Darius the Great Is Not Okay(63)

Playing soccer/non-American football with Sohrab, Asghar-Samwise-Frodo, and the rest of my team was genuinely fun. Even if Asghar and the other guys had all decided to call me Ayatollah.

I hated it at first, but as far as I could tell, none of them knew the real reason.

“It’s because you are in charge,” Sohrab said. “That’s what I told them.”

Our team cheered my new nickname whenever I nailed a tricky pass or managed a good save. I almost started to like it.

Almost.

But no matter what, Sohrab always called me Darioush.

We played until my calves burned and my lungs were in danger of experiencing a non-passive failure. We played until Asghar had to hunch on the side of the field, hands on his knees, and fight the urge to vomit. We played until Hossein and Ali-Reza got tired of us scoring goals on them. And we scored a lot of goals.

Asghar and the other guys made us promise to play again the next day. Sohrab said yes right away. Apparently he was something of a fixture on the field, though he had missed several games since he started hanging out with me.

He had given that up for me.

He didn’t have to do that.

Ali-Reza pretended like he might not return—he had suffered a crushing defeat, after all—but I knew he would be back when Hossein said, “Different teams next time.”

Sohrab hung back, kicking the ball around with me while the others cooled off and headed for the locker room.

I knew why he was doing it. But he didn’t say anything or make a big deal out of it.

That’s the kind of friend he was.

But that didn’t make things any less awkward when it was just him and me in the locker room.

In fact, it might have been more awkward.

Once again, Sohrab stripped himself completely, like it was totally normal for guys to be naked around each other. His skin was a volcano, with sweat running down every valley.

My face was experiencing some extreme thermal flux of its own. “Thanks for letting me borrow these,” I said as I tucked the laces back inside my borrowed cleats.

“You’re welcome.” Sohrab slung his towel over his shoulder. “It’s nice to share with you, Darioush.”

I peeled off the sweaty Team Melli jersey, acutely aware that all my soccer/non-American football stuff had come from Sohrab, whether bought or borrowed.

I felt very inadequate as a friend.

But then it came to me: the way to make it up to him. Sohrab desperately needed a new pair of cleats. And I was an Iranian millionaire.

“Come on. The water should be warm again.”

Sohrab faced me and talked while we showered, which was weird, but at least there was a spray going and soap partially covering me. I didn’t feel quite so exposed, especially when I could turn away to rinse off and listen to him.

Sohrab told me all about the guys we had played with: how the games had started out with just Sohrab and Ali-Reza, and then Ali-Reza invited Hossein, and Sohrab invited Asghar, and one by one the group had coalesced like a solar system forming around a brand-new star.

I was amazed Sohrab could carry on a casual conversation about the dynamics of Yazd’s soccer/non-American football-playing youth while soaping up his penis.

I was even more amazed I managed to talk back to him while I scrubbed my belly button and my stomach jiggled like some sort of gelatinous non-humanoid life-form.

Maybe I was learning to have less walls inside me too.

Maybe I was.

On the way home, Sohrab said, “Thank you for playing, Darioush.”

“Thank you for asking me.”

Sohrab squinted at me. “I told you. Remember? Your place was empty.”

I smiled back at him. “Yeah.”

“But not anymore.”

“Not anymore.”



* * *





“Mamou,” I said. “I want to get Sohrab some nice soccer cleats. Uh. I mean football cleats.”

“Okay, maman. Do you know what size?”

“Forty-four.”

“Okay. I’ll have Dayi Soheil bring them next time he comes. They have better shopping in Shiraz.”

“I’ll grab my money.”

“It’s okay, Darioush-jan, you don’t have to.”

“Yes I do. He is my friend. I want to do something nice for him.”

“You are so sweet.”

I was amazed I didn’t have to taarof about it.

“Can I help?”

Mamou was up to her elbows in suds.

“It’s okay, Darioush-jan.”

“I can rinse for you.”

“If you want. Thank you.”

I was amazed I didn’t have to taarof about that either.

I stood next to Mamou and rinsed the dishes for her as she hummed along to the radio.

I was so used to unrecognizable Persian beats, at first I didn’t recognize what Mamou was humming. What the radio was playing.

“Uh.”

It wasn’t Farsi. It wasn’t Persian music at all.

It was “Dancing Queen.”

“Mamou?”

“Yes?”

“Are we listening to ABBA?”

“Yes. They are my favorite.”

I thought about that: how Fariba Bahrami, who had lived in Iran her entire life, was in love with a band from Sweden.