“She wasn’t rude, exactly. She hasn’t been feeling well. Bahman said she’s been a bit sick. She’ll get better.”
“I can’t believe you said yes!”
“Look, Zari, being in love is difficult to explain. When you know it’s right, you just know. There’s no avoiding it. It’s like . . . it’s like a tree has fallen on your head.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“What I mean is, it’s impossible to miss. That’s just how life is. Bahman is my fate. Together we will . . .” It was impossible to capture in words the tender web in which Roya and Bahman had been suspended earlier that night and every time they were together. Even trying to describe it to her sister felt like cheapening it.
“Good night, Sister,” Zari sighed.
Roya snuggled next to her, grateful that the conversation was over.
“I will pray for you!” Zari added, and squeezed her sister’s hand.
When Bahman came to ask her parents’ permission, everyone was nervous. Even though he’d been over a few times at the end of spring and beginning of summer, it had always been when their other friends were also there. This time he came alone. Tradition called for the boy to attend with his parents when asking for a girl’s hand, but Bahman told them that his mother was quite unwell and his father had to stay to take care of her and so he’d had to come by himself.
At those small gatherings with friends, when Bahman spoke of his passion for the prime minister’s policies, Baba had been like a man struck by a match. They agreed on politics, which already put Bahman in Baba’s good graces and was a huge advantage. But it was different to request formal permission to marry their daughter and they all knew it.
Roya was so anxious; she spilled the tea as she served it to Baba, Maman, and Bahman. Bahman sat across from her parents in the living room, chewed on his lip, and shuffled his feet. Roya felt bad for him, wanted to help him; all of this was supremely unconventional. His being there without his own parents made it so much harder. They should have been there! As was custom, Roya left the room after serving the tea so that Bahman could speak to her parents without her present. But she left the door a tiny bit ajar and immediately joined Zari, who was waiting outside the living room. The two of them watched through the crack in the door.
“Bahman Jan, welcome to our home,” Baba said quite formally.
“Noghl for your tea?” From the door crack, Roya saw Maman hold up a silver bowl filled with the almond candy.
“May your hands not ache, Khanom Kayhani, thank you.” Bahman used the common Persian tarof expressions for exaggerated polite talk and dutifully took the noghl.
A few more niceties were exchanged. Baba remarked about the weather. Maman said something about fruit, would he like it, please take this plate, the cucumbers are so fresh. Bahman knew better than to decline. Then there was silence. Roya held her breath and Zari chewed on her thumb.
Bahman coughed. “For the past seven months, as you know, Agha and Khanom Kayhani, since this past winter, I have had the pleasure of getting to know your daughter. This has made me an extremely lucky and fortunate person.”
Zari stifled a giggle.
Maman and Baba didn’t say a word. Bahman went on: “I want you to know that I have worked very hard in high school and will be graduating, thankfully, as a shagerd aval, at the top of my class.”
“Well, from a high school like yours, that would practically guarantee a position in the professional class!” Baba said.
“Thank you. Yes. But”—Bahman cleared his throat—“I think you should know that I would like to start working at a progressive pro-Mossadegh newspaper in the fall.”
Zari hit her forehead with her palm.
Maman shifted uncomfortably. Roya knew that working at a political newspaper was not what she’d had in mind for a future son-in-law. Roya held her breath as though the sound of her exhalation could ruin everything.
“It would be temporary. Just till things settle down in this country. We have to do what we can. To help the National Front. I have friends at the paper,” Bahman went on. “It would be a good starting position. I hope you know that I am devoted to your daughter and I would do everything in my power to make sure we have a secure and happy life together. Everything. She would want for nothing. It would be a privilege . . . it would be my good fortune to be able to start a life with her. My parents couldn’t be here today, I know they should be here, but I will be sure to bring them if—if a match could go ahead. If I could be given the opportunity to have the honor of making your daughter . . .”
“Is a tree falling on your head right now?” Zari whispered.
Roya wanted to run out into the living room and just sit next to Bahman. How long had he practiced this speech? How nervous must he be right now? She knew Maman would not like the continued political activism. But it was hard not to be besotted by Bahman’s charm, not to want to inhale the air he breathed, not to wish that half of his good cheer and optimism could infect them all. Surely Maman and Baba would approve.
“What I am trying to say, Agha Kayhani, Khanom Kayhani, is that I would very much like, well, I would very much appreciate the honor of . . . I would like to ask permission to marry your daughter,” Bahman finally said.
“My dear boy! Please. My boy, my boy!” Baba’s voice boomed. “Albateh! Yes, of course.”
Roya let out a long, deep breath. Zari stood still and was silent.
Maman dabbed her eyes with her fingers. “May you live a long happy life together,” she said. She smiled when Bahman pumped Baba’s hand up and down far too many times.
And Roya leaned into the door feeling a surge of relief and nerves. Her parents had approved. Now his parents just had to come and meet with hers officially.
A few days later, Roya drank strong coffee with Bahman as they sat on the pink-cushioned chairs in Café Ghanadi.
Suddenly she had the strange feeling of being watched. Her body tightened at the thought of thugs on the prowl for political dissidents again. She looked around the café with dread. But there were no men with batons. Then she noticed a tall young woman sitting a few tables away, wearing a green feathered hat with a large pin in it. The woman stared directly at her. She was beautiful, with olive skin, large dark eyes, pouty lips colored a deep crimson, and hair that fell in perfect waves beneath her hat. Roya could even make out a dark mole above her upper lip, like a movie star’s. The woman continued to stare at Roya with an expression bordering on disgust.
“Bahman,” Roya whispered. “Don’t look now, but this woman at that table keeps staring at us.”
“Who?” Bahman swiveled around.
“Don’t look now!” Roya muttered under her breath.
But it was too late. Bahman had seen the woman. He turned around to face Roya again. His face and ears were red.
“She keeps staring, right?”
“Oh, that’s just . . .” Bahman mumbled. “Don’t worry.”
“You know her?”
“That’s Shahla.”
“Who?”
He sighed. “My mother thinks she’s my destiny.”
Roya couldn’t speak.
He leaned into the table and took her hand. “What matters is what I think. What we think,” he quickly added. “I don’t subscribe to that old-fashioned nonsense of arranged marriages. You know that.”