He’s ire-pressible.
He stood at the far end of the dining table, directing the children to turn down the two o’clock news on the radio. Father
didn’t object. He preferred the news, hovering by the old radio with his bowl of
asheh-reshteh.
He savors his traditional Friday soup while listening to news. But he does like acknowledging his one and only son-in-law,
and Houshang takes advantage. Mother, stately and scented with Shalimar, kept her guests around the dining table. Mr. Mostaufi,
old-world politician and ex-ambassador, and his wife, a Qajar aristocrat and wistful poet. Mrs. Vahaab and the colonel. Mr.
Malekshah, poet and scholar. Dr. Atabak, with impeccable bearing, Father’s old friend and family physician, called away to
the phone as usual. Pushing back heavy strands of blond hair, Mother rearranged the greens and radishes, introducing her favorite
stews as if they were members of the family. She encouraged more forays on the food, impeccably arranged on the rose-medallion
china, interrupting Houshang as often as she could.
“More lamb? Try it with walnut pickle. Please take more
fesenjoon.
”
Houshang criticized the recent reshuffle of ministers in the cabinet, especially the four who had been dismissed. My youngest
brother cut in about the mayor, reelected the week before. He adores criticizing the political oligarchy, though his burning
ambition is to join it as soon as possible. Father complained the yogurt was too watery again. Wasn’t it from the bazaar in
Tajreesh? Dr. Atabak came back from his phone call and protested Mother had heaped too much food on his plate. The colonel
had heaped enough on his to feed an army, his mustache bobbing up and down as he ate. He looked even less intelligent when
chewing. Mother said the cook was now taking an inordinate amount of time to pray. It was so inconvenient! The colonel said
religion was our failure. A modern army and modern economy and modern factories were the only answer.
“Modern progress is marvelous!” he said.
Mother said the new maid, aiming to be modern, was making eyes at the oldest son of the gardener. A grumpy son, and surely
a leftist. “All leftists are grumpy!” said Mrs. Vahaab, stuffing the perfect O of her mouth with a morsel of bread loaded
with feta cheese and spring onions and baby radishes.
Of Father’s four sisters, the three there were having an argument about religion. The youngest was an armchair socialist and
once-marching suffragette. The other two, pious aunts, spinsters who lived together, were devoted to French novels and religious
vows and paid preachers who retold holy tragedies, and had taken the pilgrimage to Mecca and once taken me to Qom. Mr. Mostaufi
tried arbitrating between these impossible women, mustering the skills of an old-world diplomat but to no avail. Mother’s
youngest brother was complaining to Dr. Atabak about his brutal migraines. His wife, with theatrically penciled eyebrows,
tittered all over the room, eyeing Mother — her formidable opponent — furtively. And eyeing the Qajar glass lusters dripping
with cut-glass prisms — family heirlooms — their tall tulip-shaped globes bearing gold-leaf portraits of Nassereddin Shah.
My oldest brother, Kavoos, sat watching quietly. The way his wife — Miss Universe, as we call her behind her back — fritters
away his money would turn anyone mute. She sat across from him gossiping, blond and pale and groomed and combed and cosseted
into vacant perfection. He looked like he’d just stepped out of bed, maddeningly disheveled. He was once thrown out of a cabinet
minister’s outer office, he looked so slovenly. In a society where style means absolutely everything, they’d mistaken him
for a loiterer. Mother says he does it on purpose. The more ostentation he sees in the capital — and his wife — the more rumpled
he gets. Kavoos has Mother’s blue eyes, and such aptitude for business that he gets
He stood at the far end of the dining table, directing the children to turn down the two o’clock news on the radio. Father
didn’t object. He preferred the news, hovering by the old radio with his bowl of
asheh-reshteh.
He savors his traditional Friday soup while listening to news. But he does like acknowledging his one and only son-in-law,
and Houshang takes advantage. Mother, stately and scented with Shalimar, kept her guests around the dining table. Mr. Mostaufi,
old-world politician and ex-ambassador, and his wife, a Qajar aristocrat and wistful poet. Mrs. Vahaab and the colonel. Mr.
Malekshah, poet and scholar. Dr. Atabak, with impeccable bearing, Father’s old friend and family physician, called away to
the phone as usual. Pushing back heavy strands of blond hair, Mother rearranged the greens and radishes, introducing her favorite
stews as if they were members of the family. She encouraged more forays on the food, impeccably arranged on the rose-medallion
china, interrupting Houshang as often as she could.
“More lamb? Try it with walnut pickle. Please take more
fesenjoon.
”
Houshang criticized the recent reshuffle of ministers in the cabinet, especially the four who had been dismissed. My youngest
brother cut in about the mayor, reelected the week before. He adores criticizing the political oligarchy, though his burning
ambition is to join it as soon as possible. Father complained the yogurt was too watery again. Wasn’t it from the bazaar in
Tajreesh? Dr. Atabak came back from his phone call and protested Mother had heaped too much food on his plate. The colonel
had heaped enough on his to feed an army, his mustache bobbing up and down as he ate. He looked even less intelligent when
chewing. Mother said the cook was now taking an inordinate amount of time to pray. It was so inconvenient! The colonel said
religion was our failure. A modern army and modern economy and modern factories were the only answer.
“Modern progress is marvelous!” he said.
Mother said the new maid, aiming to be modern, was making eyes at the oldest son of the gardener. A grumpy son, and surely
a leftist. “All leftists are grumpy!” said Mrs. Vahaab, stuffing the perfect O of her mouth with a morsel of bread loaded
with feta cheese and spring onions and baby radishes.
Of Father’s four sisters, the three there were having an argument about religion. The youngest was an armchair socialist and
once-marching suffragette. The other two, pious aunts, spinsters who lived together, were devoted to French novels and religious
vows and paid preachers who retold holy tragedies, and had taken the pilgrimage to Mecca and once taken me to Qom. Mr. Mostaufi
tried arbitrating between these impossible women, mustering the skills of an old-world diplomat but to no avail. Mother’s
youngest brother was complaining to Dr. Atabak about his brutal migraines. His wife, with theatrically penciled eyebrows,
tittered all over the room, eyeing Mother — her formidable opponent — furtively. And eyeing the Qajar glass lusters dripping
with cut-glass prisms — family heirlooms — their tall tulip-shaped globes bearing gold-leaf portraits of Nassereddin Shah.
My oldest brother, Kavoos, sat watching quietly. The way his wife — Miss Universe, as we call her behind her back — fritters
away his money would turn anyone mute. She sat across from him gossiping, blond and pale and groomed and combed and cosseted
into vacant perfection. He looked like he’d just stepped out of bed, maddeningly disheveled. He was once thrown out of a cabinet
minister’s outer office, he looked so slovenly. In a society where style means absolutely everything, they’d mistaken him
for a loiterer. Mother says he does it on purpose. The more ostentation he sees in the capital — and his wife — the more rumpled
he gets. Kavoos has Mother’s blue eyes, and such aptitude for business that he gets
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