I miss you so much. I can’t think, I can barely eat. I’ve wanted to crawl out of my skin these past few days. It feels like I haven’t seen you for years. I am sorry that I had to leave so suddenly. I wish I could tell you why—I will one day. For now, please know that I am fine, that you need not worry. I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can. It’s just complicated right now and I have to figure it all out, to find a way. I can’t wait till you’re in my arms again.
I was so relieved to get your letter! Tell your parents not to worry about me. I’m fine, I promise. I hope Zari isn’t torturing you too much.
You are in everything I see. In every moment, you are with me, Roya Joon.
In the hopes of seeing you again—the sooner the better.
You are my love.
Bahman
She ran her fingers across the letter, willing his scent to rise from the paper, wanting part of him to sink through the pads of her fingers. She had only seen his handwriting once before, the inscription he’d written inside the notebook he’d given her as a gift for the new year. Seeing his handwriting again felt like holding a piece of him. In each stroke, with each curve and dip of the letters on the page, she could feel him. And when she read the letter over and over and over again, his voice was inside her.
Naturally her response was effusive and filled with longing. She tended to be more reserved in what she said even when they were alone together. But somehow on paper, she was able to say what she’d had trouble saying in person. She could be just as loving. But she also could be direct; she could ask him difficult questions. Where are you? she wrote. Why can’t I see you?
When she handed the letter to Mr. Fakhri the next day, she felt naked. But the envelope was sealed. Besides, surely Mr. Fakhri had better things to do than read the sweet nothings of two teenagers. She thought of her words being placed inside the pages of a Persian poetry book, hugged by the verses of the ancients. Their love was safe there. In a way, it belonged there. She tried to imagine one of Bahman’s friends or a fellow activist coming into the shop, picking up the book, then delivering it to Bahman, wherever he was.
Until his next letter arrived, she was restless, distracted, preoccupied. She walked into walls, stared into space; nothing could shake her thoughts of him. Only when she received a reply was she temporarily at peace. To read his words, to see the strong script of his hand, the way he made his Farsi n so confident and intense, the way his lines sloped slightly upward at the end . . . It felt like hearing him, to hold that thin sheet of paper in her hand.
More and more frequently, the government police came to the Stationery Shop. Unlike just a few months ago, it was no longer a haven of privacy. A policeman or two lingered by the stacks of books—at first randomly, and then, it seemed, consistently. They watched who bought whose speeches. They took note of customers asking for pro-Mossadegh works, and they especially paid attention when anyone wanted anything Marxist. Mr. Fakhri looked beleaguered and tired. Like anyone being watched by government agents, his movements were self-conscious, his words robotic. He would still select for Roya works by the best writers and would still make sure that she got her weekly dose of poetry. But he was distracted and preoccupied now. Roya no longer lingered in the shop. She took her book from Mr. Fakhri in as natural a way as possible, careful not to show that she knew the volume contained not just the author’s words, but Bahman’s. Then she ran outside and waited for a time to be completely alone to read his words.
My dearest Roya,
I think of you all the time—every single day, every night. Truth is there are no times when you are not on my mind, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. One day we’ll look back on this separation and laugh. I can’t wait till it’s all behind us. Everywhere I see your beautiful face. If you are worried about me, please know I am safe, healthy, I only lack you, which means that I lack everything, of course. I am counting down the days, Roya Joon. Things are just a little difficult now. And the prime minister, his administration, it’s all in jeopardy, but we will be the ones who’ll look back on this time in history with pride. We are cementing our future in democracy. And here I go again, I know you don’t like it when I speak too much of politics. Well, then, let me tell you that I can’t wait to be married.
I dare to dream of our children.
I have it all planned out. I should be back in a few weeks.
In the hopes of seeing you again—the sooner the better.
You are my love.
Bahman
Chapter Eleven
1953
Sour Plums
“Sister, put that rubbish away and come to bed, my God!”
Roya stayed seated by the foot of the bed. “Have you read them? Tell me you haven’t read them.”
“Actually, I’d rather peel ten kilos of eggplants with Kazeb than read the sugary effusions of your activist lover.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Come on, Roya. We have no secrets. Sisters have to trust each other, right? Just come to bed. You read the letters every night. You think I can’t hear you drag the box out from under the bed, the paper rustling, you sniffling like a buffoon? It’s a little silly, if you ask me.” She paused, then asked, “Why did he leave? Where is he?”
Roya was embarrassed that Zari had known about the letters this whole time, and mortified that after so many letters from Bahman, she still couldn’t answer the question of where he was and why he’d left. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.
“Has he been arrested? Is he in a prison?” Zari suddenly sat up in the dark. Though it was hard to make out the expression on her sister’s face in the sliver of moonlight, Roya sensed a certain thrill in Zari at the thought of Bahman in jail.
“Go back to sleep, Zari. It’s not something I’d expect you to understand anyway.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to describe the power of it to you. No offense, but you have no idea what it’s like to be in love.”
The minute she said it, she regretted it. A small sound came from the bed. A tiny squeak. Was it a swallowed sob? But of course Zari was probably laughing at her—it was likely a suppressed chuckle at Bahman’s expense. Roya put the letters back in the box and slid them into their place. She climbed into the bed they shared. “Good night, Zari.” She turned her back.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Zari’s voice wasn’t even sleepy.
“What?”
“You think about him all the time. Right? He’s the first person you think about when you wake up in the morning. He’s in your dreams. You wish you didn’t think about him all the time, but you can’t help it. It can’t be stopped. It’s like he’s always with you. No?”
“Have you been reading foreign novels too?” Roya propped herself on her elbow and faced Zari’s side. How could Zari know so much about what it felt like? Her self-absorbed sister couldn’t possibly have a love of her own. Could she?
Zari’s figure under the soft cotton sheet was a small bundle. She was quiet. Then she said, “Good night, Sister.”
Roya turned again and they lay back-to-back, each curved into the fetal position, only their bottoms touching. This was how they had slept ever since Zari had been old enough to leave Maman and Baba’s room as a baby.
“Good night, Zari.”
The phrases in his letters became as familiar to Roya as lyrics of famous poems, or the words of popular songs. They became permanently stored in her memory. She recited them in her mind that summer, as she waited for him to come back. I think of you all the time—every single day, every night. . . . Everywhere I see your beautiful face. She’d remember a line from one of his letters as she helped Maman in the kitchen, as she sewed small flowers onto a blouse with Zari, as she drank crushed melon-ice to chase away the heat. She remembered his words as the rallies outside grew in number and the political factions divided further.
> She’d picked a small tin box to store Bahman’s letters because he’d be back any day now and she didn’t think they’d need to exchange too many. But surprisingly, the pile in the box grew. He didn’t come back as soon as she’d hoped. With his absence, she felt smaller. With him gone, she was lost. Each letter she received gave her nourishment, a reason to keep moving forward. But her worry did not subside. She was sick with questions, sick with loneliness, and sick with longing.
Was it possible that through the letters her love for him grew? It did. It strengthened, solidified. The more she read his words and traced his handwriting on the page, the closer she felt to him. Food didn’t taste quite the same since he’d left; the sun was listless; a pall hung over everything. But his letters sustained her and alleviated the feeling of emptiness, at least temporarily. His voice was in every syllable—she convinced herself his musky scent was in the fiber of the paper he used to write to her.
If only I didn’t have to be away right now. I wish I was with you. We’ll have the rest of our lives together, I will make it up to you, Roya Joon. You will see and you will understand soon enough.
Though she desperately wanted to know why he’d had to go, she trusted him. It was impossible not to finish reading one of his letters without being convinced that no man had ever loved anyone as strongly as Bahman loved her. He had to have his reasons, he would tell her later; she believed him. Anytime she felt the tug of doubt, anytime she felt too lost, she pulled the box of letters out from under her bed and his words were the antidote. The letters were exciting and comforting at the same time. They convinced her that a sweeter, more romantic man had not existed.
I want nothing more than to get closer to you, Roya Joon. I want nothing else.
Bahman always wrote back. He never kept her waiting. The second-to-last letter was inserted at the page of the Rumi love poem she’d been reading that spring day when Mr. Fakhri had rushed to the bank and she and Bahman were alone for the first time. Roya was moved by this gesture. Had Mr. Fakhri seen her read that poem? Had he paid such close attention and now placed the envelope there for her? She sniffed the paper as she always did for the scent of Bahman. His letter started with how much he missed seeing her. But then it devolved into paragraphs about his fear of Prime Minister Mossadegh being overthrown and the dangers of foreign influence. Having oil was their curse, he wrote—imagine how different it would be if others weren’t always greedy for their oil. He wrote about how the British and the Russians competed for influence in their country. The threat of a coup, of invasion and war—it is all there, Roya Joon. But we will fight!
He signed the letter Ya marg ya Mossadegh! Give me Mossadegh or give me death!
Later that night, Roya sat at the foot of the bed in the dark with the letter on her lap until Zari finally yelled, “By God, come to bed, you lovesick fool!”
The spring of sweet pastry shop outings and walks together and the early summer of their engagement and dancing soirees turned into a midsummer composed of just the letters, hidden in books. But Bahman’s most recent letter sounded like a political speech as well as an ode of love. As Tehran teemed with demonstrations and political tension, Roya felt more and more alone. Amidst the turmoil, she worried more than ever for his safety. Was he participating in covert anti-Shah activities? Was he actually in prison? His last letter had expressed his devotion to her and the prime minister almost in the same breath.
To escape the heat, Roya and Zari often went to the rooftop of their house in the evenings and at night. Maman had arranged rugs on the flat surface, and some nights they even slept there. One afternoon after a long nap and after the rest of the household, including Kazeb, were all up and about, the two sisters went to the rooftop even though it was hot up there. It felt like getting away to go there in the middle of the day. They sat on a rug up on the rooftop, a bowl of tart green plums between them. The sun beat down on them as street peddlers yelled about their wares in the street below.
“Sister, you have to cheer up. Come on. It’s been weeks since he left, and you just have the long face all the time. You have his letters, right? I thought that made you feel better.”
Roya didn’t know how much she could confide in Zari, but her sister was all she had. “His last letter was a bit strange,” she finally confessed.
“Oh?” Zari picked up a green plum and bit into it.
“It was all about his worry that Prime Minister Mossadegh would be overthrown in a coup.”
“How very romantic.”
Roya lay down on the rug and put her hands behind her head. The sun felt good on her face, though Maman would hate that she was exposing her skin to the rays. Maman’s nemesis was the sun: she worried about freckles and a tan. She believed her daughters should remain as light-skinned as possible. It drove Roya crazy that Iranians were considered more beautiful if their skin was lighter. Tears crammed her eyes. She wanted to be with Bahman. Whether it was biology or foolishness or youth that was at the root of it, nothing could make this all-encompassing desire go away.
Suddenly Zari’s plum-juice soaked fingers were stroking her cheek, wiping the tears. “Come on. Enough. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just away for . . . a good reason. I bet they are up north by the sea, that’s all. Lord knows his mother couldn’t stop showing off about their villa there, rubbing our faces in it. Come on, Sister. I’m sure he is fine.”
“He would have told me,” Roya said, as Zari’s sticky, plummy fingers continued to wipe her face. “He’s probably arrested. Or else in hiding for a bad reason. He would have told me if he was just going up north to the villa.”
The shouts of the melon seller pushing his cart in the streets below sounded like a voice of mourning, almost like a call to prayer. In the hot, relentless summer heat, it sounded like grief.
“Get yourself up, Sister. Pull it together. Go to the shop. I bet there’s a letter waiting for you.”
When Roya arrived at the Stationery Shop, Mr. Fakhri was attending to other customers. She waited patiently for him to be done with the transactions and eyed the other customers warily. No one knew anymore who could be an anti-Mossadegh spy.
“I apologize, Roya Khanom, but I have orders to fill. It’s inventory time. I have calculations to make,” Mr. Fakhri said after the last customer left.
“Of course.” She was taken aback by how direct he was, but maybe he was just busy. “I just wondered if you have . . . anything for me?”
The bell rang and they both looked at the door. A woman swiftly turned around so her back was to them. Roya couldn’t make out her face.
Mr. Fakhri looked dumbstruck. “Give me a minute,” he said distractedly to Roya.
He disappeared into the back for longer than usual and returned with an envelope. She was alarmed that he hadn’t tucked it away between the pages of a book. The envelope looked vulnerable and dangerous in Mr. Fakhri’s hands. She wished he would hide it.
As though he’d read her mind, he said, “When there’s no one around, of course I can just give you the letter. No need to hide it right now.”
Roya looked around. The woman was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh,” she said. “I just thought that . . . well, never mind. Thank you.”
She reached for the envelope, but Mr. Fakhri held on to it. For a second, it looked like he’d changed his mind, and Roya wondered if a policeman, or perhaps the woman she’d seen moments earlier, had entered the shop again without her hearing the bell, or if someone suspect had suddenly emerged from the shelves.
“Mr. Fakhri?”
He looked at her with great worry. Then he loosened his grasp on the envelope. “There you go, young lady. There you go. Just . . .” He sucked in his breath. “Please be careful.”
“Of course,” Roya said, puzzled at his tone.
The letter was short, but it was everything.
I can’t bear this any longer. I’m coming back. I will explain everything. Please forgive me, Roya Joon. I know this can’t have
been easy on you. I don’t ever want us to have to go through being apart again. I can’t wait to be with you, to really be with you. I know the wedding is planned for the end of summer; I know your mother has her preparations. But I have an idea. Will you come with me to the Office of Marriage and Divorce? We can participate in a short official ceremony there, we can be legally wed. It would mean the world to me. If you agree, please write back, and give your letter to Mr. F. as soon as possible, and we can do it. I promise you, my love. Meet me at Sepah Square, at the center, a week from today. Wednesday, the 28th of Mordad. 12 noon. Or a little later, if I can’t help it. Meet me there, and once and for all we will be one. The excitement of seeing you will keep me going through these next few days.
In the hopes of seeing you again—soon!
You are my love.
Bahman
Chapter Twelve
August 19, 1953
Coup d’État
On the night of August 15, 1953, a Colonel Nassiri and his men went to Prime Minister Mossadegh’s house with a decree from the Shah demanding that the prime minister step down. But, as Roya later learned, Mossadegh had caught wind of the attempted coup and was ready when Colonel Nassiri’s forces arrived. Colonel Nassiri was arrested and declared a traitor. The next morning, Baba, who always listened to Radio Tehran at exactly 6 a.m., slapped the radio repeatedly because it was stunningly silent. Finally, about an hour later, military music exploded into the house. Baba must have turned up the volume to its highest hoping to get any news. The announcer updated the country on the treasonous ousting attempt. Prime Minister Mossadegh came on the air; the Shah and foreign forces had attempted a coup, he explained, but it had been averted. All was fine. Baba couldn’t move for a good fifteen minutes.
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