If she believed in fate, she would know that they were meant to meet, to fall in love like this, to want only to be together. Her body fit so well into his, it was as though she’d found her home. She was meant to have been in that Stationery Shop when he strode in whistling; she was meant to share Rumi’s poetry with him, to feel this connection with him. These things were meant to happen—it was impossible to think of a life without him now. She was his. It was that simple. It was more than destiny. It was reality, a practicality almost. It wasn’t a dream. It was simple fact.
“Hey, what are you thinking?” Bahman asked her as they glided across the floor.
“What?”
“Never have I seen anyone think so hard while dancing. You’re doing great, don’t be scared.”
“Oh,” Roya said. “Thanks.”
The sensual guitar music practically vibrated through them. He was right. Why worry? None of it mattered. They were together and that was all that mattered and would ever matter.
“Where are you? You’re so far away.” He kissed her neck.
“Could I be any closer to you? We’re practically stuck to each other! Your dream come true!”
“I’m not complaining.” He smiled. “But your thoughts. You look like you’re trying to figure out the world.”
“I know better than to try.”
“You had the same deep look of concentration when I first met you.”
“You whistled like a fool. You didn’t even look at me.”
She thought the dance was over, but the song just blended into another one. Bahman clearly had no intention of letting her go. Together they continued. Whether the other couples had stopped dancing she did not know. Her face was so close to his he must have tasted the melon on her breath.
“Last winter. The politics, the rallies. You saved me,” he said.
“Hardly.”
“You did, you have no idea.”
She wondered what he meant. Saved him from being sucked even deeper into politics? Saved him from being wedded eventually to Shahla? Saved him from the force of his mother? She wanted to ask, but she also didn’t want to get into it. That winter galvanized by politics had melted into a spring so soft, so sweet; it would forever be ingrained in Roya’s memory with the taste of shirini, the buttery pastries, and the bitter, intense, creamy coffee.
“You’re less political now,” she admitted.
“It matters less to me now. But I’m worried.”
“About us?”
“They want to oust Mossadegh.”
When she heard the prime minister’s name, her hand grew slack. “Of course. I thought it all mattered less to you now, you just said—”
“No such thing as no politics for us, Roya Joon. Politics drives every single thing in this country whether we like it or not. All of this: the dancing, the gramophone, these girls dressed like they’re in an American movie, do you think any of it could exist without the efforts of those who are political?”
She wanted another crushed melon-ice drink. She wanted to sit down. They were stuck together in an embrace that was sexy but also suddenly stultifying. If she even tried to peel her body away from his in the middle of this dance, it would probably be impossible, against the laws of nature, against fate.
“You’re worried,” she sighed. “About the prime minister. I see.”
“There are rumors that they want to overthrow him.”
“Who’s they?”
“The Shah’s forces. The English. The Americans. All of them together. I’ve heard that—”
“He’s crazy about you!” Jahangir suddenly tangoed past them with Shahla. Shahla, stiff in Jahangir’s arms, kept her gaze on the ceiling, looking stoically at the chandelier. “All I hear is Roya, Roya, ROYA!” Jahangir sang out.
Bahman held her even closer as Jahangir and Shahla spun by in a fury. Shahla’s glare could have extinguished the lights of the chandelier.
Bahman leaned into her and whispered, “Did you know that Shahla’s family works for the Shah? Her father is allied with his police.”
“Oh God. Please don’t tell me you think she’s a spy for the Shah.”
“I’m just saying. I don’t put anything past anyone.” His belt dug into her.
“Does she know you’re spreading Mossadegh’s speeches all through town? Would she . . . get revenge on you for not fulfilling your mother’s pact of arranged marriage?”
Bahman pressed his cheek into hers and was quiet. They didn’t talk about the prime minister anymore, they just danced, hanging on to each other tighter, as though they could lose each other right there in the middle of Jahangir’s living room. The Perfect Couple!
“Will Shahla and all the rest of these fancy friends cheshm us, give us the evil eye?” Roya asked as they danced across the room. “Sometimes their envy feels palpable. Like you can even touch it.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t believe in that evil-eye stuff. It’s superstitious junk. I wish our culture could move past it. What we have? No one can touch it. Anyway, this is meant to be.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in superstition.”
“I don’t.”
“Isn’t meant to be another way of saying destiny?”
He smiled. “Nothing can come between us. We can’t be jinxed. By anyone.”
“Your mother,” she dared to whisper.
He didn’t say a word.
She looked down at their feet, ashamed. “Sorry.”
“Look.” He was suddenly serious. “She’ll come around. You’ll see.” The music swelled into a crescendo, dramatic notes hitting a climax. Without warning, he dipped her. The blood rushed to her head, the room swam, everything was upside down.
“You can’t get rid of me,” he said as he pulled her back up. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
Chapter Ten
1953
* * *
Letters in Books
The following Tuesday, Bahman disappeared. When she called his house, no one answered. When she knocked on the door, no one came out. Not a tired, wan Mrs. Aslan with rouge on her cheeks. Not a pleasing, generous Mr. Aslan asking her if she wanted tea. No one. Neighbors shrugged. One of them suggested they’d maybe gone to the North? To the sea? To escape the heat. That must be it. Just innuendos, just guesses, nothing clear.
After three days of no news from Bahman, Roya was weak with worry. Finally she broke down and went to the one place that had been at the center of it all: the Stationery Shop. She was afraid of what she might discover there—what Mr. Fakhri might know about political arrests. She had avoided going there at first, but now she had to know.
“My dear girl, are you not aware? Prime Minister Mossadegh has a lot of enemies. He wants to take our country forward, but foreign powers and our own two-faced traitors are trying to topple him. At any cost.”
“Mr. Fakhri, please. Where is he?”
“He can’t be with you right now.”
“We’re engaged. Look, Mr. Fakhri, your kindness is not overlooked—we’ll always be grateful for how you helped us, how you let us . . . meet. But it was one thing when we came here before in secret. Now we’re getting married. At the end of the summer! Please, just tell me what you know. One of his neighbors told me he might have gone up north to be by the sea. But why wouldn’t he tell me? He would tell me, right?”