“Better get to bed soon. Early start tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Dad pulled my head down to kiss me on my forehead. He hadn’t shaved since we arrived in Iran, no doubt in an attempt to cultivate a rugged Iranian five-thirty shadow, and his chin scratched against the bridge of my nose.
“Love you, Darius.”
Dad held my face for a moment and looked in my eyes.
I didn’t know what he wanted. What he expected from me.
But at least he said it.
“Love you, Dad.”
FATHER ISSUES
The next morning, Mamou invited Sohrab and his mom over for breakfast. Laleh took the opportunity to educate Sohrab aboutStar Trek: The Next Generation, now that she was a self-proclaimed expert.
While Laleh distracted Sohrab, I poured a glass of water and took my medicine.
I don’t know why I didn’t want him to see it. He had seen my foreskin, after all. And he knew all about my depression anyway.
But I still hated that he was seeing me have to take pills.
Somehow it felt more intimate than just being naked in front of each other.
That’s normal.
Right?
“Finish your breakfast, Laleh-jan,” Mamou said. “Let Sohrab eat. We have to go.”
We were going to see Dowlatabad.
Dowlatabad is one of the most common place-names in Iran. It’s like Springfield back in the United States: There is one in every province.
The one in Yazd was a garden, not a separate city (at least, not as far as I could tell), and it was famous for its landscaping and its mansion and its giant baad gir.
The adults walked ahead, with Laleh riding on Dad’sshoulders, while Sohrab and I walked behind in companionable silence.
That was one of the things I liked best about Sohrab: We didn’t have to talk to enjoy each other’s company. We just walked and enjoyed the Yazd morning. Sometimes we would catch each other’s eye and smile or squint or even chuckle.
The sun was shining, but the air was still shaking off the night’s chill. I really should have worn a hoodie, but instead I had on a long-sleeved shirt with my Team Melli jersey over it.
I really loved that jersey.
I felt very Persian in it.
Birds whistled above us.
I sneezed.
“Afiat basheh,” Sohrab said.
“Thanks.” I sneezed again. “Sorry. How far is it?”
“Not far. Closer than Masjid-e-Jameh.”
