“Why?”
“Don’t ask why.”
“How big?”
“Till I tell you.”
I put the tip of the shovel into the grass and stomped on the lip. It only went in about a quarter of the way. Ray sucked his teeth. But digging is the kind of thing you can’t do when people are watching. I kicked again and the shovel got halfway down. When I pulled it back, the grass made a tearing sound, and underneath was a clump of red Oklahoma dirt.
I was going too slow, so Ray grabbed another shovel and punched it into the dirt in front of mine. He stomped it in with one try. “Like this,” he said, which was worse than not helping at all.
We both dug, with him going double fast to embarrass me into doing it better, till we had a hole big enough to fit a cocker spaniel.
Then he stopped and said, “That’s not it. Start one over there.”
Around the fifth hole, I got to the same level deep and when I stomped, the shovel slipped all the way in, and my foot sank a bit into mud. But it wasn’t mud. And the smell rose up with it, of about five months’ worth of flushes for our whole family.
I pulled my shoe out with a shlorpy sound.
How can I help you understand the smell?
What myth do we share that I can reference to make you feel the power?
Have you ever walked into an overloaded porta-potty? Have you ever felt your tongue retreat back into your mouth? Do you know why it does that?
Because all smell is particulate.
That means little bits of poop wafting in the air have gone into your nose and down your throat, and your body is telling you whatever you do, don’t eat any more.
So you gag.
Your mouth opens and you get a real heave going, and swallow another wave of rancid smell, and that’s when I bent over and puked right into the trench.
Ray goes, “Akh! Come on!”
And he jumped away.
About five feet under the trench, the pipe going to our house must have burst and turned all the surrounding dirt into sewage. Ray threw down his shovel and said, “Clear out around the pipe,” and he left.
The trench he wanted me to dig had to be big enough to fit a refrigerator.
I threw up two more times and shoveled my puke out as I went. When I finished, it was almost sundown, and Ray reached down to lift me out of the hole. But I didn’t take his hand, even though I had to put my own hand in the slop to hoist myself up. I wasn’t mad. I just didn’t want his help.
To know the truth about yourself, you have to know if you can eat tornadoes for food and shovel a mountain of poop. So when Kelly J. sees your lunch and says it smells gross, or Brandon Goff calls you a dirty monkey, then you can think, “You don’t know anything about what food is and where poop goes.”
That may not sound like a lot. But it’s a true thing in a world without many true things. The only lie was that the poop trench wasn’t the strongest smell I ever smelled. It wasn’t even the worst smell.
A worse smell than all of that is opium.
* * *
OPIUM IS A SMELL I can’t and won’t describe.
Instead, imagine the smell of flowers but sweeter, and with broken glass in it. That’s my next memory after Mr. Sheep Sheep, because I don’t remember the airport or sneaking into the plane. When I say we snuck into a plane, you probably conjure up whatever plane you saw last.
Maybe you imagine a dude from the grounds crew with a mustache and those orange ear protectors counting a wad of cash at the bottom of the stairs. Then you see a little Persian woman with two scared kids stepping into the narrow cabin in the back.
Maybe the lady making announcements scowls at them, because she’s no smuggler, or because there are no seats, and they’ll have to stand in the back where they make coffee.
I don’t even remember the moment my dad left us, or let us go—however you wanna say it. I don’t have a picture for him kneeling down and looking me in the eye. Or a hug. I don’t know, wouldn’t you cry if you lost your family? I wasn’t ugly then, and no one thought I smelled weird. I was his son. And maybe he was all torn up about it. It’s the not-remembering that makes it one giant hole in the middle of a rug. Like somebody didn’t even care to address it.
On one line you’ve got a dad who laughs and brings you candy bars and checks your teeth, and on the next line ____________.
Maybe it was all in a hurry, on the run from the Committee men, and he had to push us onto the plane without much ceremony.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
That’s the point.
When you ask, they never quite tell you. Like in the legend of Zal. When he says to his dad, “How can you contemplate leaving me? Of the world’s flowers, my share is only thorns.” His father gives the most Persian answer in the world. He says, “It’s good to express your heart.”
And then starts talking about his own troubles.
That’s me. That’s how it goes.
Anyway.
My next memory is the dark street in Dubai at midnight, where we didn’t have a home, or know anybody, or speak the language.
Behind us was the airport.
We had the one German suitcase, my mom, my sister, and I. We didn’t know where to go, because this wasn’t a vacation. We hadn’t even known we would be in this particular country until just before we got on the plane.
My mom said, “Don’t be scared,” which was the first time I thought, Maybe I should be scared.
The street, I remember, was completely deserted. Everyone from the plane had jumped into a car and driven off. We walked and continued to walk until we had left the lights of the airport behind. I feel like I should tell you that it was a very clean street, like a street in a video game, brand-new. No cracks in the sidewalk. No litter anywhere. If you ever see someplace like that, it’s very noticeable, because everybody is used to a bit of dirt or candy wrappers or something.
But this street was dark, and quiet, and brand-new.
I think my mom was hoping there would be a hotel.
I remember saying, “Where are we going?”
And my mom saying, “I don’t know.”
And that was the second time I thought, I should be scared.
We didn’t have anyplace to sleep. We were homeless I guess.
But then—and this is a miraculous part—we’re walking down the cartoon street when a light approaches behind us. We turn around and see the biggest stretch limousine you can imagine. So big I don’t even know how it turned onto the street.
“Stay close,” said my mom.
The limo drove up beside us.
The door opened and a giant with one cycloptic eyebrow stepped out. He was so big his mama must have worn hula-hoops for bracelets. Under one arm, he had a rifle. I’m not a little kid anymore, so I know it was an AK-47. Oh, and he had sunglasses at night.
He got out and stood by the open door of the limo. We stood frozen in front of him, because of obvious reasons. There was still nobody in the dark street. Like it was all a dream where you forget to fill out the background. Or in Final Fantasy where the whole world recedes and it’s just you and the bad guy in a space like an empty page.
We didn’t know if he was a bad guy.
“Get in,” he said.
We got in.
* * *
I REALIZE, BECAUSE JARED S. said so, that I never “explained Dubai,” which is like saying, “explain Canada,” but whatever I’ll try.
Of course, then everybody says my reports are boring, or they don’t say it, they just sigh like a Jennifer. Even though it’s kinda like if you went to Iran and tried to explain Oklahoma football and the people said, “Wait, what’s Oklahoma,” and you said, “A state,” and the other people said, “What’s a state?” and you never even got to the football part.
But I’ll be quick.
Dubai is a city in the United Arab Emirates.
That’s a country on the Persian Gulf.
It’s
actually made of seven emirates, which are like states, but more like principalities, because they’re owned by seven princes called emirs. That’s why they’re called emirates.
All seven emirates are only as big as half of Oklahoma, but the UAE is one of the richest countries in the world.
They have a mall that sells nothing but gold—every store, floor to ceiling, gold. It’s so hot there that swimming pools boil, so one emir built himself an indoor ski resort. It’s a giant building with a ski slope covered in snow, and giant fans on full blast to keep the air cold.
They have castles like in the movie Aladdin. The streets are so clean because the fine for littering is a ton of money and a flogging. The whole country is a prince’s private property.
I mention that because when we got into the limo, the giant with the gun closed the door and went to sit in the front, and we found ourselves sitting across from a man with a thin black beard, smoking a hookah pipe with long fingers laced with gold rings. He seemed far away and mild, the way you might imagine a king would be if he had nothing to worry about.
My mom spoke to him in a bunch of languages till they found one they both liked. On the tray next to his pipe was a plate of pistachio cookies. My sister whispered to me, “He’s the prince.”
I thought those must be good cookies, then.
I reached for one, but my mom said, “Khosrou,” and I sat back.
The prince laughed.
You might be wondering why he found us in the street and invited us into his limo. Well, remember those friends of my dad’s I mentioned? The ones he visited in London? Legend has it that my dad knew these people, and nobody knew that he knew these people. He called a great prince of Dubai with his mythic charm and told him our situation. So here the prince came, like the eagles in The Hobbit, swooping in at the darkest hour to save us.
That’s what I thought, anyway, as we rode in the sweet-smelling car, through the garden estate of the emir, past marble beds full of black tulips, to his castle by the sea. I hadn’t seen Aladdin yet, but when I got to Oklahoma years later, it was the reference I had to explain this part to people. The palace towers weren’t so round as the ones in the movie, and the real castle had helicopters. But it was all close enough.
We stepped out of the limo in the moonlit courtyard. The dry heat felt like a school bus passing by your face. The giant led us into a door along the side. The prince went somewhere else. At this time, I remember thinking, “Are we rich now?”
I was just a kid, remember. We entered the kind of room they only have in museums—vaulted ceilings, paintings on the walls. But even I knew the most valuable thing there—maybe the most valuable thing I’ve ever even heard of—was the one massive Persian rug, the size of half a football field, laid out along the floor. It was so big I couldn’t even imagine the loom that must have made it.
I imagined the carpet hanging, like the sail of a ship, from two wooden masts, and my grandma slowly making each knot. It would take as long as she was alive, I thought. I realized at that moment I would never see her again. For me she would forever be a mythic weaver in the basement of an ancient house in Ardestan.
She’s there now. I’m here in Oklahoma where rugs don’t matter to anybody. That’s the end of it. There are no magic rugs to fly me to her. There are only shag carpets for rich Oklahomans, and million-dollar rugs for princes. And the refugees are lucky if they get quilted toilet paper. Believe me, even when I thought we were going to live in the marble palace, I would have given it up to sit on that basement dirt floor again.
But anyway, it was a grand ballroom. About twenty women in black burkas swept back and forth, placing trays of food, enough to cover the rug and feed a thousand people. They didn’t say anything to us, or to each other. The trays were piled high with saffron rice with grilled tomatoes, ground beef kebabs, filet kebabs, chicken and lamb, yogurt with cucumber and dill, fresh spring onions, purple basil, radishes, pickled vegetables, and a whole grilled fish with garlic.
Imagine half a football field of food.
And there was more coming.
Until the prince entered the room and the women in the burkas shuffled out in silence. They kept their heads down and wouldn’t look at us.
“Aren’t they going to eat?” I said.
“Shh,” said my sister.
“Sit, please,” said the prince.
We sat at the far corner of the carpet and put some food on our plates from the trays closest to us. The prince sat on the opposite end.
My mom and the prince spoke some more, but we didn’t hear it.
I asked, “What are they saying?”
“Don’t spill anything,” said my sister.
“What happens to the food,” I said.
“His wives eat it after, in a different room.”
If you want to know the truth, that was all the information I got before the prince stood up, put his hand on his heart as a kind gesture to us, bowed a little to my mom, and excused himself.
We were alone with all the food and the rug in the palace.
“What happened?” I said.
“Nothing,” said my mom, trying to smile. “Eat.”
I didn’t know at the time what had happened. But it was clear that we were no longer welcome in the palace.
I stuffed more kebab into my mouth, some yogurt mixed with rice, and a pickled cauliflower, and used the basil to shove it all in with my fingers.
“Are we staying here?” said my sister.
“No.”
Then we left.
An hour later we were back on the street, homeless again.
* * *
HERE IN OKLAHOMA, WHERE RAY is the star of nightmares and the international Bible study, there is a Persian man who owns a rug store in the rich part of Tulsa. His name is Abbas. He has to call them Turkish rugs, because it’s illegal in America to do business with Iran. But really the rugs are from Iran, and they just ship them from Turkey, because Mr. Abbas is a man who takes pride in his work.
Only Oklahoma oil families can afford the rugs. And even then, Mr. Abbas has to explain that every village in Iran has its own colors and patterns they’re famous for. Mr. Abbas always shows the red field designs from Kashan, which look like a field of wild flowers. He points out the diamond-shape medallion in the center, since they’re named after Shah Abbas, which is also his name.
Rugs from Qom always use a bit of turquoise, and the ones from Naein are ivory with light blue branches. So if you get one of those, they’re extra valuable. Some rugs from Isfahan even have silk and gold thread in the paisley designs.
Here’s another fact about rugs, and then I’ll get back to the story. They are graded by how many knots they have crammed in every square centimeter. So if it only has sixty knots in one centimeter of carpet, then you’d see that rug on the floor of a tea house in the bazaar, and you’d be welcome to step on it. But some rugs have 400 knots in one centimeter, and if you owned one as small as a pillowcase, you’d still be rich.
But no matter which grade or pattern—no matter even if the greatest grandmother in the whole world wove it—every rug has a Persian flaw.
The artisans of Kashan and Isfahan and Tabriz and Mashad all knew that only God was perfect—the only one who could listen to and speak the perfect truth. To remind themselves, and to show their humility, they would purposefully include one missed knot in every rug, one imperfection.
I think it’s pretty funny that people would mistake themselves for perfect if they didn’t include a hole in a rug.
But that’s the whole point of the Persian flaw—it’s there to remind you of all the other flaws, and even the flaw that makes you unable to see them in the first place.
It’s like the game Oklahoma kids play called “two truths and a lie,” which was made to remind them that this world is full of deceit and misunderstanding.
The Persian flaw in Mr. Abbas was that he underestimated my sister. And the one in us was ambition.
It went l
ike this: One day in the summer, we went up to Mr. Abbas after Bible study to show him our mug rugs.
“What are mug rugs?” he said.
They’re coasters for mugs, but we made them like little rugs. Not even the real Persian way on a loom. My sister walked us to the craft store and we bought square plastic grids and wrapped yarn around them. On the edges we made yarn tassels. The designs were basic colors like Easter eggs that no one in Tabriz would know. But Mr. Abbas said, “They’re so cute.”
Our mom was over by the refreshments table, retrieving her dishes, and Ray was standing nearby to make sure we didn’t insult Mr. Abbas.
“Let’s go,” said Ray, but my sister ignored him.
“You could sell them in your stores,” she said.
Mr. Abbas laughed. There were other grownies around, so he might have felt obligated to be kingly, to pat us on the head. He was short and waddled like most kings. He said, “That’s true. We could be real business partners. How much do you think we could charge?”
The other grownies giggled, probably because he was jokingly taking her seriously. But when my sister landed in Oklahoma, and the first grownie bent down and said, “What do you want to be when you grow up, young lady?” she said, “What’s the number one college in America?” and Pastor Hamond said, “Harvard, I suppose,” and she said, “There. I want to go there.”
So when Mr. Abbas asked about the prices, she said, “Ten dollars each.”
“Ten dollars,” said Mr. Abbas.
“They’re handmade Persian rugs,” she said.
“Are they?” he said.
“Okay, Persian-made hand-woven rugs. We could sell to you for five each, and you’d make one hundred percent profit.”
At this point, Mr. Abbas must have realized that he was completely entrapped. Five dollars is not too much for a king. He said, “I could probably give them to my customers as promotional cards.”
And that’s how Mr. Abbas agreed to pay my sister five dollars for every mug rug she gave him at the next Bible study, which was after the summer.
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