Darius the Great Is Not Okay(52)

“Baleh.”

“There’s still warm sangak in the basket,” I said. “I can make some more tea.”

“Why don’t you make me the special tea you brought, maman?”

“Okay.”

While I pulled down the FTGFOP1 First Flush Darjeeling, Mamou pulled out a big bowl of qottab covered in plastic wrap from somewhere deep inside the refrigerator, gave me a wink, and carried it into the living room.

I heard Laleh cry out “Yum!” in a voice three octaves below her normal register.

Laleh liked qottab even more than I did.

I put the pot of tea on a tray, along with a few cups, so I could serve Mamou in the living room.

“Thank you, maman,” she said. She inhaled long and slow over her cup. “The smell is very nice.”

Despite what Ardeshir Bahrami said, it seemed like tea could be for smelling after all.

Mamou closed her eyes and took a long, slow sip.

“It’s good, maman! Thank you.”

I offered a taste to Laleh, who refused—it was too hot, and it had not been sweetened at all—and then took my own sip.

Mamou smiled and scooted closer to kiss me on the cheek.

“Thank you, Darioush-jan,” she said. “Your gift was perfect.”

I really loved my grandmother.



* * *





Mom emerged around ten o’clock, already dressed. She pulled a headscarf off one of the hooks by the door. “Mamou,” she said. “Bereem!”

Mamou emerged from her room, dressed up too.

“Where are you going?”

“We are going to visit my friends,” Mamou said.

“It’s tradition,” Mom said. “On the day after Nowruz.”

“It is?”

Mom nodded.

“We never do that back home.”

I remembered how Sohrab had looked at me, when he asked if he would see me. How he was surprised I didn’t say yes right away.

How could there be a Nowruz tradition I didn’t know about?

“Well,” Mom said. And then she blinked at me, like she wasn’t sure how to answer. “Why don’t you go visit Sohrab?”

It was only logical.

“Okay.”



* * *





I showered and got dressed, and Mom drew me a quick map before she left. Sohrab only lived a few blocks away, but everything looked different if you were walking instead of driving.

When we picked up Sohrab to go to Persepolis, it was still dark out. In the daylight, the Rezaeis’ house was older and smaller than Mamou’s, the khaki muted enough that I could look at it without sustaining damage to my visual cortex. It had wooden double doors, and each had a differently shaped bronze knocker on it: a horseshoe on the right, and a solid rectangular slab on the left.

The bronze was slightly pitted—like the doors, like the house itself. It felt lived-in and loved.

It made perfect sense for Sohrab to come from a place like this.

I gave the horseshoe knocker three quick raps. Mahvash Rezaei answered. There was a smear of white powder across her forehead, and some had gotten into her eyebrows, too, but she smiled when she saw me—that same squinting smile she had passed down to her son.

“Alláh-u-Abhá, Darioush!”

“Um.”

I always felt weird, if someone said “Alláh-u-Abhá” to me, because I wasn’t sure if I should say it back—if I was even allowed to—since I wasn’t Bahá’í and I didn’t believe in God.

The Picard didn’t count.

“Come in!”

I pulled my Vans off and set them in the corner next to Sohrab’s slender shoes.

There was a wooden partition separating the entryway from the rest of the house, with shelves covered in pictures and candles and phone chargers. The rugs were white and green with gold accents, and they didn’t have little tassels on them like Mamou’s. The house felt cozy, like a Hobbit-hole.

The air was heavy with the scent of baking bread. Real, homemade bread, not the mass-produced Subway kind.

“Have you eaten? You want anything?”

“I’m okay. I had breakfast.”

“Are you sure?” She steered me toward the kitchen. “It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure. I thought I should come visit, since it’s the day after Nowruz.”

I felt very Persian.

“You are so sweet.”

Darius Kellner. Sweet.

I liked that Sohrab’s mom thought that about me.

I really did.

“You are sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m okay. I had qottab before I came.”

“Your grandma makes the best qottab.”

Technically, I had not tasted all the possibilities, but I agreed with Mahvash Rezaei in principle.

“She sent some with me,” I said, holding out the plastic container I’d brought.

Mahvash Rezaei’s eyes bugged out, and I was reminded of a Klingon warrior. Her personality was too big and mercurial to be contained in a frail human body.

“Thank you! Thank your grandma for me!”

Khanum Rezaei set the qottab aside and went back to the counter by her oven. It was dusted with flour, which explained the mysterious white powder on her face.