by Adib Khorram
Mamou made my favorite dish for dinner: zereshk polow, which is rice mixed with sweetened dried red barberries.
Red barberries are small berries that look like rubies, except they have little nipples on them.
It sounds weird, but they are delicious: tiny pouches of sweet, tart happiness.
In Iran, birthdays aren’t that big a deal. There was no singing or cake. Mom and Dad said they were going to give me my gifts when we got home. But Mamou and Babou gave me a beautiful antique copper teapot—it was hand-beaten and everything—and a pair of cleats. They were the same as Sohrab’s, except blue, and sized for my Hobbit feet.
I still felt terrible about Sohrab, no matter what anyone said.
I hugged and kissed my grandparents, and Babou surprised me when he kissed me back on the cheek. He held me by my elbows and looked at me.
“Darioush,” he said, so soft, only I could hear him. “Sohrab is hurting right now. But it’s not your fault.”
“Um.”
“You are a good friend, baba. And he is lucky to know you.”
He let me go and patted me on the cheek.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
After dinner—and tea and qottab—Mom helped me pack.
I didn’t need the help, but I knew, without her saying, it was because she wanted to spend a little time with me.
The Dancing Fan was dancing harder than it had ever danced before. It knew this would be its last performance.
I had a basket full of clean laundry next to me, and I handed Mom shirts to fold. She had this cool trick where she got them into perfect squares, with the sleeves tucked into the center.
She pulled out the Team Melli jersey. It had cleaned up nicely, despite me depositing the entire contents of my sinuses on it, not to mention a gallon of stress hormones.
That jersey had been my talisman—my Persian camouflage—but now I was going home. I didn’t need it anymore.
Maybe I had never needed it.
Maybe I never should have tried being something I wasn’t.
I packed the jersey and covered it with my folded boxers to keep it safe. Just in case.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head.
“You sad to be going home?”
“Not really.”
Mom looked at me.
“I’m going to miss Mamou.” I swallowed. “And Babou.”
Mom smiled when I added that.
I think I meant it too.
I think I really did.
“But . . .”
“I understand, sweetie.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
I sat in the kitchen, drinking tea with Babou and Laleh and reading The Lord of the Rings. I had finished the book but there were still the appendices.
I always read the appendices.
Babou was reading too, a green book with gilded pages. The sugar cube tucked in his cheek made his voice sound funny and his cheek puff out like a squirrel’s. Laleh sat on his lap, listening to him read in Farsi, or occasionally slurp his tea. Her head kept nodding, but she refused to go to bed.
She did not want to go home.
She was much more Persian than I was.
“Darioush-jan,” Mamou said. She smiled at us from the doorway.
She did not want us to go home either.
I wished I could take her with me.
“Sohrab is here. He wants to say good-bye.”
Red Alert.
* * *
Sohrab waited for me in the doorway, staring at the welcome mat, with his hands behind his back. He hadn’t set foot inside the house.
He looked smaller and flatter than I had ever seen him.
He had walls inside him now.
“Uh,” I said.
He looked up.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You didn’t come over today. I was worried.”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted that.”
He shuffled his feet. He was wearing the new cleats I had gotten him.
“They are perfect,” he said. “My favorite color. You noticed?”
“Yeah.”
Sohrab dug the toes of his cleats into the doormat and chewed the inside of his cheeks.
Things hadn’t been this awkward between us since that day in the bathroom, when Ali-Reza and Hossein had compared my foreskin to religious headgear.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” My ears were on fire. If there had been any weary Hobbits around, looking for somewhere to melt the One Ring of Power, they wouldn’t have needed a volcano. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
I couldn’t stand how sorry I was.
I wanted to reach out for him, to put my hand on his shoulder, to let him excrete stress hormones or scream or do whatever he needed to do.
But the walls weren’t just inside him.
They were between us.
I didn’t know how to breach them.
“It’s not your fault,” Sohrab said. “I’m sorry for what I said to you.”
“Don’t be.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I was hurting. And you were there. And I knew how to make you hurt as bad as me.”
He still wouldn’t look at me.
“I’m so ashamed,” he said. “Friends don’t do what I did.”
“Friends forgive,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it, Darioush. What I said. I want you to know.” He finally met my eyes. “I’m glad you came. You are my best friend. And I never should have treated you that way.”
He chewed on his lip for a moment.
“Can you come out? For a little while?”
I glanced back at Dad, sitting on the couch watching soap operas with Laleh. He nodded at me.
“Sure.”
THE CRACKS OF DOOM
I followed Sohrab down the silent street. He had something flat and rectangular clutched in his right hand, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
I tried to swallow away the lump in my throat, but all that did was move the lump down to my heart.
Being around Sohrab had never made me so nervous before.
The park—our park—was dark and empty. The mercury lights around the restroom cast the whole thing in a dim orange glow, barely enough to see the links of the fence as we climbed. Sohrab did an awkward one-handed climb, careful not to drop whatever it was he was holding.
We sat with our legs over the edge of the roof, surveying our Khaki Kingdom one last time. Sohrab didn’t say anything, and I didn’t, either.
When had the silence between us crystallized?
I rubbed my palms on my pants to try and get the mesh marks off them.
When I couldn’t take the quiet anymore, I said, “I’m so sorry about your dad.”
Sohrab shook his head. “Thank you. But I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
I hated this new reality.
I didn’t want to live in a world where Sohrab and I couldn’t talk about things anymore.
“Don’t be sorry. Maybe one day I will.” Sohrab handed me the small package he was carrying. “I got you something. For your birthday.” It was wrapped in Yazdi newspapers, same as his cleats had been. “Happy birthday, Darioush.”
“Thank you. Should I open it now?”
“Yeah.”
I pulled the paper off and crumpled it so it wouldn’t blow off the roof. Inside was a framed photo of Sohrab and me.
It was from Nowruz, though I couldn’t say for certain when it had been taken. Sohrab and I were leaning against the wall of Mamou’s living room. Sohrab had his arm over my shoulder, and we were both laughing at s
omething.
I wondered if Sohrab would ever laugh again.
“Is it okay?”
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Thank you. You’re always giving me things. I feel bad.”
“Don’t feel bad. I want to.”
I wiped my eye—a minor containment breach. “I never had a friend like you.”
“Me neither,” Sohrab said. He squeezed my shoulder. “You don’t care what anyone thinks. You know?”
My ears burned. “I care what everyone thinks, Sohrab.”
“No you don’t. Not really. You don’t try to change yourself. You know who you are.” He bumped shoulders with me. “I wish I was like that. I always try to be what my mom needs. What my amou needs. What you need. But you are the opposite. You are happy with who you are.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s really me. You’ve never seen what it’s like back home. How everyone treats me.”
“They don’t know you, Darioush.” Sohrab grabbed my shoulder. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
“I wish you could see yourself too.” I swallowed. “You’re the only person who never wanted me to change.”
Sohrab blinked at me then, like he was fighting a containment breach himself.
“I’m going to miss you, Darioush.”
“I’m going to miss you, Sohrab.”
“I wish . . .”
But I didn’t find out what Sohrab wished.
The azan rang out, piercing the still night.
Sohrab turned and listened, his eyes fixed on the Jameh Mosque in the distance.
I turned and watched Sohrab. The way his eyes lost their focus. The way his jaw finally unclenched.
I put my arm over his shoulder, and he linked his over mine.
And we sat like that, together.
And the silence was okay again.
* * *
The house was quiet when we got back, except for Dad and Babou in the kitchen playing Rook again.
“What time do you leave?”
“Early. Mom says we have to leave by five. Which means we’ll probably leave by six.”
“Probably,” Sohrab agreed.
He looked at me, and I looked at him.
I didn’t know how to say good-bye.
But then Sohrab pulled me in and hugged me.
He didn’t kiss me on the cheeks like a Persian.
He didn’t slap my back like a Soulless Minion of Orthodoxy either.
He held me. And I held him.
And then he sighed and pulled away.
He gave me this sad smile.
And that was it.
Maybe he didn’t know how to say good-bye either.
I loved Sohrab.
I really did.
And I loved being Darioush to him.
But it was time to be Darius again.
* * *
Dayi Jamsheed came to drive us back to Tehran in the morning. I was showered and ready by five, so I waited out in the living room. I had finished the appendices of The Lord of the Rings, but I still had some econ reading left.
The truth was, I hadn’t actually touched it since we’d arrived.
Laleh wormed her way next to me on the couch. Her silky headscarf was out of place, but it looked cute that way. She was soft and warm against my side as she laid her head on my chest and closed her eyes.
I loved my little sister. When I looked at her, I felt the same way as when I stared into the ancient flame of the Atashkadeh. Or when I heard the azan ring out across the city.
Dad found us like that, curled up against each other. He mussed my hair, but the joke was on him, because it was still wet from my shower. He dried his hand against his leg.
“Homework?”
“Just some reading for econ.”
“I’m proud of you. For doing it.”
I wasn’t sure what to think of that—Stephen Kellner, expressing pride in me—but he was trying to make things better between us.
I wanted things to be better too.
“Thanks.”
Laleh yawned and snuggled against my arm.
I could have stayed like that forever.
* * *
Mamou hugged me good-bye. She kept kissing me on one cheek and then the other, alternating back and forth until my face was hot enough to boil off the tears she left behind.
She took my cheeks between her palms. “I love you, maman.”
“I love you too. I’ll miss you.”
“Thank you for coming to see us.”
“I loved it,” I said.
And I had. Really. I loved Mamou’s hugs, and her cooking, and her laughter. I loved it when she let me help her with the dishes. I loved it when we sat together and drank tea.
I told myself I was going to call her every week on Skype. I told myself I’d always come say hi whenever Mom called.
But I knew deep down I was going to fail.
Because each time I talked to her, I’d have to say good-bye.
Now that we were part of each other’s lives—our real lives, not our photonic ones—I didn’t know if I could survive that.
I’d finally managed to open up the well inside me.
I didn’t think I could block it again.
* * *
Mamou turned to wrap up Laleh in a Level Thirteen Hug.
I couldn’t watch.
I slung my Kellner & Newton Messenger Bag over my shoulder and dragged my suitcase to the door, where Babou waited. The creases around his eyes were seismic in the morning light, but they were turned up.
“Darioush-jan,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
He took me by the shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks.
“Take care of your dad. He needs you. Okay, baba?”
“Okay.”
No one had ever told me Dad needed me.
But I wondered if maybe it was true.
Maybe Babou saw something I never had.
I wasn’t sure if he really wanted it, but I reached out and hugged him. His face was scratchy against my cheek.
Babou surprised me when he wrapped his arms around me too.
“I love you, Babou.”
“I love you, baba. I will miss you.”
* * *
The worst was watching Mom say good-bye to Babou.
They knew they were never going to see each other again.
I thought about what Mom had said: how she wished I had known him before. Back when he was warmer. Stronger. Happier.
I knew she was saying good-bye to that Babou too. The one who carried her piggyback through the streets of Yazd. The one who tucked her in at night. The one who picked figs fresh from the tree for her every summer.
Babou kissed Mom on the forehead and then ran his fingers through her hair. The same way Mom always did to me.
I didn’t think she would ever stop crying.
* * *
I watched Mamou and Babou wave to us, silhouetted in the front door, until Dayi Jamsheed’s SUV turned the corner and they disappeared.
Laleh was already out again, drooling on my hoodie.
Dayi Jamsheed’s SUV rode a lot smoother than the Smokemobile, even if he had learned how to drive from Babou, all evasive maneuvers and unsafe velocities.
With Laleh against me, and Mom talking to Dayi Jamsheed in soft Farsi, I started getting sleepy myself.
Dad looked back at me and Laleh. He caught my eyes, nodded toward Laleh, and smiled.
We were going home.
THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS
I thought I would feel different—transformed—by my trip to Iran. But when we got back home, I felt the same as always.
That’s normal.
Right?
Laleh and I too
k two days off from school to get over our temporal displacement. Dad and I still watched Star Trek: The Next Generation every night, sometimes with Laleh and sometimes by ourselves.
When we watched “The Best of Both Worlds, Parts I and II”—Dad made a special exception to the one-a-night rule for cliff-hangers—Laleh got scared and ran up to her room.
I hoped she’d be back.
But maybe not right away.
“It’s kind of nice when it’s just us,” Dad said.
“Yeah. But I don’t mind if Laleh watches. Sometimes.”
Maybe I did feel different after all.
Maybe something had changed.
Maybe it had.
* * *
Mom took me to get new wheels and a new seat for my bike while we were off, so I could ride to school on my own again. And on my first day back, I slung my Kellner & Newton Messenger Bag over my shoulder and headed out.
Even though I was still categorically opposed to messenger bags, it felt like the Kellner & Newton Messenger Bag had gone to Mordor and back with me. I couldn’t cast it aside now, even though Mom did offer to get me a new backpack.
Javaneh Esfahani knew where I had gone, and so did my teachers, but I hadn’t really told anyone else. So when I came back from spring break two weeks late, with a Yazdi tan, the rumors were already swirling.
“How was rehab?”
“Dude. I thought you died!”
“I heard you went to join ISIS.”
Fatty Bolger had the Chapel Hill High School Rumor Mill in overdrive.
I spent the whole morning answering one question after another.
When I got to the lunch table, I dropped my messenger bag on the seat with a crash and rested my forehead on my hands.
“Hey,” Javaneh said.
“Hey,” I muttered into my hands. “Hey! I have some stuff for you.”
I dug into my messenger bag for the plastic sack Mom had sent for Javaneh’s mom. Dried shallots and pashmak and haji badum, which are these little baked almond candies, and a new tablecloth.