Darius the Great Is Not Okay(40)

Dad followed us into the Apadana and pulled his sketchbook back out.

“These arches are incredible.” Dad pointed to a huge set that looked at least four stories high.

“Yeah.”

“Stephen,” Sohrab said. “You like architecture?”

“That’s what I do back home,” Dad said. “I’m an architect.”

Sohrab’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

Dad nodded and kept sketching.

I wanted to ask him if the ruins reminded him of Vulcan, the way they reminded me.

I wanted to ask him if he wanted to come exploring with me and Sohrab.

But I didn’t know how.

Stephen Kellner stared at the arches above us and bit his lip. He rubbed his thumb against the page to make a shadow and kept sketching.

“Come on,” I said to Sohrab as we left Dad behind.

“Your dad is an architect?”

“Yeah. He’s a partner in a firm.”

“That’s what I want to do. Someday.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That or civil engineering.”

“Wow.”

To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what the difference was between the two.

I couldn’t say that out loud.

“It’s a lot of school, though.”

“Yes. Not easy for Bahá’ís.”

“Oh?”

Sohrab nodded, but he didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he said, “Come on, Darioush. There’s much more to see.”



* * *





We found Laleh and Babou standing in front of a wall.

It was not a plain wall: Like everything else in Persepolis, it was oversized, carved, and the color of cargo pants.

“Eh! Sohrab. Good. Darioush hasn’t seen this,” Babou said. “Come see, baba.”

Laleh was sagging against Babou’s leg. I put my hand on top of her headscarf and rubbed it a little. Laleh sighed and shifted her weight from Babou’s leg to mine.

Babou nodded at the wall. “Look.”

I craned my neck to try and make out all the details.

It was a relief, carved directly into the stone. A bearded man sat on a throne, holding a staff in one hand and a hyacinth in the other.

Maybe he was preparing for Nowruz. Lots of people like to add sonbols to their haft-seen.

Carved in relief, the figure’s beard looked like it was made of enormous stone beads, each with a little swirl in the center, countless tiny galaxies of rock.

“It’s you.” Babou poked me in the chest.

“Me?”

I was certain I would never be able to grow a beard so luxurious as the one hewn into the wall above me. Stephen Kellner’s fair-haired Teutonic genes would prevent it.

“It’s Darioush the Great,” Sohrab said.

“Oh.”

Babou said, “He built many of these things.”

Until they got burned to the ground by angry Greeks.

Well, Macedonians, technically.

Babou looked right at me. “Darioush was a great man. Strong. Smart. Brave.”

I didn’t feel strong or smart or brave.

Like I said, my parents were setting themselves up for disappointment, naming me after a titanic figure like that.

Darius the Great was a diplomat and a conqueror. And I was just me.

“Your mom and dad picked a good name for you.”

Babou put his arm on my shoulder. I swallowed and followed his gaze to stare at the carving.

“Mamou thought it was too much driving to come here. To see this. But it’s important for you to know where you come from.”

I didn’t understand Ardeshir Bahrami.

Yesterday I wasn’t Persian enough because I didn’t speak Farsi, because I took medicine for depression, because I brought him and Mamou fancy tea.

He made me feel small and stupid.

Now he was determined to show me my heritage.

Maybe Ardeshir Bahrami experienced Mood Slingshot Maneuvers too.

Babou squeezed my shoulder and then led Laleh away, leaving me and Sohrab alone.

“Babou is right,” Sohrab said. “It’s good to see where you come from.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No. It’s just . . .”

Sohrab had grown up with this history all around him.

He knew where he was from.

There was no ancient emperor for him to measure up to.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Darioush,” he said.

He put his arm over my shoulder and led me down the path after Babou and Laleh.

“I understand.”





BETTE DAVIS EYES



Laleh and I taught Sohrab how to play I Spy on the drive back to Yazd. When it got too dark to play any more, Laleh fell asleep with her face mashed into my side. I unwound her headscarf so it wouldn’t get tangled as she shifted against me.

As we reached the outskirts of Yazd, Babou slowed the Smokemobile down so much, it felt like we were coasting down the evening streets on maneuvering thrusters only.

“Ardeshir?” Mamou said.

Babou looked back and forth at the road signs and said something in Farsi. Mamou put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off and snapped at her.