One day she might forget the helplessness of standing there while words burned. One day she might be far away from this terror. But the smell of charred paper would always be part of her, embedded in her skin. As she stood in front of the burning shop, she remembered the traditional bonfires lit before Persian New Year, how she and Zari jumped over the flames squealing with joy, their faces flushed from the heat, their hearts soaring.
Soon there would be nothing.
The words she had loved, the poetry books in which her letters had been exchanged, the tablets of notepaper and bottles of ink and fountain pens and pencil sharpeners, scorched to nothing. The hidden political pamphlets in the back storage room, the colored pencils tied into bouquets with ribbon, the sanctuary and the secrets inside—Mr. Fakhri’s life sizzled into nothing.
She wondered if the bell above the door would withstand the fire. If she were to find it, lift it, shake it, would it still ring?
Through the gate into the courtyard, past the koi pond, and into the cool sanctuary of her house she went.
Inside, her family was still deep in their afternoon nap. Maman’s big bowl lay in the kitchen sink, the one in which she always served the chicken and prune khoresh stew. Zari lay wrapped in her shamad cotton sheet in bed. In the next room, Baba snored and Maman lay next to him. Her slippers were lined up neatly on the floor. Everyone was accounted for, safe. Her family had no idea what was happening in the squares of Tehran, the force making its way north, the danger of the crowd. They did not know Mr. Fakhri’s fate; they could not smell the smoke from the Stationery Shop. They had had their chicken and prune stew with rice and taken their afternoon nap as if it were any other day. And Bahman was nowhere to be found. Had she really gone to the square expecting to see him, with a rose in his hand, wearing his crisp white shirt, ready to whisk her away so they could get their marriage papers? It seemed vaguely amusing now to think she could have had those expectations.
When her family woke and turned on the radio, they would learn that the mob had made its way all the way to the home of Prime Minister Mossadegh. People had scaled the walls and entered his house. Mossadegh had managed to escape through a window and climb a ladder to his neighbor’s. When her family woke up from their afternoon nap, when Zari popped open her eyes and stretched, when Maman went into the kitchen to put the tea on the samovar, when Baba turned on the radio at 2 p.m., they would learn that the coup conspirators had overtaken the broadcasting station in Shemiran Avenue and that the crowd had attacked the prime minister’s house, looted it, burned some of its contents, run off with the rest. Destroyed it.
This time the coup had succeeded. This time the world had changed forever.
But first, while her family still slept, Roya padded around the house in her ankle socks. Alone, she wept for Mr. Fakhri, for Bahman, for her new country. She did not even notice, nor would she have cared, that the white ankle socks, the ones she had bought to meet Bahman again so they could get their marriage papers and be husband and wife, were now splattered red and blackened by smoke—stained with the blood of a man who had died at her feet as she tried to find the man she loved.
Chapter Thirteen
1953
* * *
Dream Destiny
Zari brought her hot tea mixed with nabat, the rock sugar that was supposed to cure most ailments: an upset stomach, the flu, menstrual cramps, possibly heartbreak, never grief. She sat at the edge of the bed and pressed the glass into Roya’s hand. “Drink.”
Roya lifted her chin to indicate “no.” She did not want tea, she did not need Zari. But even the small movement of her chin made her head feel like it would burst.
“Come on. Sit up. You’ve been in bed all day. Look, yesterday was the worst day in the history of time to meet at a square in the middle of Tehran. He’s probably just derailed. I’m sure he’s fine. And Mr. Fakhri—” Zari stopped. Then she whispered, “God bless his soul. He was . . . in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
They sat in silence for what felt like hours. Roya couldn’t tell or feel time anymore.
“Now drink,” Zari finally said.
Roya reluctantly took the glass and sipped. A nerve throbbed above her right eye. Did Bahman even know Mr. Fakhri had died? Had he been involved in trying to stop the coup? Was he with a bunch of pro-Mossadegh activists in prison now?
“Bahman’s probably been arrested. Maybe killed too,” Roya said.
“You have no idea if that’s true.”
Roya had called and called—again—but there was still no answer at his house.
“Not to be a pest, but, Sister, he probably never planned on meeting you. I mean, where the hell has he been for the past few weeks anyway? And who writes a letter saying ‘meet me at a square in the center of the city’ when all this ridiculous political stuff is going on? I knew it was a bad idea, I told you.”
“He couldn’t have known there’d be another coup attempt when he wrote the letter. He just wanted to see me,” was all Roya could manage to say.
“If he’s such an activist, such a protective gentleman—he was supposed to have enough brains not to ask a seventeen-year-old girl to stand in the middle of the square at times like this, for God’s sake! With people being shot! I cannot believe Baba even let you go!” Zari looked down at her hands. “Sometimes Baba tries too hard to be all modern and progressive, if you ask me. Sometimes women do need protection.”
Even in her heightened state, Roya could see that Zari was speaking out of worry and a grief for Mr. Fakhri that she wasn’t even equipped to express. Roya let her sister fume and vent about Bahman and say that the worst thing in the world was to fall in love with someone who was in love with politics.
Roya waited all that day to hear from him. Hours stretched out, and still nothing. Everyone she asked was shell-shocked from the coup. When she got in touch with Bahman’s friends, each one said something different. His old classmates told her they still hadn’t heard from him, but they insisted that Bahman would not have been involved in anything on the streets. Another friend said that maybe Bahman had gone to a square during the coup and was actually arrested and that they should contact every prison to find him. When asked, Jahangir only cursed and said that a man nobler than Mr. Fakhri did not exist, for God’s sake, and how could the soldiers just randomly shoot into the crowd, and he hoped Bahman was fighting every day to bring Prime Minister Mossadegh back to power. Roya had no idea whom she could trust. She had always assumed that Bahman’s friends were on his side, that they had his back. But when Jahangir ranted about the Shah, Roya began to feel a seed of doubt. Could Jahangir be egging her on so she’d reveal something anti-Shah to him? Maybe he was a spy. It revolted her to think that she was now suspicious of everyone. She couldn’t even fully trust Jahangir.
The rumor of foreign agents being involved in displacing the prime minister was already being discussed in bazaar stalls and in cafés over espressos and in living rooms everywhere. Zari countered every conspiracy theory with: Okay, what if they did pay them with foreign money? What about our own people? We have spineless thugs who are only too happy to take to the streets to repeat whatever the slogan of the day is. And to take money from the Americans to do their bidding!