Darius the Great Is Not Okay

by Adib Khorram

  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.

  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 w
ork 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.”

  “Sure, sure. Your grandma makes the best chelo kabob.”

  I hoped she would not be offended that Stephen Kellner had a hand in making the chelo kabob this time. Klingons could be notoriously contentious when it came to their food.

  While Mrs. Rezaei sorted out which sabzi to take, I found Sohrab in the backyard.

  He was kicking his soccer ball/non-American football around, barefoot and shirtless. Sweat plastered his short hair to his temples and the nape of his neck. He waved when I came out and put his hands behind his head in Surrender Cobra. His flat chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and his stomach muscles rolled with each breath.

  I knew if I got close enough to him, the intense thermal radiation he was emitting would scorch me.

  “Hi, Darioush,” he said. He squinted at me, but he could barely breathe.

  “Hey. What were you doing?”

  “Push-ups. Sit-ups. Wind sprints. Drills.”

  “Wow.”

  I had underestimated Sohrab’s dedication to soccer/non-American football.

  Maybe I should have been practicing too.

  Sohrab breathed and squinted and breathed and squinted.

  I sneezed.

  “Babou wanted me to ask your mom to bring some sabzi tonight. For chelo kabob.”

  “Mamou makes the best chelo kabob! I eat way too much, every time.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I mean, when my mom and dad make it.”

  Sohrab pressed his right foot into his left, scratching at the top of it with his big toenail. The silence between us hung heavy and close. My ears warmed their way toward a Red Alert.

  Sohrab swallowed. The little hollow in his collarbone stood out against his glowing skin.

  “You want to play awhile?”

  He knew the perfect way to puncture the silence.

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  It was true what everyone said:

  Fariba Bahrami did make the best chelo kabob in the world.

  Maybe in the entire Alpha Quadrant.

  We ate in the shade of Babou’s fig trees, crowded around the card tables or sitting on the ledges of Babou’s herb planters. Unlike the Rezaeis’ garden, Babou’s hadn’t been assimilated by fresh mint, but it was only a matter of time.

  Resistance is futile.

  Baskets of sabzi—parsley and watercress and tarragon and basil and mint, stalks of green onion, fresh radishes carved into flowers—sat on each table. There were lemon wedges to squeeze onto our meat, and tiny glass dishes overflowing with bright ruby sumac, which was for sprinkling over everything.

  It’s supposed to help with digestion, which is good, because I do not know a single Persian—Fractional or otherwise—who doesn’t overeat when chelo kabob is on the menu.

  “I told you.” Sohrab bumped my shoulder. “Your grandma makes the best.”

  “Yeah.”

  I used the point of my spoon to break off a segment of kabob koobideh. Of all Persian foods, kabob koobideh is probably the most suspicious-looking, even more than fesenjoon. Each kabob looked like a soft brown log, shiny with oil and fat, dimpled where Dad had pinched it to seal it onto the skewer.

  It was deeply suggestive.

  My cousin Nazgol, who may have actually been a Ringwraith, sat on my other side, watching Laleh cut her kabob and mix grilled tomato into her rice. Nazgol turned to me and popped the petals of a radish flower into her mouth.

  “You want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s good for you. Here.” She tried to press a piece of radish to my lips as I laughed and turned away.

  “Nakon, Nazgol-khanum,” Sohrab said. “Leave him alone.”

  Nazgol shrugged and turned to offer the radish to Laleh, who popped it into her mouth and then scrunched her face up.

  Sohrab watched Laleh gag. He caught my eye and chuckled.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m gonna grab some more. You want any?”

  “Na merci, Darioush.” He squinted at me. And then he said, “Maybe a little.”

  “Okay.”

  I took both our plates into the kitchen, where the platters of kabob and rice took up every square inch of available counter space. When dinner was through, the dishes would pile even higher than the mountain Mom and I had washed after Nowruz.

  Chelo kabob was a serious endeavor.

  Dad was refilling his plate with grilled vegetables as I scooped more saffron rice onto my own. For once he didn’t comment on my food choices, even though a second helping of rice was a classic dietary indiscretion. He was too busy fielding advice and criticism about kabob preparation from all the Bahrami men.

  “You have to use enough salt. This is very important,” Dayi Jamsheed said.

  “You have to pinch it better, or it falls off the skewer,” Dayi Soheil said.

  “You have to make sure the grill is very hot,” Babou said. “But not too hot.”

  I almost felt sorry for Dad.

  Almost.

  I met his eyes, to see if he needed to be rescued.

  But he grinned at me and turned back to Babou.

  “What I like to do is use oil on my fingers, instead of water,” Dad said. “That way they don’t stick as much. It’s messy, though.”

  The Bahrami men nodded in approval.

  I wasn’t jealous of him.

  Not real
ly.

  Maybe Dad’s place had been empty too.

  Maybe he’d figured out how to fill it.

  Maybe he had.

  THE VIRGO SUPERCLUSTER

  With so many Persians gathered in such close proximity, it was inevitable they would reach critical mass and ignite a game of Rook.

  This time, Babou played with Dayi Soheil against Dad and Dayi Jamsheed.

  I did not understand how anyone could play Rook as much as Ardeshir Bahrami.

  Sometimes I found him in bed, playing alone, the cards spread across a blanket on his lap as he formulated moves and countermoves with imaginary opponents and an imaginary teammate.

  I found a seat in the corner and watched the Bahrami men—and Stephen Kellner—start bidding.

  How did he do it?

  How could he just join in like that?

  “Darioush,” Sohrab said. “Are you stuck?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said sometimes you get stuck. Thinking something sad.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed and pulled at the tassels of my hoodie. “It’s nothing.”

  “Come on.” Sohrab pulled me up to my feet. “I won’t let you be stuck anymore.” He dragged me to the table where Parviz and Navid, Dayi Soheil’s sons, sat. Parviz was twenty-three, and Navid was twenty-one, which made them closer to me in age than anyone, except Nazgol the Nineteen-Year-Old Nazgûl.

  “Darioush,” Parviz said. His voice was rich and creamy, like smooth peanut butter. He barely had an accent: It only came through in the sharpness of his vowels and the lilt in his sentences, as if there was the shade of a question in everything he said. “How come you never told us you play football?”

  “Oh. Um.”

  “Sohrab said you are very good at it.”

  I tried really hard not to smile.

  “He is. You should see him.”

  “I’m not that good.”

  “Yes you are! You should have heard Ali-Reza. He was so mad. He said, ‘It’s not fair! I’m never playing with you two again!’”

  Parviz snorted. “You still play with him?”