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 secondto-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.