It was only logical.
“Okay.”
I showered and got dressed, and Mom drew me a quick map before she left. Sohrab only lived a few blocks away, but everything looked different if you were walking instead of driving.
When we picked up Sohrab to go to Persepolis, it was still dark out. In the daylight, the Rezaeis’ house was older andsmaller than Mamou’s, the khaki muted enough that I could look at it without sustaining damage to my visual cortex. It had wooden double doors, and each had a differently shaped bronze knocker on it: a horseshoe on the right, and a solid rectangular slab on the left.
The bronze was slightly pitted—like the doors, like the house itself. It felt lived-in and loved.
It made perfect sense for Sohrab to come from a place like this.
I gave the horseshoe knocker three quick raps. Mahvash Rezaei answered. There was a smear of white powder across her forehead, and some had gotten into her eyebrows, too, but she smiled when she saw me—that same squinting smile she had passed down to her son.
“Alláh-u-Abhá, Darioush!”
“Um.”
I always felt weird, if someone said “Alláh-u-Abhá” to me, because I wasn’t sure if I should say it back—if I was even allowed to—since I wasn’t Bahá’í and I didn’t believe in God.
The Picard didn’t count.
“Come in!”
I pulled my Vans off and set them in the corner next to Sohrab’s slender shoes.
There was a wooden partition separating the entryway from the rest of the house, with shelves covered in pictures and candles and phone chargers. The rugs were white and green with gold accents, and they didn’t have little tassels on them like Mamou’s. The house felt cozy, like a Hobbit-hole.
The air was heavy with the scent of baking bread. Real, homemade bread, not the mass-produced Subway kind.
“Have you eaten? You want anything?”
“I’m okay. I had breakfast.”
“Are you sure?” She steered me toward the kitchen. “It’s no trouble.”
“I’m sure. I thought I should come visit, since it’s the day after Nowruz.”
I felt very Persian.
“You are so sweet.”
Darius Kellner. Sweet.
I liked that Sohrab’s mom thought that about me.
I really did.
“You are sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m okay. I had qottab before I came.”
“Your grandma makes the best qottab.”
Technically, I had not tasted all the possibilities, but I agreed with Mahvash Rezaei in principle.
“She sent some with me,” I said, holding out the plastic container I’d brought.
Mahvash Rezaei’s eyes bugged out, and I was reminded of a Klingon warrior. Her personality was too big and mercurial to be contained in a frail human body.
