Darius the Great Is Not Okay(20)

“Wake up, Agha Stephen.”

His voice sounded like the crack of a whip, and he was always smiling, eyebrows arched and mischievous. My uncle had two discrete eyebrows—not a single connecting hair between them—which was deeply reassuring, because I had always worried about growing a Persian Unibrow.

Dayi Jamsheed started unloading our stuff from the back. I shook the sleep off my head and slid out of the SUV after Mamou, while Dad tried to rouse Laleh. “Let me help you, Dayi.”

“No! You go in. I’ve got it, Darioush-jan.”

We had a lot of suitcases, and Dayi Jamsheed only had two hands. It was clear he needed help, but he was genetically predisposed to refuse it.

It was my first official taarof in Iran.



* * *





Taarof is a Farsi word that is difficult to translate. It is the Primary Social Cue for Iranians, encompassing hospitality and respect and politeness all in one.

In theory, taarof means putting others before yourself. In practice, it means when someone comes to your house, you have to offer them food; but since your guest is supposed to taarof, they have to refuse; and then you, the host, must taarof back, insisting that it’s really no trouble at all, and that they absolutely must eat; and so on, until one party gets too bewildered and finally gives in.

I never got the hang of taarofing. It’s not an American Social Cue. When Mom met Dad’s parents for the first time, they offered her a drink, which she politely declined—and that was that.

She really did want something to drink, but she didn’t know how to go about asking.

She had yet to learn the proper American Social Cues.

Every Thanksgiving, Dad tells the story again, and every year, Mom laughs and says she’s going to kill him if he tells it one more time.

Maybe joking is the Primary American Social Cue.



* * *





“Please,” I said. “I want to help.”

“It’s fine.” Like Mamou, Dayi Jamsheed had a funny way of twisting the ends of his words. “You’re tired. You are a guest.”

Both of those statements were technically true, but truth was irrelevant when it came to taarof.

“Um.”

Mom came to my rescue. “Jamsheed.” She reached into the SUV to extract Laleh’s unconscious body from Dad. My sister was pretty much a rag doll when she was asleep. “Let Darioush help.”

Dad unfolded himself from the back of the SUV while Dayi Jamsheed argued with Mom in Farsi. For a beautiful, poetic language, it sounded harsh as Klingon when they fought, especially when Mamou joined in and turned it into a three-way argument.

Laleh still hung in my mom’s arms. I didn’t know how she could sleep through it.

Dad yawned and swung around doing trunk twists. He blinked at me and cocked his head toward Mom.

I shrugged. “Taarof,” I whispered, and Dad nodded.

This was not the first time Dad and I had been stuck spectating at a taarofing match we couldn’t understand.

We could have had all the luggage taken inside in the time it took them to allow us to help.

Finally, Mom prevailed, and Dayi Jamsheed handed me Laleh’s roller bag. “Thank you, Darioush-jan.”

“Sure.”

Laleh’s suitcase was twice as heavy as mine, because it was also crammed full of the stuff Mom had brought with her from America.

It wasn’t just stuff for our family. When Mom announced we were going to Iran, every Persian family in the Willamette Valley started calling her, asking if she could take something to Iran for a relative, or bring something back.

It would be Mamou’s job to distribute what Mom had brought after we left. It was all random stuff too: a particular kind of shampoo, or a face cream, or even Tylenol PM, which apparently you couldn’t buy in Iran.

I grabbed my own suitcase, slung my Kellner & Newton Messenger Bag around the retractable handle, and followed Mamou up the driveway.

“Where’s Babou?”

“In bed.” Mamou lowered her voice as she let us inside. “He wanted to come to the airport, but he was too tired. He is sleeping more.”

I got this sort of flutter in my stomach.

Meeting Mamou—really meeting her, I mean—but not Babou felt wrong, like ending an episode on a cliffhanger.

I was anxious to meet my grandfather, but I was a little scared too.

That’s normal.

Right?

The lights were still off, and the narrow windows didn’t let in much of the morning sun. Where they did, thin shafts of light struck the dust motes suspended in the air and lit the photos on the walls.

There were a lot of photos on the walls. Some were framed, singly or in groups, but plenty were tacked in place with tape, or pinned up by clothespins, or tucked into whatever corner would hold them. I wanted to stop and look at them—the Bahrami Family Portrait Gallery—but instead, I kicked off my Vans on the doormat and followed Mamou down the hall that ran the length of the house. She stopped at the last room on the right.

“Is this one okay?”

“Sure.”

“It has a washroom.” She pointed to a door in the corner.

“Uh.” Mom had warned me about Persian bathrooms.

“Are you hungry, maman?”

“No. I don’t think so.” The truth was, I couldn’t tell anymore. Our journey through the space-time continuum, followed by my near brush with State-Sanctioned Torture at the hands of Customs Officer II, had left me feeling disoriented and gross.