On the day after the coup attempt, Roya and Zari walked outside but didn’t venture far. Extra police stood everywhere. Photocopies of the Shah’s decree saying that Prime Minister Mossadegh must be replaced by General Zahedi were all over the streets.
“How do they even make so many copies of one sheet of paper so fast?” Zari asked.
Roya shrugged. “Machines in America can make copies like this.”
“You believe in the conspiracy theory too?” Zari asked.
“Jaleh Tabatabayi said—”
“Jaleh Tabatabayi is a Russian-loving communist and you know it. America has nothing to do with this.”
Roya wanted her sister to be right. From the films at Cinema Metropole, and translated novels at Mr. Fakhri’s shop, and Sinatra songs on Jahangir’s gramophone, Roya knew an America that was sparkling and filled with glamorous people who kissed a lot. She wanted that America, not the one that could plot to overthrow her country’s government.
When Baba came home from work on Monday, he said demonstrators had marched from the south of the city to Baharestan Square and toppled a statue of Reza Shah. They had looted buildings and ransacked offices, even setting things on fire.
“Why are the Mossadeghis so violent right now?” Maman asked. “Their National Front won. Why instigate things for no good reason?”
Baba rubbed his face. “I don’t even know if these are real Mossadegh supporters. They could be paid protestors.”
“Who would pay them? The Shah’s out of the country—his crowd is dejected. Who would pay them to destroy things and riot?” Maman’s voice was skeptical.
Baba didn’t answer. But Roya knew that he was thinking about foreign forces being behind it all. She knew that he was thinking of America. But he had to be wrong. She wanted to believe in the America of the romantic movies, not in the one of Baba’s horror.
At the end of the third day of disruptive demonstrations after the attempted coup, Prime Minister Mossadegh demanded that his supporters stay at home. Enough was enough, he said. No more pouring into the streets. No more demonstrations.
When Roya walked to the local hammam baths on Wednesday morning, the streets were calmer than they had been in days. Thank God. People had listened to Mossadegh and stayed home. Even the hammam was almost empty. Five hours. In just five hours she would see Bahman again. Hold him, fold into him, talk to him. Each day of his absence over the past weeks had been excruciating. Without him she had felt weighed down and untethered at the same time. Only the phrases from his letters had kept her going. His words propelled her to put one foot in front of the other even in the large bath hall now.
She took off her clothes in the locker room. Inside the steamy main domed hall, she slipped into one of the warm tubs. While a middle-aged attendant washed her hair and slowly massaged her scalp, Roya closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. After a few blissful silent moments, the attendant blurted out, “Miss, let me tell you. If only Prime Minister Mossadegh hadn’t dissolved Parliament a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have had trouble in the first place. Would he? He was trying to grab too much power, is what he was doing. Mossadegh was pushing the monarchy aside. But we have thousands of years of shahs, don’t we now? We are a country of kings. Mossadegh shouldn’t mess with that.”
“Do you think we could just—”
“With all due respect, Khanom, the Shah has done so much good for this country that the prime minister should thank his lucky stars we even have a Shah like him. Ingratitude for the Shah will be the death of this country, I’m telling you.”
Roya squeezed her eyes shut and said nothing.
At the next station in the baths, a young girl who looked to be about Roya’s age exfoliated her skin with a rough keeseh cloth. Dead skin cells unfurled from Roya’s limbs like shreds from an eraser bought at Mr. Fakhri’s shop. It felt good to get rid of the unwanted toxins and stress of the past few weeks. It was an unburdening, a lightening of the load. But then the girl said that Russia was our friend and Iran was best served by following in its footsteps with a political system that ended class disparity, endless slavery of the masses, and a leftover feudal system that poisoned people. Mossadegh needed to make Iran communist, didn’t he? The girl continued to scrub hard and said she knew she could tell Roya all this without getting into trouble because Roya didn’t look like a tattletale doublefaced spy for the Shah. By the time she was finished, Roya’s skin was raw and pink. Roya did not reply with any of Baba’s likely retorts about how Mossadegh wanted democracy, not communism.
At the final station in the bath hall, an older woman lathered every inch of Roya’s body with soap, then rinsed her with hot, steamy water. This attendant, thank goodness, was quiet. After the cleansing, Roya lay down while the woman rubbed an essential oil that smelled like jasmine onto her legs, stomach, arms. With each deep stroke of the woman’s hands, Roya became more and more aroused, awake. Two and a half hours now. In two and a half hours, she would see Bahman. Every part of her was alive. She couldn’t wait.
“Vay! Why did you walk home with that wet hair?” Maman cried when Roya sauntered into the house. “Do you want to catch a cold?”
“It’s so hot, how would I catch a cold in the height of summer?” Roya’s wet hair had soaked into the top of her blouse, spreading a stain around her shoulders. It had actually cooled her off in the heat.
Maman looked worried. “I hope it’s safe out there today.”
After much deliberation, Roya had decided to tell her family that Bahman was coming back and that they were to meet at the square. For weeks Baba had been so worried about Bahman’s safety. Maman had prayed for his return with her tasbih beads every night. It was only fair that she let them know that he was fine and on his way back.
“I was just out there, Maman. The streets are quiet. People are listening. They’re staying home. It’s probably safer today than any day.”
Maman did not look convinced.
“I have to get ready.” Roya left before Maman could say anything else.
In the bedroom, Roya set her hair in barrettes to give her waves a boost. She had stopped wearing her hair in braids a few weeks ago, and now it felt liberating, not strange. On her wrists and neck she dabbed rosewater. She slipped on the rose-colored skirt she’d carefully selected to wear today and then tucked in her blouse. As she ran her finger over the nub of embroidered flowers on the collar, she remembered how she and Zari had stitched these tiny flowers for days, their heads bent together. Finally, she picked up the white ankle socks. Victory! After searching in all the fancy shops uptown, she’d found the coveted ankle socks at the stall of a merchant in the Old Bazaar. “From Amrika!” the wrinkled shopkeeper had declared, smiling toothlessly. “Lady! From Amrika!”
The socks, soft and snowy white, were perfect for today. She slipped them on.
“Please at least eat something before you go!” Maman shouted from the living room.
“I’m not hungry!” She was far too excited and nervous to eat.
When she entered the living room, Baba, Maman, and Zari were all sitting in a row as though waiting to inspect her. Or stop her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” Maman looked more worried than ever.