Darius the Great Is Not Okay(23)

I wondered if all fathers secretly wanted to kill their sons. Just a little bit.

Maybe that explained Stephen Kellner.

Maybe it did.



* * *





“Sohrab! Darioush!”

“Bebakhshid, Agha Bahrami.”

That means “I’m sorry.” Or “excuse me.”

Like I said, Farsi is a deeply context-sensitive language.

I helped Sohrab drag the hose to Babou, who hoisted a few coils up to the roof. Sohrab stood at the base of the ladder with his left foot on the bottom rung.

“Do you like figs, Darioush?”

“Uh.” Liking figs was not a Persian trait I had inherited.

All True, Non-Fractional Persians like figs.

But I thought they were weird, because I accidentally read about how figs are pollenated by little wasps that climb inside them, mate, and then die. Ever since then, I couldn’t stop thinking that I might be eating dead wasps when I ate a fig.

“Your grandfather grows the best figs in Yazd,” Sohrab said. But then he shrugged. “They won’t be ready until summer, though.”

“Darioush-jan,” Babou called from the roof. He waved his hand back toward the shed. “Turn the water on, please.”

“Okay.”

The hose leaked a little when I turned it on, so I tightened it as best I could, and then I stood by Sohrab and we watched Babou. He tottered across the roof tiles, spraying his fig trees like it was the safest, sanest procedure in the world.

Sohrab squinted at me. “Relax, Darioush. He does this every week.”

That only made me worry more.

My breath hitched when Babou leaned over the edge of the roof to reach the farthest leaves of his fig trees.

I stood on the opposite rung of the ladder and leaned in toward Sohrab.

“Should he really be doing that?”

“Probably not.”

“So we just watch him until he’s done?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”





A HOLODECK VISION



Babou spent a full ten minutes watering the canopy of his fig trees, strolling up and down the roof. He never did fall, though he came pretty close when he leaned over to yell at me to turn the water off. The ground smelled like wet clay where the hose had dripped all over, despite my efforts to tighten it. I wiggled my toes in the cool water.

Sohrab held the ladder for Babou when he finally climbed down. He handed the hose to Sohrab and waved me over as Sohrab wrestled the hose back into the shed.

“Hello, Darioush-jan.” He squeezed my shoulders with his strong hands and held me at arm’s length. His hands were wet, and his palms were so callused I could feel them through the cotton of my shirt. “Welcome to Yazd.”

I kind of thought Babou would pull me into a hug—I was so convinced, in fact, that I started to lean into him. But he kept a grip on me and looked me up and down.

“You are tall. Like your dad. Not like Mamou.”

“Yeah. Um.” I stood up straighter, because I had been a little hunched in anticipation of the hug that seemed not to be forthcoming. Babou’s eyebrows quirked, but he didn’t smile.

Not quite.

“Thank you. Merci. For having us.”

“I am glad you could come.” Babou let go and waved toward Sohrab. “That is Sohrab.” He pointed at Sohrab, who was fighting the hose. “He lives down the street.”

“Yes.”

“He is a good boy. Very nice. You should be friends with him.”

I had never been ordered to befriend someone before.

I glanced back at Sohrab, who crinkled up his eyes and shook his head.

My ears burned.

“Sohrab. It’s fine. Leave it.”

“Baleh, Agha Bahrami.”

Babou asked Sohrab something in Farsi, but all I caught was Mamou and robe, which is pomegranate molasses.

Like I said, I could usually recognize food words.

“Of course. Darioush, you want to come?”

“Um. Where?”

“His amou’s store,” Babou said. “Go with him, baba.”

“Okay.”

“Come on, Darioush,” Sohrab said. “Let’s go.”



* * *





I laced up my Vans while Babou handed Sohrab a few folded bills, and we headed out.

Yazd was blinding in the daylight. I had to blink for a moment and sneeze. Without the shade of Babou’s fig trees, the neighborhood was a luminous white, so bright, I was certain I could feel my optic nerves cooking.

Now that it was daytime, and I wasn’t quite so sleep deprived, I could appreciate how each house on Mamou’s block had its own character. Some were newer and some were older; some had large gardens like Babou’s, and some had an extra lane to park a car behind the house. There were khaki houses and beige houses and off-white houses and even some that had been worn to a light tan.

Nearly every car parked on the street (or occasionally up on the curb) was light-colored and angular, makes and models I had never seen before.

I wondered where Iranian cars came from.

I wondered what Stephen Kellner thought of Iranian cars, and how they compared to his Audi.

I wondered if he was still asleep. If he’d wake up and we’d be able to get along, the way he wanted.