Babou shifted the sugar cube around in his mouth, clacking it against his teeth. “Your dad is a good man,” he said. “But he is not Zoroastrian. You and Laleh are not either.”
“Oh.”
I was used to being a disappointment to Dad, and being a disappointment to Babou didn’t seem that different. But I hated that he was disappointed in Laleh too, for something she couldn’t change.
I swallowed.
Babou looked up at me. There was something sad and lonely in his eyes, in the way his mustache drooped over his frown.
I wanted to tell him I was still his grandson.
I wanted to tell him I was glad I was getting to know him.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his brain tumor.
I didn’t tell him any of that, though. I sipped my tea, and Ardeshir Bahrami sipped his. The silence between us hung heavy with all the things we couldn’t say. All the things we knew without them being said out loud.
Mamou was at the kitchen table, drinking her own cup of tea, when I brought the basket of cleaned sabzi into the kitchen.
“Darioush-jan. Did you make this tea?”
“Um. Yeah?”
“It’s cinnamon?”
“I added a pinch.”
“It’s good, maman!”
“Thanks.” I poured myself a fresh cup. “I was worried Babou wouldn’t like it.”
“Babou doesn’t notice, you know? His taste buds are not that good.”
“Oh.”
“Did you have a nice time, maman?”
“Yeah. Um. Babou showed me Darius the First.”
“Where your name came from.”
I nodded.
“I wish you had seen it sooner. I wish you lived here.”
“Really?”
“Yes, of course. I miss you. And I wish you could know your history better. You know, for Yazdis, family history is very important.”
“Um.”
“But I am happy for you, living in America.”
I sipped my tea. “Is Babou okay?”
Mamou smiled at me, but her eyes had turned sad. Fariba Bahrami had the kindest eyes in the entire galaxy. They were huge and brown, with little soft pillows under them. Mom called them Bette Davis eyes.
I had to google who Bette Davis was. It turns out someone wrote a whole song about her eyes.
