“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 really.
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.”
