Not really.
My mother was strong and enduring as the Towers of Silence.
So was Mamou. She kissed both my cheeks. “You are the sweetest boy I know, maman,” she said.
“Darius?”
Laleh wrapped her arms around my waist.
“I’ll always be your friend.”
I knelt down and kissed Laleh on the cheek.
“I know you will, Laleh.”
“I made you some tea. For your birthday. It’s in the teapot. I didn’t even put sugar in it.”
“Thank you.”
Laleh squeezed me again. She whispered in my ear, “You can add sugar if you want, though.”
That made me smile.
“Okay.”
It was weird walking down the streets of Yazd with my father instead of Sohrab.
Weird, but not bad.
Dad kept pointing out different doors that he liked, or baad girs he thought were particularly impressive. But he didn’t stop to draw them. He had left his sketchpad at home.
“I want to spend time with you,” he explained.
I didn’t know how to handle all this attention from my father.
It seemed we had increased our intermix ratio by a substantial factor.
But it was nice.
The minarets of the Jameh Mosque were even taller than the baad gir of Dowlatabad Garden. I craned my neck and stared up at them.
“Wow.”
“Wow,” Dad agreed.
We crossed the fountained courtyard, staring up at the minarets and the huge, pointed archway that towered above us. It felt like being swallowed by an enormous celestial beast.
Dad was speechless.
I knew, without him saying it out loud, that he was in love with the place.
The halls and chambers were quiet. Morning prayers were done, so it was mostly empty, except for tourists like us. Our footsteps echoed endlessly. My dress shoes squeaked on the smooth tiles.
I had yet to recover my Vans from Sohrab’s house, but Mom had promised to bring them back with her.
I studied my father as he stared at the tile work on the ceiling: endless geometric patterns that made me think of traveling through a wormhole. Dad’s face was relaxed—no smile, no frown. All his walls had come down.
Dad had never hidden his depression from me. Not really.
