discreetly tossed some seeds into a gas flame. Their little popping noises distracted the younger woman; she said, “No need for that, Madar .”
I assumed the seeds were protection against the evil eye. I couldn’t fault Madar ’s perspicacity, but nobody besides me in this room radiated craft, so any problems should be mundane.
The young woman tossed the cloth into a sink and stood off to the side. She seemed a little embarrassed and concerned, but with nothing to occupy her hands, she folded her arms. In the club next door, a double-bass drum pounded a sound check.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Why were you saying those things in Persian?” said the woman.
The old man tutted. “Manners, Scherie.”
“OK,” said the woman, eyes a little wider at the incongruity. “My name is Scherezade Rezvani. This is my mother.” Mrs. Rezvani turned away. “And my father.”
I stood up, wobbly. “I’m Dale Morton. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“No, please, wait,” said Scherie, stepping forward, open palm out. “Something very bad happened to you, and it happened in Persian.”
“What did I say?”
“Nothing important,” said Scherie. “But the way you spoke reminded me…” Her dark eyes drooped. “Some people I know were hurt under the Shah or under the current regime. So I think evil things were done to you, and not so long ago.”
Mr. Rezvani glanced at the fire door like these words were chasing him, so I peeked at his sins. Yes, he had done some of those evil things to others, but his sins had the fuzzy quality of old crimes in another country.
Mrs. Rezvani shook her fists. “Those thugs in Tehran cannot last. America should bomb them.”
“ Madar ,” Scherie clucked. “He doesn’t want to hear us weep over lost Persia.”
“My daughter wants to go back and change things,” said Mr. Rezvani, ignoring Scherie’s admonition. “She’s modest, but I teach her this and that.” He picked up a large carving knife and made it twirl and dance. Then he tossed it toward Scherie, who snagged the handle in midair. Scherie averted her skillful yet embarrassed eyes.
I shook my head. “What happened to me … wasn’t anything important.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Rezvani. “I still meet with men, they know other men who work for a certain Company.”
A man who met men who knew men—too many degrees of separation for me to wrap my brain around. But this family wasn’t a security risk to me, and I didn’t need to entangle them in my problems.
“Thank you,” I said. “I should be going.”
“Come back soon,” said Mr. Rezvani. “We’ll show you real Persian cooking.” I had forgotten about the food smells; they didn’t seem to be bothering me now.
* * *
Scherie insisted on driving me back to the House. As little as I liked that idea, I agreed, because I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t black out again. “Nice car,” she said. She drove the T-Bird, while I called for a taxi to meet us.
As we approached the House, I remembered that she might have trouble seeing it. When it wasn’t hostile, the House liked to be inconspicuous. “It’s kind of hidden behind the other houses.”
“What, it’s behind the big old creepy mansion?”
She could see the House clearly, which meant that the House wanted her to see it. Strange. She pulled up to the main gate. “I love old houses. Can I see?”
Again I hesitated, not because of the folklore injunction against inviting a stranger across the threshold. She couldn’t damage me, but the House might damage her. But the taxi wasn’t here yet, and the House seemed to like her, so I chanced it.
Once inside, most guests instinctively kept away from the dark walls and strange objects, but Scherie touched everything. “This wood is warm, like someone’s arm in the sun.”
Now this was going too far. The House was flirting with her. Under my breath, I mumbled “ Stop it .”
Then, of course, Grandpa appeared, hair slicked
I assumed the seeds were protection against the evil eye. I couldn’t fault Madar ’s perspicacity, but nobody besides me in this room radiated craft, so any problems should be mundane.
The young woman tossed the cloth into a sink and stood off to the side. She seemed a little embarrassed and concerned, but with nothing to occupy her hands, she folded her arms. In the club next door, a double-bass drum pounded a sound check.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Why were you saying those things in Persian?” said the woman.
The old man tutted. “Manners, Scherie.”
“OK,” said the woman, eyes a little wider at the incongruity. “My name is Scherezade Rezvani. This is my mother.” Mrs. Rezvani turned away. “And my father.”
I stood up, wobbly. “I’m Dale Morton. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“No, please, wait,” said Scherie, stepping forward, open palm out. “Something very bad happened to you, and it happened in Persian.”
“What did I say?”
“Nothing important,” said Scherie. “But the way you spoke reminded me…” Her dark eyes drooped. “Some people I know were hurt under the Shah or under the current regime. So I think evil things were done to you, and not so long ago.”
Mr. Rezvani glanced at the fire door like these words were chasing him, so I peeked at his sins. Yes, he had done some of those evil things to others, but his sins had the fuzzy quality of old crimes in another country.
Mrs. Rezvani shook her fists. “Those thugs in Tehran cannot last. America should bomb them.”
“ Madar ,” Scherie clucked. “He doesn’t want to hear us weep over lost Persia.”
“My daughter wants to go back and change things,” said Mr. Rezvani, ignoring Scherie’s admonition. “She’s modest, but I teach her this and that.” He picked up a large carving knife and made it twirl and dance. Then he tossed it toward Scherie, who snagged the handle in midair. Scherie averted her skillful yet embarrassed eyes.
I shook my head. “What happened to me … wasn’t anything important.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Rezvani. “I still meet with men, they know other men who work for a certain Company.”
A man who met men who knew men—too many degrees of separation for me to wrap my brain around. But this family wasn’t a security risk to me, and I didn’t need to entangle them in my problems.
“Thank you,” I said. “I should be going.”
“Come back soon,” said Mr. Rezvani. “We’ll show you real Persian cooking.” I had forgotten about the food smells; they didn’t seem to be bothering me now.
* * *
Scherie insisted on driving me back to the House. As little as I liked that idea, I agreed, because I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t black out again. “Nice car,” she said. She drove the T-Bird, while I called for a taxi to meet us.
As we approached the House, I remembered that she might have trouble seeing it. When it wasn’t hostile, the House liked to be inconspicuous. “It’s kind of hidden behind the other houses.”
“What, it’s behind the big old creepy mansion?”
She could see the House clearly, which meant that the House wanted her to see it. Strange. She pulled up to the main gate. “I love old houses. Can I see?”
Again I hesitated, not because of the folklore injunction against inviting a stranger across the threshold. She couldn’t damage me, but the House might damage her. But the taxi wasn’t here yet, and the House seemed to like her, so I chanced it.
Once inside, most guests instinctively kept away from the dark walls and strange objects, but Scherie touched everything. “This wood is warm, like someone’s arm in the sun.”
Now this was going too far. The House was flirting with her. Under my breath, I mumbled “ Stop it .”
Then, of course, Grandpa appeared, hair slicked
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