We both stared at it for a second.
Mom shook her head. “I can’t believe Babou still has that old thing.”
“You always say Yazdis don’t throw anything away.”
Mom snorted. “Come on. You’d better get dressed. Your grandfather wants to hit the road in half an hour.”
“Okay.”
The sun was still kissing the horizon when I stepped out of the house. I pulled the hood of my jacket up to warm my ears.
Everything was quiet.
Everything, that is, except the house behind me, where Mom was shouting at Laleh to get her shoes on, and Mamou was shouting at Mom to remember the water bottles and snacks.
Dad bumped his elbow against me, his hands deep in the pockets of his gray Keller & Newton jacket.
“Um.”
The shouting inside was drowned out by the sound of a thousand furious wasps as Babou drove the Bahrami family vehicle up to the curb.
Ardeshir Bahrami drove a dull blue minivan that looked like it had come from a different age of this world. It was boxy and angular, and it poured so much smoke out of its exhaust pipe, I was certain the Forges of some Dark Lord were firing deep within its catalytic converter.
I wondered if they had emissions tests in Iran. It seemed impossible the Bahrami family vehicle could pass any sort of inspection.
Babou stopped in front of the house, but the cloud of smoke kept going, enveloping the minivan in a black shroud before dissipating into a thin trail of intermittent puffs.
I decided to call it the Smokemobile.
I would have christened it, but the sale of alcohol was illegal in Iran, so there was no bottle of champagne to smash upon its blue hull. I could have used a bottle of doogh—the carbonated yogurt beverage that True, Non-Fractional Persians enjoyed—but (a) it usually came in plastic bottles, which would not shatter, and (b) it would have made a terrible mess.
Babou stepped out and leaned over the hood. “Fariba-khanum!”
Mamou dragged a half-asleep Laleh out of the house and deposited her in the Smokemobile. Dad buckled her in, while Mamou ran back inside.
“Fariba-khanum!” Babou shouted again.
Mom came out next, hoisting a bag of snacks.
“I can take that.”
“Thank you, sweetie.”
I stuck the snacks in the trunk and contorted my way into the backseat next to Laleh, but then Mom turned around and ran back inside too.
“Shirin!”
And then Babou followed Mom inside.
Dad met my eyes, the tiniest of smiles curling his lips. “Now we see where your mom gets it from.” He pulled himself into the van and took the middle seat.
I wondered if it was all that safe for Babou to drive in his condition, especially such a long distance—supposedly it was almost six hours to Persepolis—but when I asked Dad, he shushed me.
“Not now,” he said.
I wondered if maybe someone had already brought it up.
I wondered if maybe that’s why everyone was in such a bad mood.
