Darius the Great Is Not Okay(35)
“That’s what the name means,” Sohrab said. “Esfahani. From Isfahan.”
“Oh.”
Babou cleared his throat and pointed his spoon at me. “Darioush,” he said. “How come you don’t know this?”
“Um.”
He turned to Mom. “It’s because you don’t teach him,” he said. “You wanted him to be American, like Stephen. You don’t want him to be Persian.”
“Babou!” Mom said. She started arguing in Farsi, and Babou argued right back. He kept pointing his spoon at me.
“Darioush. You don’t want to learn Farsi, baba?”
“Um.”
I mean, of course I did. But I couldn’t just say that. Not without making Mom feel guilty.
I sunk down in my chair a bit.
But then Sohrab came to my rescue. He cleared his throat.
“Who wants tah dig?”
Tah dig is the layer of crispy rice from the bottom of the pot.
It’s universally acknowledged as the ultimate form of rice.
More than one family has forgotten their arguments when it came time to divide the tah dig.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
Sohrab squinted at me and handed me a wedge of tah dig.
“You’re welcome, Darioush.”
* * *
I led Sohrab to the door to say good-bye.
“Mamou said you are going to Persepolis tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“She asked if I wanted to come too.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to, Darioush. It’s time with your family.”
“No. It’s okay. I want you to. Really.”
I was facing hours trapped in a car with Stephen Kellner, and Sohrab being there might actually make it bearable.
“Okay. See you in the morning?”
“Yeah. See you.”
* * *
I didn’t hold out much hope for Dad and me continuing our nightly Star Trek tradition, but I went in search of Babou’s computer anyway.
Across from Laleh’s room was a sunroom—though it was dark now—with a huge window covered in Venetian blinds and a well-loved beige couch in front. Against the opposite wall, a large television stood on an antique wooden table. DVDs and cases orbited in a ring around it, mostly Farsi-language dubs of Bollywood movies.
On either side of the television, and above it, the Bahrami Family Portrait Gallery extended into a new wing.
Fariba Bahrami loved photographs.
One picture was of Mom in the hospital, cradling a newly born baby Laleh. Dad had his arms wrapped around them both, looking ridiculous but somehow still radiating Teutonic stoicism in his light blue scrubs. Beneath Dad’s elbow, there stood a young, still-squeaky me, bouncing on my toes to catch a glimpse of my new baby sister.
There were so many pictures. Some were of Dayi Jamsheed and his kids, and Dayi Soheil’s family. I recognized them from pictures Mom had showed me. Others I recognized from home, because Mom had sent them to Mamou, like one of Laleh from last Halloween. She was dressed up as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.
Laleh was totally obsessed with The Wizard of Oz last summer. The Judy Garland version. She would watch it and then run around the living room a few times and then watch it again, all day long.
Mom braided Laleh’s hair last Halloween—her curly Persian hair made perfect pigtails—and she’d found a blue-and-white gingham dress. Dad had brought home bright red sneakers with lights in the soles for Laleh to wear as her Ruby Slippers.
Mom and Dad took Laleh trick-or-treating, while I was assigned to monitor the house and disburse candy as necessary.
I was not cool enough to be invited to the parties where the Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy celebrated Halloween. In fact, I wasn’t even cool enough to get invited to a mid-level party. I was a D-Bag, in social status if not in name quite yet. So I sat at home, watching Star Trek: First Contact (the scariest of all Star Trek films) and giving out Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to the neighborhood kids as they wandered by.
Despite his opposition to my own dietary indiscretions, Stephen Kellner insisted there was no finer candy for trick-or-treaters than Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
At least we were not the house with raisins.
* * *
“What are you looking for, Darius?” Mom watched me from the doorway, cradling two cups of tea. They were the glass kind, the ones with gilded rims and no handles. Many True Persians used cups like that, but I had never mastered the trick. I always burned my fingers.
“The computer. I thought maybe Dad and I could watch Star Trek on it.”
“Probably not, with the Internet censors.”
“Oh.”
Mom sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. I took my tea from her, but then I put it on the coffee table before I scorched my fingerprints off.
“So? What did you think of Yazd?”
“Well. It’s different. But not as different as I thought it would be.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like Aladdin or anything.”
Mom laughed.
“And it’s more modern. Sohrab has an iPhone, even.”