Darius the Great Is Not Okay(42)
“Oh.”
I was used to being a disappointment to Dad, and being a disappointment to Babou didn’t seem that different. But I hated that he was disappointed in Laleh too, for something she couldn’t change.
I swallowed.
Babou looked up at me. There was something sad and lonely in his eyes, in the way his mustache drooped over his frown.
I wanted to tell him I was still his grandson.
I wanted to tell him I was glad I was getting to know him.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his brain tumor.
I didn’t tell him any of that, though. I sipped my tea, and Ardeshir Bahrami sipped his. The silence between us hung heavy with all the things we couldn’t say. All the things we knew without them being said out loud.
* * *
Mamou was at the kitchen table, drinking her own cup of tea, when I brought the basket of cleaned sabzi into the kitchen.
“Darioush-jan. Did you make this tea?”
“Um. Yeah?”
“It’s cinnamon?”
“I added a pinch.”
“It’s good, maman!”
“Thanks.” I poured myself a fresh cup. “I was worried Babou wouldn’t like it.”
“Babou doesn’t notice, you know? His taste buds are not that good.”
“Oh.”
“Did you have a nice time, maman?”
“Yeah. Um. Babou showed me Darius the First.”
“Where your name came from.”
I nodded.
“I wish you had seen it sooner. I wish you lived here.”
“Really?”
“Yes, of course. I miss you. And I wish you could know your history better. You know, for Yazdis, family history is very important.”
“Um.”
“But I am happy for you, living in America.”
I sipped my tea. “Is Babou okay?”
Mamou smiled at me, but her eyes had turned sad. Fariba Bahrami had the kindest eyes in the entire galaxy. They were huge and brown, with little soft pillows under them. Mom called them Bette Davis eyes.
I had to google who Bette Davis was. It turns out someone wrote a whole song about her eyes.
Mamou said, “Babou is okay.”
I knew he wasn’t okay. Not really. She didn’t have to say it out loud.
“I love you, Mamou.” I set down my tea and hugged her.
“I love you too, maman.” She kissed me on the cheek, and then she smiled again. “Do you like broccoli?”
“Uh. Sure.”
I had no strong feelings on broccoli. And I wasn’t prepared for the conversation’s sudden and inexplicable course correction. Fariba Bahrami was a Level Ten Topic Changer when she needed to be.
“I’ll make you some tomorrow. You want anything before bed?”
“No. I’m okay.”
I washed our dishes while Mamou put away the sabzi Babou and Laleh had picked through. “You are like your dad,” she said. “He always helps in the kitchen too.”
“He does?”
“I remember, when we came for the wedding. Your dad always did the dishes. He wouldn’t let me help at all. Your dad is so sweet.”
There it was again.
Stephen Kellner: sweet.
“You are sweet too, Darioush-jan.”
“Um.”
Mamou pulled me down to kiss me again. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Me too.”
PERSIAN CASUAL
Dad woke me up the next morning, shaking my shoulder.
“You naked?”
“What? No.”
“Good. Happy Nowruz, Darius.” Dad rubbed my hair.
He didn’t even comment on its length.
“Happy Nowruz, Dad.”
Like I said, there were special rules for Star Trek—or at least there used to be, before Dad changed them on me—rules where we got to be a real father and son.
At Nowruz, the same rules applied. But this time, our father-son relationship had an audience.
The Dancing Fan had been creeping up on Dad, a relentless Borg drone determined to assimilate us both, but as soon as he glanced at it, it stopped moving.
Resistance was futile.
“Better get dressed. Your uncle Soheil is coming soon.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost ten. Come on. Before the kitchen gets taken over.”
Dad poured me a cup of tea and sat next to me as I ate my sangak and feta cheese.
Noon-e sangak is a flatbread baked on a stone. It’s kind of chewy, unless you toast it—which I did, using the gleaming, deluxe toaster oven Mamou kept on the counter. It was all brushed steel with digital readouts and touch-sensitive controls.
It was the U.S.S. Enterprise of toaster ovens.
Back home, we had bacon and eggs for breakfast on holidays (or on days when Mom was craving bacon, which usually happened if she was stressed at work), but you couldn’t get bacon in Yazd. It wasn’t halal, which meant it was forbidden in the Islamic Republic of Iran. So I ate flatbread and cheese for breakfast, just like every other teenage boy in Iran. Just like Darius the First probably did when he was growing up.
I felt very Persian indeed.
* * *