He was in his element here. He was absolutely riveted, lit up. He opened his mouth, and she expected him to say something like “Isn’t it amazing?” She was now predicting what he would say—imagine that! As if she even really knew him all that well. But she did know him. He was exciting and unpredictable but also just . . . him.
“We can have everything,” Bahman said.
“But the communists are against Mossadegh and might—”
“I mean you. And me. We can have the world.”
Standing there with him in the crowd, she felt like the future was bigger and more limitless than she’d ever dared to imagine. She leaned into the barricade and joined in the chants. There was something strangely arousing about being there. Every part of her felt a rush, a sense of promise. As her confidence built, she shouted louder and louder. The sun burned her face and her braids bounced against her chest as she pumped her fist. Perspiration ran down her back and eventually soaked her Peter Pan collar. She had been hiding for too long. Why? Bahman was right. None of these people looked scared. They all had to fight, to protest, to march. So Mossadegh could get his agenda through, so the country could have true freedom. As she leaned against the splintered wood of the barricade with Bahman, everything did seem possible. They were one with each other and with the whole billowing, unified crowd. They would fight. They would both change the world.
“You seem to be enjoying this!” Bahman said.
She smiled and continued to chant.
“We don’t have to stay long. I just wanted you to see. To feel what it’s like out here. I don’t want you to think you have to be afraid of it. It’s just people. People like us. It’s all we have. You know?”
The sound was like the swoosh of a sword. When she replayed it over and over in the coming weeks and months and years, she knew she’d also heard a small clang, like the ring of a mangled bell. Suddenly Bahman was doubled over. He wheezed. She leaned over him as he struggled to breathe. When she looked around, three men behind them smirked. They all wore black pants and white shirts and dark bowler hats. The man in the middle held a baton embellished with a jagged chain. Bahman continued to gasp for air. A large gash at the back of his neck began to bleed. Had the three men been behind them the whole time? Or had they pushed and shoved their way through the crowd to get to Bahman? As blood dripped from the chain at the end of the man’s baton, Bahman coughed. For what felt like an eternity Roya rubbed his back and shouted his name, and then finally and with much effort, Bahman straightened up. His face was twisted in pain. A pink-red stain spread through his collar and across the top of his shirt.
“Just a little warning, Mr. Aslan,” the man with the baton-chain said. “Don’t spread so much nonsense. It’s not good for you.”
Roya wanted to lunge at him. She wanted to find the police, yell for the men to be arrested, handcuffed, dragged away.
The man in the middle shrugged. “You National Front Mossadeghis are all the same, if you ask me. Every single one of you is worthless. This country would be better off without you.” He sounded lazy, almost bored.
Bahman touched the back of his neck. He looked at his blood-soaked hand as if it belonged to someone else. Then he took Roya’s hand with his clean one. Without one word, he pushed past the three men and out of the crowd. They made their way onto the streets away from the demonstration, away from the square.
When they were safely on a quiet side street, Bahman stopped. “Are you all right, Roya Joon? Are you okay?”
“You need a doctor, Bahman.”
“I am so sorry. I should never have taken you there.” The stained shirt stuck to his skin. Blood dripped down his neck.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital.”
“No. Let me take you home.”
“They cut you! You need stitches. We have to tell the police.”
Bahman’s eyes glazed with tears. “They are the police.”
“What?”
“They work for the Shah.”
Just then a tall boy about their age ran up to them, breathless. Between gasps and pants, he spoke. “Saw what happened, Bahman Jan. Saw it all. These low-life plebeians. Uneducated vermin. Don’t know how those in power can hire these thugs. Well, actually, I do, and so do you. Hello, Khanom, excuse my manners.” He lifted his hat to Roya. “I’m Jahangir. Pleased to meet you.”
Jahangir wore an expensive-looking fashionable green vest and beige shirt. His mustache was lacquered. He was dressed for a soirée, not a rally.
“I’m Roya. Pleased to meet you,” she mumbled.
“Enchanté.” Jahangir touched his hat again. Roya had never heard that word. “Will you be okay, Roya Khanom, getting on by yourself? I need to take this boy to a doctor. He’s in bad shape. I’m sure you agree.” Jahangir touched Bahman’s arm, avoiding the blood on the top of his shirt. He crossed one ankle over the other as though posing for a photograph.
“I’ll come to the hospital too,” Roya said.
“Who said anything about a hospital? I’m taking him to my dad’s clinic.”
“Oh. But I can—”
“You don’t need to come, Roya Joon. I’ve exposed you to enough harm for today,” Bahman said.
“Yes, don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of him. I always do.” Jahangir smiled. His teeth looked like a cinema star’s.
Roya suddenly felt odd and out of place standing with what appeared to be two very good, trusted friends. “Yes, well then. I suppose—”
“We’ll walk you home first, Roya,” Bahman said.
“You need antiseptic, my friend!” Jahangir said with a tense smile. “You’re bleeding. Let’s go before you get infected.”
“We need to get Roya home,” Bahman said. “I should never have taken her to the demonstration.”
“I’ll be fine. Just please take care of yourself, Bahman,” Roya said.
Jahangir tipped his hat to Roya, Bahman nodded through the pain, and Roya walked off in the direction of her parents’ house.
As she walked, she replayed the scene at the demonstration in her head. Bahman would have been justified to strike back, to retaliate. No one would have blamed him if he grabbed the man who’d assaulted him, hit him. He had every right to. But of course he hadn’t. He knew that would only make things worse. And he was worried for her. He’d just wanted to get her out of there and have her get home safely. The boy who would change the world continued to surprise her with his decency.
She worried about his wound. She worried about the blood, a possible infection. She worried about a country where paid government thugs could strike a teenager in a crowd.
Chapter Five
1953
* * *
Café Ghanadi
For Nowruz, the Persian New Year, they’d cleaned the house from top to bottom. Maman stayed up late for weeks to sew new dresses for her daughters. On the first day of spring, the family stood around the Haft Seen table set with the traditional seven items beginning with the Farsi letter s. Roya and Zari wore new clothes down to their underwear. At the exact time of the vernal equinox when winter turned to spring, they all jumped and hugged and kissed. Baba then read a verse from the Quran and a few poetry ghazals from Hafez. It was now the new year.