Darius the Great Is Not Okay(38)

“Shirin!”

And then Babou followed Mom inside.

Dad met my eyes, the tiniest of smiles curling his lips. “Now we see where your mom gets it from.” He pulled himself into the van and took the middle seat.

I wondered if it was all that safe for Babou to drive in his condition, especially such a long distance—supposedly it was almost six hours to Persepolis—but when I asked Dad, he shushed me.

“Not now,” he said.

I wondered if maybe someone had already brought it up.

I wondered if maybe that’s why everyone was in such a bad mood.

Laleh stretched and yawned and leaned against me, burying her face in my side.

Normally, I enjoyed when Laleh did that. Being a pillow felt like the kind of thing a big brother was supposed to do.

I did not feel like a very good big brother that morning.

I shifted and twisted until Laleh got annoyed and leaned against the window instead.

Finally, Mamou and Mom came out. Mom took her seat next to Dad, while Mamou took the passenger seat.

“Where’s Babou?” Dad asked.

“He forgot his tokhmeh for the trip,” Mamou answered.

Mom said something to Mamou in Farsi.

“Yes. Every time!”

Babou hurried back out with a huge bag of tokhmeh and buckled himself in.

“Okay,” he said. “Bereem.”



* * *





Sohrab was waiting for us in front of his house. It was hard to see much in the dawn light—the sun was rising behind the house—but with the curtained windows glowing, it looked warm and cozy.

I scooted into the middle spot so Sohrab could sit by me. Laleh huffed and wiggled a bit closer to the window.

“Hey,” I said, once Sohrab was finished saying hi to Mamou and Babou in a long stream of Farsi that seemed to consist mostly of taarofing.

“Good morning, Darioush.”

“Ready to go?”

He clicked his seat belt.

“Ready to go.”



* * *





    Ardeshir Bahrami was a madman behind the wheel.

There were no handles to hold on to—Dad called them “Oh-Shit-Handles,” even though he was categorically opposed to colorful metaphors—so I gripped the seat cushion and tried not to flatten Sohrab or Laleh whenever Babou executed an unexpected lane change.

Mom and Mamou, who were no doubt acclimated to Babou’s driving, swayed with the Smokemobile’s inertia. And Stephen Kellner, who loved to drive his German Road Machine at unsafe velocities, was right at home, leaning into each turn like a race car driver.

The streets were still mostly empty as we merged onto the highway, but Babou drove as if he was dodging enemy fire, pulling off one evasive maneuver after another.

It must have been a Social Cue.



* * *





Like I said, it was supposed to be a six-hour drive to Persepolis.

Ardeshir Bahrami made it in four and a half.

When we finally pulled into the parking lot, my body had to adjust to sub-light speeds before I could pour myself out of the Smokemobile’s backseat and follow Sohrab to the ticket office.

I think ticket offices are some sort of universal constant, whether it’s the ruins of Persepolis—“Takhte Jamsheed,” Sohrab kept calling it, the Throne of Jamsheed—or the International Rose Test Garden back home. One day, when humans colonize Mars, there will be a ticket office to see Olympus Mons.

The real one. Not the smoldering caldera of my former pimple.

Babou glowered at the cashier and started arguing about the price of admission. Haggling over prices was another Persian Social Cue, one I had observed when I went with Mom to the Persian Grocery back in Portland.

Laleh had spent most of the drive asleep against the humming window.

I guess I did feel kind of bad about that.

But she had woken up refreshed and anxious to run through the gates and explore. She kept twisting the ends of her soft yellow headscarf around her fingers. It had sunflowers on it.

“Your headscarf looks nice, Laleh,” I said, taking her hand to stop her fidgeting.

She squeezed my hand. I loved the way my sister’s hand fit in mine. “Thank you.”

Babou was still haggling, but Mom stepped up and whispered something in his ear. Babou shook his head, but then Mom thrust a wad of bills under the glass partition before Babou could stop her. The man at the counter seemed alarmed at Mom’s directness, but he handed Babou our tickets and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Ardeshir Bahrami was an intense negotiator.

“Come,” he said. He took Laleh’s other hand, and she let go of me to match his stride.

My sister wanted to look at every single stall in the bazaar that sprawled between the ticket office and the entrance to the ruins, but Babou managed to maneuver her away from them all. Apparently his evasive driving skills extended to navigating Laleh past potential distractions.

“Your sister has so much energy,” Sohrab said.

“Yeah. Too much.”

“You are a good brother, Darioush.”

I didn’t know if that was the truth. But I liked that Sohrab thought that about me.

A row of trees hid the ruins from view. We followed the path—made of sun-bleached wooden beams—up a short hill. Ahead of us, Laleh wiggled out of Babou’s grasp and rabbited through a crumpled stone archway that had stood for thousands of years. Sohrab and I jogged to catch up.