Without our binary stars holding us together, our orbits decayed until the Bahrami family solar system succumbed to entropy and broke apart.
“He does this sometimes,” Sohrab said. “Gets angry. For no reason. Because of the tumor.”
“Oh.”
“That’s not how he really is.”
Ardeshir Bahrami had always seemed severe to me, for as long as I had known him. Even when I was a child and he was a scary figure on Mom’s computer monitor with a gruff voice and a bushy mustache.
So I wasn’t sure I believed Sohrab. Not entirely.
But it was nice to imagine a version of my grandfather that didn’t make my grandmother cry.
“Maybe we should make some tea,” I said.
That’s all I ever knew how to do. Make tea.
“Sure.”
The kitchen was empty. Everyone had abandoned ship after the photo fiasco. But the steam-filled air was bursting with the scents of turmeric and dill and rice and salmon and dried Persian limes. Mamou had a huge piece of fish in the oven, and sabzi polow cooking on the stove, and plates of every kind of torshi known to mankind—even the lemon one, which was my favorite.
Sohrab’s stomach grumbled.
“Your fast is over today. Right?”
“At sunset.”
The kettle was already steaming, but the teapot was empty except for the dregs of the last batch. I shook it out over the sink and started a new pot.
While we waited, Zandayi Simin came in with an empty teacup. “Oh. Thank you, Darioush-jan.”
She said something in Farsi to Sohrab, who nodded back at her. He looked at me and then back to her.
His cheeks were turning red.
I didn’t know anything could make Sohrab blush.
It made me like him even more.
“Um,” I said.
“Darioush-jan,” Zandayi Simin said, “I am so happy to meet you.”
“Me too,” I said.
I started blushing a little bit myself.
“I love you very much.”
“Um.”
She said something to Sohrab again, and then said, “My English is not very good.”
“No,” I said. “It’s terrific.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Sohrab will help to...” She looked at him.
“Translate,” he said.
