He was an activist. He told her that he dispersed pro-Mossadegh articles at the University of Tehran and at high schools in the nearby neighborhoods. He delivered National Front newsletters and pamphlets throughout the city. Where did he get his political material? From Mr. Fakhri. In the storage room behind his counter, Mr. Fakhri apparently had a vast collection of more dangerous political material. Roya panicked when Bahman first told her this. She remembered the day the police had come for Jaleh at school, how Jaleh had jumped in the air to avoid the savage force of the water. How she had landed in the pool of it. The police could just as easily target Bahman and accuse him of spreading anti-Shah propaganda. They could arrest him. And to think Mr. Fakhri was helping him! She never would have guessed Mr. Fakhri to be part of such clandestine political activity. She had underestimated the quiet, calm shopkeeper behind the counter.
Bahman told her not to worry.
Fissures between the political groups grew. Violence at rallies increased. A few protestors were shot by the police, chased and cornered into an alley with bullets. But even though Roya feared for Bahman’s safety, it was impossible not to admire his cause. He believed in the prime minister’s policies wholeheartedly, with more fervor even than Baba, if that was possible. Things were changing, he said. Iran had a future and it was bright and the prime minister was going to give them everything they needed. Only there were those who would stop Mossadegh, and Bahman was determined not to let them thwart the prime minister.
Roya leaned against the shelves lined with books as Bahman talked, her back digging into the spines of poetry and politics. If he went on too long about representation and taxes and trade, she simply focused on his eyes, lost, but in the best of ways. Mr. Fakhri blended into the background, expressing the need to be in the back storage room more and more frequently. Often they were left alone. But there was always the hazard of other customers walking in, and frequently they did—older men in spectacles with lists of new stationery items they needed to buy, or young communist students asking for more Marx pamphlets, or pro-Mossadegh protesters requesting more books on philosophy and democracy. Some of the Mossadegh supporters recognized Bahman and gave him a nod of solidarity, a look that indicated they appreciated all that he was doing for the cause.
She melted into the spines of the books as he whispered in her ear, his body close to hers, his hand daring to touch hers again whenever they were alone. Before long, there was no place she’d rather be.
Roya browsed the novels in the foreign translations aisle, waiting. The door flew open. There he was. White shirt, khaki pants, red cheeks, hair puffed up from the wind, breathless. He scanned the shop, and when his eyes landed on her, his face broke into a huge smile.
“Hello, Bahman Jan,” Mr. Fakhri said from behind the counter.
“How are you, Mr. Fakhri?” Bahman didn’t take his eyes off Roya.
Mr. Fakhri stiffened as Bahman and Roya stared at each other. For a moment Roya thought he would actually tell them off. But then he sighed and said he had to check inventory. His voice was strange as he said it. She heard him march to the back storage room.
“Chetori? How are you?” Bahman asked, addressing her in the tense of the Farsi verb used for intimate interactions. He had dropped the formal “you.”
Roya swallowed hard. “I’m fine.” She bent to put Anna Karenina back on the shelf. When she straightened up, he was next to her. He scooped his arm around her waist, and she froze like a statue.
“Come,” he said. His arm was strong and solid against the small of her back. “It’s gorgeous. We should be outside on a day like this!”
She mumbled a modest protest, but allowed him to lead her out into the bright light of the street.
He was right. It was a gorgeous day. The city was lush with spring and everything blossomed. Roya blinked at the glory of the world. She couldn’t believe they were going out in public. They weren’t engaged or married, and she had not told her parents much about Bahman, only that she’d met a studious boy at the Stationery Shop, one from a good family who was very dedicated to the prime minister’s cause. She knew this last piece of information would impress Baba. She’d told Zari much more, though, including details about their first Tuesday afternoon meeting, and later the word “fire” after she’d first spoken to him and asked what followed in Saadi’s poem. Zari was curious but skeptical. She said politically active boys were overrated, she didn’t care how wealthy his dumb family was, he seemed like a silly idealist obsessed with the prime minister, as if anyone but the Shah could change politics in Iran, for God’s sake, and that Roya should just grow up and realize that if she was going to net a man, then at least throw the net around a better one. And yet she wanted to know everything about how Roya fell for him.
“Bahman, slow down!” He walked so fast; she had to almost jog to keep up.
He stopped. “I’m sorry. Of course.” When he walked again, it was at a much slower pace, and soon their strides were in sync.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, what will I tell my sister? My parents!”
Bahman looked amused. “You tell them, anyone, that you went for a walk with your beau.” He squeezed her hand.
She might explode; her heart could burst. She loved his hand in hers. And his words. Her beau.
As they turned the corner and entered one of the city’s main squares, shouts filled the air.
Another rally. Another political demonstration where people screamed. Barricades had been set up at the front of the square. People chanted pro-Mossadegh slogans as a megaphone blared. Roya’s hand grew slack in Bahman’s and blood throbbed in her ears. Her immediate instinct was to take flight and avoid the raucous crowd.
“Bahman, let’s get out of here.”
“Don’t you want to see what’s going on?”
“No. It’s dangerous.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Zari says the police keep track of protestors. They have spies embedded in the crowd. . . .”
“Don’t be scared.” He held her hand tight and led her not away from the crowd, but right to the center of the action. Cries of “Ya marg ya Mossadegh!” rang through the square. “Give me Mossadegh or give me death!” Her body tensed. Were Mossadegh’s supporters really ready to die for him? Was Bahman?
“This,” Bahman whispered in her ear as the cacophony of the crowd got louder, “is how it happens. This is how we ensure democracy. We can’t just sit at home and say nothing and let the king and foreign companies grab more control. This is where we make ourselves heard.”
He pulled her farther in and led her past rows of people to the very front near the barricades. As they pushed through, Roya was surprised at how many people seemed to recognize Bahman. They made way for him. One or two of the young demonstrators clapped him on the back, and an older gentleman winked. Had he gone everywhere delivering the speeches and pamphlets? Despite her fear, she felt a sense of pride being his companion. There was no questioning the respect that others held for him. When they got to the front, Bahman nestled her against the barricade, shielding her as much as possible from the rest of the crowd. His arm was strong against her back.
An electric energy buzzed in the air: a sense of camaraderie, of purpose. She would never have come to a place like this without him. She would have been too shy, too scared. Maybe Bahman was right. Maybe she should stop worrying and allow herself to listen and to speak. Was that even possible? Bahman made it seem possible.