Darius the Great Is Not Okay(64)

I wanted to know where she heard them for the first time.

I wanted to know what other music she liked. And movies. And books.

I wanted to know everything she loved.

“Darioush-jan.”

“Yeah?”

“I am almost done. Can you make me some of your special tea?”

“Sure.” I dried my hands and started the water. Mamou finished the last few dishes and then pulled half a watermelon out of the fridge. She carved it into cubes while I dammed the FTGFOP1 First Flush Darjeeling and poured us each a cup.

“You don’t keep the leaves in?” Mamou asked.

“It gets bitter if you let it steep too long.”

“Oh. Thank you, maman. I love this tea.”

I loved my grandmother.

Before, she had been photons on a computer screen.

Now she was real, and full of the most amazing contradictions.

I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know everything about her.

It was like the well inside me had finally cracked open.

And I finally had my chance.

“When did you start listening to ABBA?”





CHELO KABOB



Sohrab and I played soccer/non-American football every day after that, except for Friday.

On Friday, Mamou was making chelo kabob.

That morning, I found her elbow deep in an enormous glass bowl of ground beef, burnished a bright gold from all the turmeric she’d added.

“Sobh bekheir, maman,” she said.

“Sobh bekheir.”

“There is tea in the kettle. It’s in the living room.”

That was the safest place for it.

Fariba Bahrami was making chelo kabob, which meant the kitchen was about to become a battlefield, like Helm’s Deep.

“Thanks. Is there anything I can help with?”

“I will let you know. Thank you.”

“Okay.”



* * *





Even Fractional Persians like me and Laleh dream sweet, exquisite dreams of chelo kabob.

Back home, we only had it on special occasions: birthdays and holidays and report card days, so long as I made a B average.

Stephen Kellner was surprisingly cool about that. He said he wanted me to try my hardest. He didn’t want me to be afraid of getting a bad grade, as long as I was learning.

That was good, because I pretty much always got a C in math, but I got A’s in history and English, so that kept my GPA in good enough shape to maintain a regular supply of chelo kabob.

When we made chelo kabob at home, Mom was in charge of the chelo—she knows the secret to perfect tah dig—and Dad was in charge of the kabob.

Mastery of grilled meats is an essential component in the makeup of a Teutonic übermensch.

Mom must have mentioned Dad’s preternatural kabob skills, because Mamou put him to work packing the ground beef for kabob koobideh onto skewers.

Dad patted the meat around the wide metal skewers, pinching them between his index and middle fingers up and down the length of the blade to seal them on, while Mom helped Mamou cut chicken breast into cubes using a cartoonishly oversized cleaver.

I was certain the event would end in bloodshed; in bodies piled sky-high, like the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

I washed the dishes when they let me, enjoyed the smells of kabob in the making, and waited for the horns to sound.



* * *





“Darioush. Come help me, please.”

Babou summoned me to the garden.

“We need to put the tables up.”

I half expected Babou to wheel a Ping-Pong table out, like the Rezaeis had in their yard, but instead he had me drag three fabric-topped card tables out from the shed in the corner. I unfolded the legs and helped him line them up beneath the canopy of fig leaves.

Babou grunted and nodded at me but didn’t really speak. His shoulders were hunched, and as I followed him to the shed to collect some dark wooden folding chairs, I noticed how slowly he shuffled his feet.

I remembered what Mom said, about how strong Babou was, that day he carried her home from the park.

I wondered if it was the same park where Sohrab and I sat on a rooftop and watched the sun set over our Khaki Kingdom.

I wondered if Babou had ever carried any of my cousins piggyback.

I wondered what else I had missed out on. What else I was going to miss.

I didn’t understand Babou—I wasn’t even sure if I liked him, to be honest—but I did not want him to die.

Soon there would be one less Bahrami.

“Darioush-jan. Go ask Khanum Rezaei to bring more sabzi when she and Sohrab come.”

“Okay.”

Mrs. Rezaei opened the door before I even knocked. She had her hair pulled back and arranged in huge curlers. With her forehead exposed and her eyebrows stretched upward by the strength of her hair, she reminded me even more of a Klingon warrior preparing for battle.

“Alláh-u-Abhá, Darioush-jan,” she said, and pulled me in. “Come in. Sohrab is in the back.”

“Um. Alláh-u-Abhá.” Mrs. Rezaei’s smile widened, and I was glad I had decided it was okay to use the greeting with her even though I wasn’t Bahá’í.

“Babou asked me to ask you to bring more sabzi for tonight. If you can.”