“All of a sudden he’s back in town?” Zari asked suspiciously.
“I’m not hungry, really, Maman Joon,” Roya said.
“Why didn’t he say to meet here? Or at your beloved Stationery Shop?” Zari asked.
Imagine if she’d actually told them everything! That Bahman had written in the last letter that they should not only meet at Sepah Square but then go to the Office of Marriage and Divorce to get their marriage license. Maman could prepare the wedding for early September to her heart’s content, and relatives and friends could come and celebrate then. But for a few delicious weeks, she and Bahman would be husband and wife in sweet secret. It would be a secret so verifiably luscious and dangerous that she could barely even believe it herself. He’d probably picked Sepah Square because it was close to the Office of Marriage and Divorce and they could quickly go there before the lunchtime siesta hour if they met at noon. Bahman would never put her in danger. Then again, he had written the letter before the attempted coup had even happened. But who knew if anyone was following him? Maybe he didn’t want to expose her family by coming to her home. Maybe a public square was safer. The truth was that at this point, she would walk through fire to meet him.
Baba got up, went to the coatrack, and reached for his hat. “I’ll just walk with you to the square. You shouldn’t go alone. There could be demonstrations again, for all we know.”
“She shouldn’t go at all,” Zari said.
“No, Baba Jan! Thank you, but really it’s not necessary. It’s as safe as anything out there today. I’ll be fine.”
Baba looked down at his hat. Then he rubbed his face repeatedly as if trying to figure out a difficult math problem.
“I will give him your regards!” Roya kissed him and Maman and Zari on the cheeks and rushed out.
But Zari ran after her from the andarun to the outer rooms of the house and into the garden. “Look, Sister. I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“It’s crazy to go out there today with everything that’s going on. This week of all weeks! They tried to have a coup three days ago. What timing the two of you have, I must say!”
“The coup was stopped. The prime minister couldn’t be knocked out. He’s still in power; we’re fine!” Roya cried.
“You sound just like him,” Zari said.
Roya waved to her sister and passed through the garden door.
As she walked into the alleyway, her heart beat so fast she hoped it wouldn’t give out before she even reached the square. She couldn’t get to Bahman fast enough. Of course she’d be fine. All her family did was worry! And what did her little sister know about true love anyway? She couldn’t understand that Roya was empowered, filled with strength and purpose at just the idea of seeing Bahman again. That she would walk through burning buildings to get to him.
More people were out than earlier in the morning. But of course they would be. People had to go about some of their business in the city, after all. As long as they weren’t demonstrating.
It started with chants and the sound of chains and thumping. All of a sudden, the ground beneath her throbbed. Roya turned and saw a group of what must have been several hundred men approach from the bottom of the sloping street, marching and shouting. As they got closer, she recognized their chants as phrases from the zurkhaneh gyms where devotees practiced the traditional physical fitness and training rituals. Baba sometimes imitated these phrases in jest when he lifted something heavy or did stretches. Hundreds of weight lifters and athletes in their tight exercise gear made up the crowd. A few hefted cone-shaped wooden blocks and barbells above their heads. A mustached man with oiled hair juggled pins in the air. Eventually the strange mob took complete control of the street. Cars had to swerve out of their way.
To Roya’s amazement, smaller clusters of men and women joined the almost comical group of athletes and weight lifters and jugglers. And as they did, and the marching crowd grew, the chants became more political.
“Zendeh bad Shah! Long live the Shah!”
With her heart pounding, Roya moved northward in the same direction as the massive crowd because she had to get to Sepah Square. Who paid these yobs to come out today?—she could just hear Baba ask the question. What kind of crazy new joke was this? Maybe Bahman knew of some foolhardy attempt that had been resurrected out of desperation. She couldn’t wait to share this spectacle with him. They would laugh about it when they were reunited. They had to.
She walked just outside the edge of the crowd, sticking near a small group of women who had not joined the mob. “Faghat eeno kam dashteem. We only lacked this,” one of the women said sarcastically, and the others laughed. It was comforting to hear the women’s banter.
But as they all walked toward the city center, a nervous energy belied even the women’s lighthearted jabs. Maybe it was just Roya’s own anticipation feeding her fears. More men joined the crowd, some arm in arm.
“Marg bar Mossadegh!”
Roya suddenly stopped. This wasn’t a slogan shouting, “Give me Mossadegh or give me death”; it was saying “Death to Mossadegh.” The groups of anti-Mossadegh men who kept streaming in to join the original motley crew of athletes and jugglers filled the streets and sidewalks so completely that it became impossible to walk without being part of the mob.
For a second, she considered going back. No, she’d be fine, she told herself. Bahman was waiting. She put one foot in front of the other, the way she always did when stuck, and forged ahead. She just had to soldier on, to get to the square.
When she finally arrived at Sepah Square, it teemed with an even bigger mass of demonstrators that made the crowd of athletes look small. Roya couldn’t move without pushing through people. It was a struggle to get to the spot in the center where she and Bahman had arranged to meet. It was hot, but a breeze blew her rose-colored skirt tight against her thighs. Three men leered at her and one of them whistled. She remembered the thugs who had hit Bahman with a chain and baton. Heat rushed to her face, and she pulled down hard on her skirt.
The anti-Mossadegh contingent shouted louder. She hated being near them. She just wanted Bahman to arrive so they could grab each other and get away. She tried to focus on what it would feel like to see him at last, be near him again.
Twenty minutes later, the crowd had almost doubled. The chants were louder and more aggressive. Perspiration soaked her armpits. She craned her neck, searching for him. He was not there—but of course, how could he be; he would have to force his own way through this mob, to cleave through protestors to get to her; it was completely understandable that he was late. No one could have foreseen this mess. This week of all weeks! They tried to have a coup three days ago. What timing the two of you have, I must say! Zari’s words drilled through Roya’s head. But if the prime minister had successfully warded off a coup just a few days ago, surely no one would be foolish enough to try anything again so soon?
“Marg bar Tudeh! Death to the communists!”
“Marg bar Mossadegh!”
More and more people poured into the square, and soon the sharp smell of sweat and anger was suffocating. The crowd was on a mission; they were not simply gathering, they were trying to move, to march to a destination, and it was definitely not the square that was their end goal. As she fought a wave of nausea, Roya realized that they were moving in the direction of the prime minister’s house. Their shouts for his demise continued. Bahman would be heartbroken at this turnout of anti-Mossadegh bullies. Where was he?