“Hi,” Laleh whispered. She twisted her hand in mine and looked down, hiding the roses blossoming on her cheeks.
It looked like my sister had a crush.
It made sense. If my sister had to have a crush on someone, Sohrab was a good choice, even if he was way too old for her.
“Hey. We’re going to your amou’s store. For faludeh. You want to come?”
“Of course!”
Laleh grabbed Sohrab’s hand, so she was swinging between us. Despite her complaining, she had enjoyed herself at the Towers of Silence: She peppered Sohrab with every conceivable detail about the morning as we walked.
I gave Sohrab a sympathetic shrug.
I loved that Laleh could talk to him so easily.
When we got to the store, I let go of Laleh’s hand to get the door, and she ran straight for the counter. Sohrab squinted at me and followed her.
“Sohrab-jan! Agha Darioush! Who is this?”
“This is my little sister. Laleh.”
“Alláh-u-Abhá, Laleh-khanum. What a beautiful name. Nice to meet you.”
Laleh blushed again. “Hi,” she said to the gray-tiled floor.
I took Laleh’s hand and gave it a wiggle. “Do you want faludeh, Laleh?”
She shook her head and stared downward, studying the toes of her white sneakers.
Even the lure of dessert wasn’t enough to overcome Laleh’s sudden and inexplicable shyness.
Mr. Rezaei said, “We have ice cream too, Laleh-khanum, if you like.”
Persian ice cream is mixed with saffron and pistachios.
I didn’t like it as much as faludeh, but it was still terrific.
“Bastani mekhai, Laleh-jan?” Sohrab asked.
“Baleh,” she said.
“Darioush?”
“Faludeh. Please.”
I sent Laleh to wash her hands, while Sohrab and his amou talked in Farsi. Sohrab kept smiling. Not his usual squinty smile, but a softer one.
I liked watching Sohrab talk to his uncle. He was different than he was with his mom. More relaxed.
Maybe he felt like a kid again when he was with his amou, in a way he couldn’t with his mom, because he had to be the man of the house.
I wished Sohrab could be a kid again all the time.
I don’t know if Ashkan Rezaei always gave out such large servings of faludeh, but I was grateful Stephen Kellner wasn’t around to witness my dietary indiscretion.
Sohrab was fairly restrained—he only put a little splash oflime juice on his faludeh—but I doused mine in enough sour cherry syrup to turn it into Klingon Blood Wine.
I grabbed napkins for us, and Ashkan Rezaei handed Laleh a perfect sphere of sunny yellow bastani.
