Darius the Great Is Not Okay(21)

“You’re sure? It’s no problem.”

It was my second taarof in Iran, and this time Mom wasn’t around to help me.

“Um. I’m sure. I think I’m going to shower if that’s okay. And maybe take a nap.”

“Okay. There are towels for you in the closet.”

“Thanks.”

Mamou pulled me down into a hug, kissed me on both cheeks, and then went to help put Laleh to bed.

I left Laleh’s suitcase in the hall, pulled my own in after me, and shut the door.

The room was maybe half the size of my bedroom back home: a twin bed with olive-green covers, and matching green curtains covering the small round window above it. A tiny wooden desk stood in the corner, with more photos on the wall above it. I recognized Dayi Jamsheed and Dayi Soheil and their kids, but there were strangers in some of them too. A few were really old black-and-whites from when Mamou was growing up.

One was familiar: a photo of Mamou with her parents. Mamou was my age, with long straight hair that fell all the way down to her chest. She wasn’t smiling, but she looked like she wanted to.

Mom had a copy of that photo framed in our living room at home, on the wall closest to the kitchen and the Turbolift Door. It was the only picture of my great-grandparents (on Mamou’s side) that we had.

I peeled off my shirt. It was sticky and musty from the day’s travel. My face was so greasy, I thought it might slide off right onto the floor. I needed a shower.

More than that, though, I really had to pee.

I stared at the toilet: a perfect porcelain bowl, set in the floor with rose-colored tiles arranged all around in an abstract mosaic.

Mom had warned me about Mamou toilets. In Iran—especially in older homes—you were supposed to squat over the toilet instead of sitting on it. It was considered much more healthy.

I hoped my leg muscles were strong enough, when the time came. As it was, I circled the toilet, studying it like a Klingon Warrior sizing up his enemy. I wasn’t sure exactly how I was supposed to use it without making a mess.

But I really did have to pee.



* * *





I showered, pulled on some shorts, and got my medicine out, but then I decided I should take it when I got back up, so I could have it with breakfast.

The air in the bedroom was too close. It was not humid, but I could feel every single air molecule as it brushed against my freshly scrubbed face. There was a box fan tucked into the corner, so I dragged it away from the wall and turned it on. It buzzed a little bit, and I had a brief vision of it experiencing a non-passive failure and exploding into a billowing cloud of smoke and motor particles, but then it got up to speed.

The fan would not stay still. It jiggled and jittered across the floor, dancing toward me.

I angled it so it would dance away from me instead. But by the time I’d gotten my pants off and pulled back the sheets, the fan had danced itself around to face me once more, shaking and shimmying inexorably toward my bed.

That fan was evil.

I pulled the Dancing Fan to the middle of the room and then propped my suitcase against it to hold it in place. It rattled ominously and hopped back and forth on its rubber feet. The suitcase blocked some of the airflow, but at least I knew it wouldn’t creep up on me while I was sleeping.

I slipped into bed and faced the wall, but I could feel that fan.

It was watching me. Waiting for me to lower my guard.

It was deeply unnerving.





THE HISTORY OF AMERICAN-IRANIAN RELATIONS



Thud.

Tap squeak tap.

I blinked and looked around. I had tossed off my covers while I was asleep, and the Dancing Fan lay facedown, its blades pushing air impotently at the floor.

The bedroom had become stuffy and dry. The back of my neck stuck to Mamou’s beige pillowcase when I sat up. My mouth was crusty and gross.

Tap squeak tap. Something rattled the window behind the green curtain. A shadow fell across it, most likely humanoid. I peeled back the curtain and peeked out, blinking against the brightness, but whoever (or whatever) was out there had already vanished.

I pulled on some clothes and tiptoed down the hall.

The house was quiet. Mom, Dad, and Laleh were still asleep after our long journey through the space-time continuum, but I found the kitchen, and a door leading out to the backyard.

I blinked in the sun and waited for my eyes to adjust, sneezing at the brightness. The sun in Yazd was more intense, and it was directly overhead. Every surface glowed.

It was blinding.

I sneezed again.

A deep voice spoke from above, something in Farsi. I blinked and looked up.

Ardeshir Bahrami—my grandfather—had leaned a ladder against the side of the house, right next to the little round window above my bed, and he was halfway up to the roof.

Babou was taller than I expected. He wore khaki dress pants, a white pinstriped button-up shirt, and dress shoes, with the socks bunched around his ankles. And he was climbing a ladder.

He looked healthy to me, even though Mom and Dad said he wasn’t. Even though Mamou said he was sleeping more.

He looked fine.

I cleared my throat and pushed my hair off my face. I had serious bed head (it was one of the burdens of having Persian hair), even though I hadn’t slept for that long. I thought. Maybe what had felt like a few hours had actually been an entire day.