Maybe only True, Non-Fractional, Cucumber-Loving Persians can tell them apart.
At first, only the ladies danced. They formed a circle, swaying their hips and flipping their wrists and taking tiny steps in intricate patterns on the floor. Mamou had this stained glass partition separating the living room from the dining room, and the light filtering through it cast constellations of color across my family’s faces.
Khanum Rezaei found her way to the center of the circle, where she danced with her headscarf in hand, flicking and flailing it around to the beat. Laleh laughed and tried to copyher, though my sister’s flailing was somewhat more violent.
Sohrab and I hung back in the corner. He had this cool way of snapping by clasping his hands and rubbing his index fingers against each other, but no matter how I tried I couldn’t get it, so I tapped my foot along instead. We swayed together, laughing and bumping shoulders.
It was the most fun I had ever had.
The song changed again, to one I recognized because it got played at Persian parties back home. It sounded like the infernal spawn of a Persian drum beat and a dozen Celtic fiddles.
Mamou screamed, “I love this one!” at the top of her lungs. She leaped into the middle of the circle to join Mahvash Rezaei and Laleh. The three of them kicked their feet, jumped and stomped, so vigorously they rattled the photos on the walls.
Sohrab joined in next, dragging me by the arm, and I jumped and laughed and tried to follow, but I was about as graceful as an android when it came to dancing.
Mamou took my hand, and I took Sohrab’s, and we made a chain until we were all dancing and spinning and stomping and jumping and smiling.
But even as I laughed, I thought about how Mamou and Mrs. Rezaei and Sohrab had danced this dance together before. How they had celebrated Nowruz together before.
How Mamou had kissed Sohrab on both cheeks and invited him inside for tea before. More times than anyone could count.
My chest imploded. Just a little bit.
I hated how Sohrab had a larger share of my grandmother’s life than I did.
I hated how jealous of him I was.
I hated that I couldn’t make it through a Nowruz party without experiencing Mood Slingshot Maneuvers.
But then Sohrab caught my eyes and smiled so wide at me, his eyes all crinkled up, and I smiled back at him and laughed.
Sohrab understood me.
And I understood him too.
And it was pretty much the most amazing thing ever.
In the kitchen, I found Dad sitting with Dayi Jamsheed, Dayi Soheil, and Babou, all with little plates of tokhmeh in front of them, playing an intense game of Rook.
Rook is a card game that, as far as I can tell, is encoded into all True Persians at the cellular level. At any gathering of four or more Persians, it was certain at least one would have a deck of cards tucked into their breast pocket.
In Rook, you played in pairs, partnered with whoever sat across from you. Through some quantum-mechanical entanglement, Dad and Babou had ended up as teammates.
I couldn’t believe Stephen Kellner was playing Rook.
I couldn’t believe he was playing with Ardeshir Bahrami.
I couldn’t believe he looked like he was actually having fun.
Stephen Kellner having fun with Ardeshir Bahrami.
I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to play Rook, not really, and last I’d heard, neither did Dad. At Persian parties we’d stand together in the corner, watching all the older Persian men play, laughing at the arguments that inevitably ensued even if we couldn’t understand a word that was said.
Babou grunted and nodded, and Dad threw the eight ofhearts onto the table. While Dayi Jamsheed played, Dad looked up at me and smiled.
Smiled.
Like he was right at home.
