“Come, girl, all the color has jumped from your face!” Mrs. Aslan had the irritated tone of one addressing an inferior.
“I just . . .” Roya stammered. She turned to Mr. Fakhri. “I’m just surprised to see you here.”
“I invited him. It is my son’s engagement party, after all. Or don’t I have the right to invite old friends?”
“You know each other?”
Mr. Fakhri laughed nervously. “My dear, it was in my shop, on my watch, under my bookshelves, with my pages surrounding you, that your romance began. You know that. That is all Mrs. Aslan means.”
Roya remembered how Mr. Fakhri had told her to exercise “severe caution” with Bahman that second time he’d come into the shop. Had he meant because of Bahman’s mother? This difficult woman who made her feel unwanted and second-best? Did Mr. Fakhri know that Shahla had been planned for Bahman? How did he even know Bahman’s mother?
“What a masterpiece you’ve conducted, indeed. Brought my son and this girl together, now didn’t you, Mr. Fakhri? Bravo! What a miracle-maker you are.” Mrs. Aslan snorted.
Beads of sweat formed on Mr. Fakhri’s forehead. “You give me far too much credit, Mrs. Aslan,” he said quietly. “I don’t have the miracle-making powers you claim.”
“Oh, aren’t you just so humble. Such a perfect gentleman! The kind who would harm no one, not one soul. Not . . . one . . . child,” Mrs. Aslan said slowly.
The scent of saffron rice wafted from the kitchen. They would eat soon. The guests would eventually leave. The engagement party would be over. She and Bahman would marry at the end of the summer. Mrs. Aslan would come around. She would get well. She had to get well.
“Take a bow!” Mrs. Aslan said shrilly. “Take your bow, Mr. Fakhri. Look at what you did!” She whirled her arm in a huge circle above her head. “You brought two young lovers together! How absolutely magical of you!”
Roya felt weak and sick. She was embarrassed to see Mr. Fakhri look so uncomfortable and defensive. And Mrs. Aslan’s sarcastic tone was off-putting and unsettling.
Then a slight breeze, like a fresh gust of wind. The particles of air around her shifted. Bahman was next to her. He had strode toward them, like a captain recognizing the warning signs of a sinking vessel. He put his arm around her waist, and suddenly Roya was on safer ground. Right in front of Mr. Fakhri and his mother, he pulled her close to him. She could smell the soap on his skin. She could feel the crispness of his white shirt against her arm.
“Is everything good here?” Bahman asked pointedly. “Mother? Everything all right?”
It was a warning as much as a question. Roya knew that Bahman did not want his mother to spoil this evening. His torso touched hers as they stood as a unit in front of Mrs. Aslan and Mr. Fakhri, protectively, daringly.
Mrs. Aslan slumped in her chair. The rouged cheeks looked more ridiculous than ever against her wan skin.
“I was just congratulating Mr. Fakhri, Bahman Jan. He changed the course of your life, he surely did! You could have had your pick of any number of beautiful, wealthy young women. You know I’ve had my eye on one in particular for so very long—she is the perfect match for you! But Mr. Fakhri and his books and papers came to the rescue and provided love. How quaint! The two of you, just like the characters in those books you read, the novels from the West. Artificial romance—”
“Mother, can I get you anything?” Bahman interrupted. His voice was strained. “Mother, can I please ask you to stop?”
“I am simply thanking Mr. Fakhri,” Mrs. Aslan continued, “for his services. He is so good at finding the right match for love. For him, love is what matters above all else. Mr. Fakhri would do anything for it. He is just so pure of heart.”
Mr. Fakhri stared at his shoes. He didn’t say a word.
“It is hard for me . . .” Mrs. Aslan’s voice faltered. “. . . to tolerate this. I cannot tolerate . . .” She gazed off into the distance. “Tolerate is all I’ve done.” Her voice choked up.
Bahman’s arm slipped from Roya’s waist. Something in the texture of the air had changed again. Bahman stepped away from Roya and knelt by his mother. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Perhaps I can get you more tea. Let me get you more tea.”
Mrs. Aslan tilted her head and brought her knitted black shawl to her face. She sobbed.
“Mother.” Bahman took her hand. “Oh, Mother.”
Most of the other guests were deep in conversation. The room was filled with their laughter. Roya envied them for their obliviousness to the scene in the corner. They did not have to bear Mrs. Aslan’s anger, the drama created by her presence. On this sinking ship, she, Bahman, and Mr. Fakhri were alone.
Bahman knelt in front of his mother and pulled her head to his chest. Roya and Mr. Fakhri stood frozen, spectators to a painfully private moment, as the mother sobbed into her son’s chest.
When Bahman got up, his white shirt was stained crimson. The red rouge his mother wore sat in splotches near his heart.
Roya wanted to take Bahman’s shirt and scrub it clean, scour off his mother’s stains. But she was paralyzed, numb.
“I’ll get more tea,” Mr. Fakhri finally said.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” Mrs. Aslan murmured.
“I won’t,” Mr. Fakhri said quietly. “You like your tea strong.”
With small, nervous steps, he moved away.
Mrs. Aslan tightened her shawl around her shoulders and looked at Bahman. “This place is too cold and the lights are all wrong.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” Bahman said softly. “I am just so sorry.”
Everyone went home, and the engagement party ended. Afterward, Maman burned incense to get rid of any jealous energy. She waved the fumes of incense over Roya’s head and muttered for the jealous eye to be blinded.
“Oh, don’t let them cheshm you, Roya Joon, give you the evil eye,” Zari said, even though she’d been quite vocal that she didn’t like the idea of Roya with Bahman from the very beginning. “There is nothing worse than the power of the evil eye. Jealous fools see that you’re happy and successful now with that boy, and then zap! They jinx it all. Watch out!”
Chapter Nine
1953
* * *
Tangled Tango Troubles
Roya’s life kept getting bigger, deliriously exhilarating. Just when she thought she had reached the cusp of something (for example, after she’d finished all the translations of Russian novels that Mr. Fakhri stocked in his shop), another exciting frontier came along. The country was awakening artistically with a new class of intelligentsia. The city blossomed with publishing, cinema, theater, literature, and art.
Now that they were engaged, she and Bahman could mix without chaperones and go out openly, even in the evenings, without worry.
Bahman’s friend Jahangir had a bona fide gramophone. He owned records from the East and the West. They started attending his social gatherings as a couple. At his parties, Roya heard songs in a foreign tongue that was so sexy it was sinister. So smooth, it softened hardship.
Jahangir’s dance soirees were on Thursday nights, the eve of the Friday holiday. His parents had access to all the latest gadgets, such as the gramophone. Bahman said that when his mother first found out that Jahangir’s family dripped with wealth, she’d greedily encouraged his friendship with him. Roya grimaced at this; Mrs. Aslan no doubt had been excited about the sophisticated, rich young ladies like Shahla who could be prospects for Bahman at Jahangir’s house.