Eighteen Arya #3
Arya followed her and Farah to the kitchen, which was overflowing with the sweet-tart scent of his mom’s albaloo polo, rice with sour cherries. It was Arya’s favorite. His dad’s, too.
And there his dad sat, at the head of the table, like he was somehow still in charge of their family.
Afshin Nazeri was shaped like his son: lean, though the years had turned him nearly gaunt, long-limbed, dark-skinned, and bald. He had keen brown eyes, and right now they were crinkled up in delight over his large, slightly hooked nose.
“Agha Arya!” he boomed, standing, though Arya noticed he used more effort getting up than he used to. He shook the thought away. His parents, imperfect though they were, had better both live forever.
“Hi, Baba.” Arya took his dad’s hand and gave it a firm shake. He and his dad rarely hugged. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time they had. Maybe when Arya graduated college?
Afshin did pull Farah into a hug, though, kissing both cheeks and telling her how beautiful she was and asking why she didn’t bring her sons with her, all in a never-ending stream of Persian.
Arya had grown up speaking it—grudgingly at times, because he did not want to be the Iranian kid after 9/11—so he understood it just fine, spoke it fluently himself. But he still preferred English, even at his parents’ house.
He was born in the States. He was American. Even if he was Iranian, too.
“Maman, do you need any help?”
“I’m fine,” she answered in Persian, flicking a towel at him. “Everything is nearly ready. You go talk with your dad.”
“All right.” Arya grabbed the wineglasses and headed to the table.
Dinner with his parents always went more or less the same: first, an awkward “catching up” phase, when his dad asked about everything he’d missed while he was in Iran, glossing over the fact that he chose to be half a world away, missing all the little day-to-day moments in his children’s (and grandchildren’s) lives that he then tried to get a recap of in an hour at dinner.
Then there’d be the part where Arya’s mom managed to say something passive-aggressive about how his mistresses in Iran were treating him—a worn hem in his shirt, or a stray eyebrow hair, or that he’d gained weight, lost weight, or in some way succumbed to the ravages of time (in this case, the fact that his eyebrows had gone snowy white)—after which Arya’s dad would return the volley with something passive-aggressive about the state of the house, the state of Shohreh’s wardrobe, or the quality of the food (tonight, that the sour cherries weren’t tart enough, and did she really have to add so much sugar to them?).
The Persian civilization had given many gifts to the world: Human rights. Horseback archery. Yogurt. Refrigeration.
But they had also invented being passive-aggressive, and with the long millennia of practice came expertise.
Finally, dinner would end, and they’d retire to the living room, where Arya’s dad would dole out gifts from Iran while his mom made tea.
The gift-giving portion of the evening was always painful, because while Arya wasn’t interested in being bribed to love his father, he did appreciate his dad bringing back Persian saffron for him every time he came.
It was the best—more potent, more vibrant, more delicate, more delicious—and it was super difficult (if not downright impossible) to get in the States because of sanctions.
It almost made the rest of the evening worth it.
Then came dessert and Arya excusing himself, because it was easy enough to invent early-morning meetings with a client to get the fuck out.
“Khodafes, Maman,” Arya said, hugging his mom. “See you, Farah.”
His dad walked him to the door. Silence built around them as Arya slipped back into his shoes. He stood again and looked at his father.
His baba’s lips were pursed, eyes looking at Arya and then awkwardly away. No yavash-yavash, slowly slowly going. No Midwestern goodbye for them.
Arya managed a “How long are you in town for?”
“A while this time. To take care of some business.”
“Ah.”
He didn’t know what he was waiting for. For his dad to say he missed him?
Arya wasn’t sure he missed his dad, so he could hardly blame his dad for not missing him.
He had a whole other life in Iran, a life Arya could never be a part of.
He’d never gotten his Iranian passport. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, not safely, not with being gay.
That his dad spent most of his life in Iran, even after his son had come out, said volumes about what mattered to him.
About how much his son mattered.
Afshin Nazeri had never condemned his son for being gay or complained when he came out. He’d just relocated somewhere that Arya’s sexuality was criminalized.
As one does.
Arya’s dad would never be like Farzan’s dad, who loved his son so much he literally left his restaurant to him.
Or like Noah, who loved Jake so much he’d cut off his bigoted parents.
No, Arya’s dad was a regular old-fashioned Iranian, in all the ways both good and bad, and Arya had to deal with it.
“Khodafes, Baba. See you soon.”
“Khodafes.”