Читать книгу Bibi's Rainbow: Hilarious Ordeals of Assimilation - Majid Amini - Страница 4

Suddenly, a loud annoying noise, sounding like a plate crashing to pieces on a hard floor, comes from downstairs. Its agonizing clatter interrupts Mike’s much needed sleep again and pushes him to the edge of anger; but his anger quickly changes to a paranoid fright. He rises, ties a robe over his pajamas, and retrieves a baseball bat from the master bedroom closet. Fear disrupts Mike’s breathing; halfway down the stairs he is frightened seeing the kitchen light is on. Then he notices the movement of a person’s shadow, his feeling of fright intensifies into horror. His hands trembling visibly, he stops and inhales a mouthful of air. He is convinced that there is definitely an intruder prowling in the house. The realization tenses him up as he cautiously but gallantly tiptoes down the stairs. In preparation to strike whoever might be there, he squeezes the bat firmly and feels the sweat on his palm. He is equally startled and relieved to find his father, Ferdous Yazdy, in the kitchen, busy preparing the large brass samovar for brewing tea.

“Good morning, Dad,” Mike breathes a sigh of relief and greets his father in Farsi as he quietly leaves the baseball bat on the stairs. “Why are you up so early?”

“The correct word for it is insomnia, Son. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I might as well have a cup of tea,” Ferdous responds with a drained look in his eyes.

Ferdous Yazdy, a widower, with his over six feet height, is tall for every nationality, especially for Persians. He could easily be mistaken for twin brother of the late Italian actor Vittorio Gassman in his later years, slightly bent. He has kept all his hair although it is turned to mostly salt than pepper now, matching his goatee. In spite of his age, his eyes have mostly remained shining and alert under thick black eyebrows when he is in an agreeable disposition. He is wearing a long raggedy purple robe over his blue-and-white-striped pajamas and a pair of old slippers that should have been discarded decades ago. He has the appearance of a highly regarded man, an absolute source of good judgment and pure wisdom, looking like a professor who teaches advance philosophy in a reputable university.

Ferdous had been a happily married man with two sons and two daughters until the afternoon of July 7, 1982. On the afternoon, two and half years after the revolution, during the peak of the Iran-Iraq war, Ferdous’s wife, Bano Khanom, was busy cooking dinner. This was a time when the two countries were mercilessly locked in a destructive war that to the delight of their foes was wearing out the resources of both countries. To bring the Iranians to their knees, Saddam Hussein had begun firing missiles on populated cities, massacring civilians indiscriminately. Suddenly there was the sound of a deafening whistle and an Iraqi missile exploded on the house next door. The power of the explosion demolished the two-story brick building and killed their neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Houshang and Parie Zadeh and their two youngsters instantly. The explosion was such that it brought down the kitchen ceiling on Bano and buried her alive under the rubble. When she was pulled out, hours later, she was dead. It didn’t help the grief-stricken Ferdous when after a doctor’s examination, it was determined that the reason for her death had been a massive heart attack and not suffocation or fatal injuries. The tragic death of his wife altered Ferdous’s course of life drastically. It forced him to become an uncompromisingly discontented migrant in America.

After the heartbreaking death of his wife, his two daughters, two sons and their families scattered like gypsies around the world. Having no one left in Iran, and unable to tolerate the mayhem of the post revolution, he joined his oldest son, his favorite, Mehran, in and around Los Angeles―a vast ghetto of a few hundred thousand, some very wealthy Iranian emigrants.

“Sorry for making that noise that woke you up, Son. I lost control of the damn saucer,” his father responds with a melancholy tone that has become increasingly his own.

“You didn’t, Dad. I was up taking care of Che,” he half-lies to prevent his father from feeling bad.

“Is there something wrong with the child?” Ferdous asks, concerned.

“No, Dad. The little monster thought he had lost one of his balls,” Mike answers in a very casual tone as he tidies his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Was it his soccer ball or baseball? I bought one of each for him recently,” Ferdous says naively.

“No, Dad. It was one of his testicles.”

“What?” Ferdous reacts with arched eyebrows.

“Oh, never mind, Dad. He’s okay.”

“It seems I’m losing control of my muscles more and more these days,” Ferdous says as he pours the boiling water from the samovar into a ceramic teapot.

“Maybe it’s time for you to have a checkup, Dad. By the way, when was the last time you had one?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe it’s just a problem that comes with old age,” Ferdous responds.

“Yes, Dad. We’re all getting old.”

“No, Son. You’re getting old, but I am old.”

“Oh, come on, Dad.”

“Son, when you can’t see the curvatures on the body of a voluptuous woman on the sidewalk, the undulations of her round ass, the bouncing of her breasts, and other goodies, you’re too damn old. And even when you see those damn things but you don’t feel any tingling sensation in the part of your body where you should, you’re old, and with it, you have lost all your masculine pride. Then it’s time to buy a lot in a cemetery, have a gravedigger dig you a nice cozy grave and get busy dying.”

“Come on, Dad. Don’t be so pessimist.”

“Pessimist? My damn knees buckle with every step I take. While one leg wants to go to the right, the other one decides to go to the left. I often walk like a man who has alcohol instead of blood in his veins—a blasted drunk. A goddamn policeman stopped me the other day on Beverly Drive while I was walking, minding my own business. The bastard wanted to arrest me as a homeless drunk, Son.

“With the sloppy way you always dress, I’m not surprised the policeman thought you were a homeless nut, Dad.”

No, Son. I’m telling you. He thought I was drunk, because he told me so. Look, Son. Every joint in this damn body cries out demanding that I become horizontal immediately as soon as I’m up on my feet, trying to be vertical.”

“You’re only as old as you feel, Dad.”

“That’s exactly my point. You’re old when you don’t have any more of the wonderful, uncontrollable and irresistible impulses. Oh God, I had those impulses, a lot of them, but I lost them.”

“Dad, do you know when you lost them … I mean at what age?” Mike asks, mainly because he wanted to know when he must expect to lose his.

“When your wonderful mother died, and all this time, I’ve been waiting to die, and I don’t give a damn when and how, but I do care where,” Ferdous, says in a low, defeated voice.

Like a man suddenly overwhelmed by desperation, Ferdous grabs Mike’s arm firmly, and with a voice that borders on begging, he asks, “Son, have I ever asked you for any favor, anything?”

“Surprised by the question, Mike responds quickly, “No, Dad. You haven’t.”

“But I’m going to ask you for one now … the only one and perhaps the last one.”

“Go ahead and just ask, Dad.”

“Good. When I die in this country, I don’t want to be buried in Forest Lawn here in Los Angeles, or any other cemetery in this goddamn country,” Ferdous says, sounding like a man who has hit rock bottom, with nowhere to go, up or sideways, except to his final resting place, his grave.

“I don’t want to hear such nonsense, and you’re not going to die, Dad,” Mike says dismissively.

“Don’t be stupid, Son. Everybody dies.”

“Well, Dad. Now that you insist, let me tell you something. You’ve never seen Forest Lawn. It is covered with grass. Beautiful flowers and trees are everywhere, twelve months of the year. The damn place looks like a real paradise, Dad.”

“I bet you the American government has made it look like heaven, so people want to die sooner than when their times are up, so they don’t have to pay them Social Security,” Ferdous expresses his usual cynical view.

“I know an Iranian, an old philosophical sort of chap, who goes there once a month, takes a bottle of wine and some munchies. In a meadow, under a weeping willow tree, out of the watchful eyes of the grave diggers, he drinks his wine and reads Omar Khayyam’s poems,” Mike says.

“He must be stupid or crazy … or both. Why doesn’t he go to a park?”

“Because he would like to be directly reminded that death is imminent―of his own mortality. Besides, the Iranian cemeteries are so ugly and sad that the dead rise and leave. That is why we have so many ghosts in our country.”

“That is very good, Son―I mean what you just said about the ghosts. That explains everything.”

“What do mean, Dad?”

“See, all the mullahs who are running our country are those ghosts who have escaped the cemeteries. That’s why our country is going into the toilet so fast.”

“As I was saying, the Forest Lawn cemetery is a beautiful place to lie under for good.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. I just want to be buried in Iran, next to your mother.”

The look Mike gives his father is a mixture of sorrow, love and respect.

“God willing, when you pass on I will arrange it so you will be buried next to Mom.”

In an expression of gratitude, Ferdous embraces Mike and holds him for a while. Mike frantically searches his mind for the last time Ferdous hugged him. He can’t remember. Suddenly something else attracts Ferdous’s attention. With squinted eyes, Ferdous looks towards the entrance to the kitchen where the slap-slap of slippers on the floor can be heard. Mike can see his father’s jaw tighten, as the sound gets louder.

“I bet you the evil lady is coming, the queen of pretension,” Ferdous warns with an unhappy expression on his face.

“What are you talking about?” Mike inquires.

Ferdous points straight at Noshin’s mother, Mrs. Naghmeh Rushanzadeh. Her sleep-starved old body, which houses her grief-stricken heart, is wrapped in a long polka-dotted pink robe. Even with her feet clad in fluffy mauve slippers, she still manages to enter the kitchen as grandiosely as a peacock. Even in that early hour and at the sunset of her life, with her elaborate hairdo and meticulously plucked eyebrows, she gives the distinct impression that she has just left an exclusive Hollywood beauty salon, where they are definitely capable to take a fairly unattractive woman at any age; renovate her, transforming her to an astonishing creature. The makeup she has put on is a work of art with impeccable precision: bright lipstick, heavy dark-blue mascara and nail polish as red as fresh blood, might give the impression that she has just finished feasting on a carcass of freshly killed prey. In spite of having had her last period several decades ago, as well as enduring an excruciating painful period of menopause and despite a distinct air of melancholy that always envelops her, Naghmeh is still an attractive traditional cosmopolitan matron. The worldview she holds so dearly close to her broken heart―inherited from her mother’s White Russian ancestries who were unjustly forced to migrate into Iran right after the Bolsheviks triumphed―perhaps explains her melancholic state of mind.

There are times, particularly depending upon who might be watching, when she puts on a special act, trying to present herself as sophisticated and charming as a sad deposed queen. But lately her constant melancholia had started taking a toll on her once attractive features, giving her a decidedly gloomy countenance. A visit to a well-known plastic surgeon solved that problem, and she continues to alleviate the vexing signs of advancing age by paying for a nip here and a tuck there whenever the need arises (or the mood strikes her). Of course, the downside of the innumerable plastic surgeries doctors have performed on her face is that it is literally impossible for people to determine whether she is smiling or frowning.

She has perhaps just reason in this unjust world to feel like a queen who has lost her throne, almost matching Marie Antoinette’s attitude toward her own tragic destiny a few minutes prior to her execution. Two bloody revolutions executed by over-ambitious and brutal men―in Russia in 1917 and then Iran in 1979―destroyed her family and her future. Her husband, Parviz Rushanzadeh, a well-known mover and shaker during the late Shah’s regime, was killed by a firing squad immediately after the revolution during the first wave of mass executions of the old regime’s agents. Parviz’s trial had lasted only ten minutes, presided over by the judge who came to be known as “The Hanging Mullah.” He had been appointed by Khomeini to exterminate all those who were, in one way or another, connected to the previous regime. Her husband’s execution was followed by the confiscation of everything they owned, which was more than any wealth-gatherer dreams of accumulating in more than one lifetime. Her husband’s death and the loss of everything had locked Naghmeh in the grip of a nightmare from which she has been unable to wake up. From the day she buried her husband’s body riddled with bullets, Naghmeh has starved herself of any laughter. Instead, with every drop of blood that throbs through her veins until the day it ceases to do so; she will loathe the American government for the stupidity, recklessness, and shortsightedness of its foreign policy instigated by group of unintelligent people that dishonorably dethroned and disgracefully deposed her loving Shah.

Noshin was Naghmeh’s only child. When Mike escaped to Paris after the revolution, and his wife and children joined him there over two years later, carrying everything they owned, which didn’t amount to much, Naghmeh also left Iran to join them and had been discontentedly living with them in Southern California ever since. If the Revolutionary Guards in the aftermath of the 1979 revolution robbed her of almost everything she owned they apparently were unsuccessful in depriving her of her stubbornly shielded sense of rigid righteousness. Along with an obsessive behavior of visiting the bathroom more often than normal, she safely packed her mental inflexibility between the layers of Persian traditions safely in her luggage and hauled it to America, obviously without being noticed by the American custom officials to pay some import duty for them. If the severe rigidity in her attitude could be justly attributed to the misfortune the 1979 revolution had caused her, her obsessive visits to the bathroom at all hours of the day and night were either due to being exaggeratedly self-conscious of her own appearance, or from some malfunctioning of her bladder. Of course, there was this third possibility that the reason for constantly visiting the bathroom could be due to a mysterious rationale beyond any human comprehension.

“Come on, Dad. Poor woman is not evil. She has suffered more than her share. She can’t help what she is,” Mike whispers.

“That’s what you think. Don’t forget that people like her and her goddamn husband were part of the cause of the revolution that forced us to leave our beloved country and come live among these uncultured, uncivilized and ruthless people, who don’t even know who were their forefathers,” Ferdous counters, expressing his disapproval of Naghmeh disdainfully, loudly.

“Keep it down. She will hear you, Dad,” Mike whispers.

“Don’t you know your mother-in-law has lost most of her hearing? But, of course, she always pretends otherwise. Hurry up and get me a piece of paper and a pen, Son. Do it quickly!” Ferdous says nervously.

“What do you need paper and a pen for, Dad?” Mike asks, perplexed.

“I want to write her name on a piece of paper and flush it down the toilet,” Ferdous answers with a straight face.

“What?”

“See, if somebody annoys me bad enough and long enough, I mean really gets on my nerves, I write his or her name on a piece of paper and flush it down the toilet,” Ferdous responds, chuckling to himself.

“Why?”

“It gives me the satisfaction that the person goes down the toilet. It’s a gratifying way to get rid of your enemies, drowning them in an ocean of piss and shit, without going to jail. You don’t leave any clues behind. It’s the most perfect crime with guaranteed impunity,” Ferdous responds, generously gifting his father with the information.

Chuckling, Mike asks, “How many times have you done it for Naghmeh?”

“I do it almost every day. Sometimes, several times a day. God, I’d love to strangle that goddamn self-centered obnoxious bitch! She is nothing but a boil on my ass!”

“Come on, Dad! She isn’t that bad.”

“That woman is a bona fide evil, Son. Just let me tell you about the magic of my action. Every time I do my flushing job for that wicked man, Dick Cheney, he sure ends up in the hospital because of heart problems.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Dad” Mike whispers. “Good morning, Mother,” Mike greets Naghmeh with a voice a few decibels higher than normal, trying for a serious composure. “Sorry we woke you up,” Mike doesn’t mean a word of his apology while pulling out a chair for her.

“I can’t fall asleep, but why are you up so early?” Naghmeh asks Mike, with a still face―her expression fixed.

“Well. Che’s crying woke me up.”

“Why was he crying? What could be wrong with the child?” Naghmeh asks, widening her eyes in alarm.

“I’m wondering, too. Let me see. Could it be that he misses his mother? Just a wild guess,” Ferdous responds sarcastically as he glances sideways at her with clenched jaw. “Or could it be that he lost one of his testicles?”

“Don’t be profane again,” Naghmeh chastise Ferdous, with changed features, raising her eyes heavenward, disdainfully. “What does that black good-for-nothing woman have to offer a child as a mother that the kid would miss? She’s not qualified to be a wife let alone a mother, if you ask me,” Naghmeh expresses her disapproval of Lila contemptuously.

“You know, Lady Naghmeh? Next time you have a thought, don’t hold back. Please go right ahead and spit it out,” Ferdous says sardonically, trying to ruffle her feathers a little.

A spasm of annoyance shoots through Naghmeh’s mind. Obviously she is irritated, and as always, the wrinkles under her eyes tense up, as her jaw clenches. Simultaneously her left eyebrow raises, and her usual expression of indifference changes to a sudden displeasure.

“I’m not talking to you! And I don’t want you to talk to me. Do you understand?” Naghmeh warns in a growl, eying Ferdous piercingly, like a cornered cat, ready to pounce on him.

“You’re forgetting what Lila’s mother has done for you,” Mike reminds Naghmeh.

“She has left no âberoo for our family. It is all gone down the sewer I cannot even keep my head high in front of people anymore,” Naghmeh bemoans the loss of the family’s âberoo, a non-tangible commodity for which one cannot find an equivalent word in English to convey its real meaning or justice to the word. This quintessentially Iranian craze can best be described as a combination of high regard and respect for one’s honor, reputation and good name.

“Whatever Lila is, she’s still Che’s mother. Those kids are your grandchildren, woman. If I were you I wouldn’t talk like that about my daughter-in-law who happens to be yours, too,” Grandpa Ferdous says, not because he wholeheartedly believes in what he says, but just to aggravate Naghmeh.

“It’s my opinion. Besides, you hate blacks as much as I do,” Naghmeh says with a gesture of short-tempered dismissal.

“I don’t hate blacks. I just dislike them a lot. As for you, just keep your opinions to yourself,” Ferdous retaliates with an aggrieved look.

“I wish Bibi were here. She knew how to take care of Che,” Naghmeh says.

Worrying that the conversation is about to take a bad turn, regarding who is genuinely more racist than the other, Mike agrees with Naghmeh saying, “I wish that, too. I never understood why she suddenly packed and left. I thought nothing could separate her from Noshin, our kids and our grandkids.”

“I don’t know, either. All I know is that she started to act very peculiar soon after she received a letter from Iran,” Naghmeh reveals.

“What was the letter about?” Mike asks.

“I’ll be damned if I know. When I asked her, she outright ignored my question.”

“I remember when I was driving her to the airport, she was awfully quiet, adamantly refused to tell me why she was leaving us, no matter how many times I asked,” Mike says.

“Well, as I have said many times before, she is gone and we have to forget about her and get on with our lives without her,” Ferdous says and Mike nods approvingly.

“Well, she has done that once before. See, you save them from their wretched lives, bring them to your home, trust them, and do everything for them. What they do to you? They leave you in a blink of an eye. That’s what you get as thanks from these sorts of low class people, disloyalty,” Naghmeh expresses her resentment toward Bibi.

“What do you mean, ‘She has done it once before?’ ” Mike asks.

“When she was about eighteen, without any prior notice, she decided to leave our house,” Naghmeh informs him.

“What happened then?” Mikes asks.

“Oh, about seven months later, late one night, she showed up at our door, unannounced, alone, bruised and in a pathetic state of mind. She was changed.”

“What do you mean, ‘She was changed?’ ” Ferdous asks.

“For one thing, she looked ten years older. Second thing, she became quiet. She didn’t say even one word as to why she had left, where she had gone, and why she was back. Another thing we noticed about her was her attachment to Noshin. It became much stronger. She wouldn’t go anywhere without her. Well, that was fine with us, so we never asked her again,” Naghmeh reveals.

“I didn’t know that. Noshin never mentioned it to me. Did you know that, Dad?” Mike asks.

“No. It is all news to me. No one tells me anything in this household anyway, especially this woman, who thinks we are all beneath he,” Ferdous responds, registering his usual complaint.

“Why should I say anything to you? You’re not interested in other people’s affairs,” Naghmeh tells Ferdous.

“Go ahead and act as if I don’t exist in this house,” Ferdous says.

“Stop it, you two,” Mike says authoritatively.

“Oh, one more thing about Bibi,” Naghmeh has more news. “One time, several years later, when she was suffering from a high fever, in a delirious state of mind, she kept repeating, ‘my poor baby. I will love you to the end of my life.’ A few days later when she fully recovered, I asked her about it. She said her dream was about Noshin. They way she said it, I didn’t believe a word of it.”

“Is there any way to get in touch with Bibi now?”

“Not that I know of,” Naghmeh responds.

“We should find some way to at least inquire as to how she is doing,” Mike suggests.

“I will ask some of my old friends to look for her. In fact, I have someone in particular in mind to ask,” Naghmeh says.

“What’s wrong with you, woman? Why do you keep this a secret?” Ferdous asks Naghmeh angrily.

“It’s none of your business. I don’t need to subject myself to your ridicule,” Naghmeh says as she leaves the room to go to the bathroom.

“It’s really a mystery,” Mike says when he hears the sound of the adjacent bathroom door being slammed closed by Naghmeh.

“What’s a mystery?”

“Lady Naghmeh is going to the bathroom so often.”

“Your sweet mother-in-law goes to the bathroom to take inventory of all her parts, including every one of her hairs. She is practically in love with herself.”

A moment later as dolled up as before, with a smile of satisfaction on her face, Naghmeh returns and perches on her chair, looking a bit more relaxed.

To distract his father from being nasty to Naghmeh, Mike tells his father, “Dad, you need to have an annual checkup. I’ll call Dr. Peterson for an appointment.”

“I don’t need a doctor. I need to go back home where things make sense. You know the biggest difference between living in this country and Iran is that over here it is much harder to go on without having the slightest clue about your future. But in Iran, with having so much history of living behind us, we can almost predict the damn future.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of life is waiting for you back there? You won’t be able to tolerate the awful things that are happening in Iran.”

“Still it is better than this godforsaken place.”

“Dad, you need to see a doctor.”

“Then I’d like to see an Iranian doctor, if you don’t mind, Son.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Tea is ready. … Is Bush going to bomb our country?” Ferdous asks suddenly as he pours the tea into three cups.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, he bombed Iraq for oil, and Iran has even more oil than Iraq.”

“I hope Bush bombs Iran and kills all those mullahs,” Naghmeh gives her unsolicited opinion.

“And I presume it wouldn’t bother you if bombing Iran sends our country and its people back to the Stone Age. Would it?” Ferdous asks.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Yazdy,” Naghmeh tells Ferdous as her face is disfigured by her emotion.

“And I’m talking to my son, Mrs. Rushanzadeh.”

“Those mullahs killed my husband,” Naghmeh says angrily.

“Maybe because he was a staunch supporter of the Shah, a man who was trying to play the role of dictator, but as we found out later, was a fake dictator, a coward, a genuine chicken-shit.”

They all hear the front door open and close.

“Who is there?” Mike asks loudly while eying the hallway in alarm.

“It’s me, Dad,” a male voice is heard.

“It is Farhad,” Mikes announces, and calls out to Farhad, “We’re in the kitchen. Come here, Son.”

Farhad, wearing soft black leather jacket over a banana-yellow T-shirt and faded blue jeans and a pair of sneakers enters the kitchen.

“Don’t you think having two kids at home that may need attention might warrant an earlier homecoming, Son?” Mike asks.

“I went to see Lila earlier tonight. It was her visiting night. I was allowed to be with her until nine. Then I went to see Parker and Sandy to―”

“Do you think they give a damn about their daughter?” Ferdous interrupts Farhad with his question.

“They do care, very much so, Grandpa! I wanted to let them know Lila is doing okay. I fell asleep on the couch in Lila’s parents’ home after dinner. I have two job interviews tomorrow starting early afternoon. So I came home to see the kids and get ready for my interviews,” Mike explains.

“You could have called, Son.”

“Yes, Dad. I suppose I should have called you. Sorry about that.”

“Do you want a cup of tea or some breakfast?” Mike asks.

“Just give me a cup of tea, Dad. I should go see the kids and get some sleep before my interview.”

“How is Lila?” Mike asks.

“Going through the process of detoxification is extremely painful and hard. Poor Lila is trying her best. Adding to that, the agony of being separated from her kids makes it even tougher for her to cope with her problems. Other than that, she is doing just fine. She―”

“Nobody forced her to take drugs and drink so much,” Naghmeh interrupts Farhad with her cutting remark.

The room becomes quiet, saturated and heavy with air of uneasiness. Ferdous looks at Naghmeh for a moment and then at his son Mike, stopping at his grandson, as if giving him permission to come up with a response to Naghmeh’s venomous statement.

“And nobody forced you and your late husband to get so intoxicated with wealth and power in Iran that you now have a hell of a time, much more so than Lila, detoxifying yourself,” Farhad responds.

“That’s true. Detoxification of those types of mental drugs is much more difficult than chemical drugs,” Ferdous confirms.

Farhad’s statement strikes Naghmeh with sickening force. Blinking rapidly and with her lips visibly trembling, she gives an impression that she is about to break down crying. As she is about to rise, with a shuddering voice, she says, “I don’t have to sit here and listen to your insults.”

“Please don’t go, Mother. Let me pour you a fresh cup of tea.” Mike prevents Naghmeh from leaving by gently placing both hands over her shoulders from behind.

“Let her go to her room before she breaks out with a rash of self-righteousness,” Ferdous says.

As Mikes refills his mother-in-law’s teacup, and his son’s, from the pot over the samovar, he asks Farhad, “Have you lost your manners? Naghmeh Khanom is your grandma. She is your elder. You don’t have the right to insult her. You must apologize to her right now! And that goes for you too, Dad.”

“That’s what our young people first learn in this country, how to be disrespectful to their elders,” Naghmeh complains before taking a big swig of her tea.

Farhad pauses for a moment, and then says, “Grandma, I know you don’t like black people, but Lila is my wife and the mother of my children. I always wonder what she or any other black person has done to you that you despise them, and give yourself the right to insult them all the time. I love my wife. She is the most intelligent person I have ever known. She is warm, witty, caring, sensitive, and wonderful. Of course, she has some problems. Who doesn’t? I’m sorry for what I said about you being intoxicated, but please be a little more considerate, especially in front of my kids,” Farhad says in a soft voice.

“How about you, Dad?” Mike asks.

“Well, if Mrs. Rushanzadeh will try to stop regurgitating the first thought that flashes through her pea-sized brain, saying the outrageous things she always says, I offer my apology for what I’ve said,” Ferdous says.

Naghmeh scans both Farhad’s and Ferdous’s faces, perhaps searching for whether or not their expressions validate any sincerity she can attach to their apologies. She is not surprised when the sincerity she finds in Farhad’s face is absent from Ferdous’s.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the kitchen. It seems nobody is prepared to initiate a conversation. Bashing America has become the most attractive subject for their conversation, a sort of tasty fat to chew on for entertainment. Especially, when it comes to the American government’s foreign policy, the Yazdy elders have turned it into a delightful game to fill their time.

“The Bush administration claims they’re in Iraq because they want to spread democracy around the world,” Mike finally breaks the silence as he pours another round of tea for everybody.

“Don’t believe what they say. It is to fool the American public, keep them uninformed. They have estimated that there is twenty-one trillion dollars’ worth of oil in Iraq, and Iran has over forty trillion dollars’ worth. That’s why I think he will bomb Iran,” Ferdous elaborates.

“You miss Iran. Don’t you, Dad?”

“Yes, Son. Don’t you? Ferdous replies. “Well. I’ll let you in on a little secret. See, I’d rather be an undernourished dog and muzzled by my government, living in Iran, than live in America like a fat bored pig, wallowing in the pool of shit these people call personal freedom.”

“We all miss our country,” Naghmeh responds.

“When I remember the good times, I miss Iran, and equally, I despise my life here and dislike this country. When I think there’s nothing left there of the life I knew, I feel lost, and don’t know what to think or believe,” Mike declares.

“For me, no matter what terrible things bastards mullahs are doing to my beloved land, I miss my life back then. Look, the way I see it, in order to become an American, this country asks you to trample on your past, piss on your culture, and surrender your fond memories. I, for one, refuse to give up my past or allow this country to destroy my beautiful memories. Besides, the differences between our culture and the Americans’ are so vast that we shall never make it here,” Ferdous articulates.

Both grandparents consciously know well that, in contrast to all the superficial changes that have taken place in their lives since they migrated to America, they have remained unchanged at their cores.

“Now that I’ve lived in this country for a while, I know the big difference between living here and there. See, life was full of adventures for me in Iran. Here, if you ask the Americans, they think everything is hunky-dory. Life here is boring, and so good for them that these people don’t have a point of reference to know it,” Ferdous says.

“I agree. The Americans live this way, because they don’t know any better,” Naghmeh says in support of Ferdous.

“That is the only issue we agree on,” Ferdous replies.

“Thanks God. At least you two have one thing in common,” Farhad says. “You both can get together and criticize and badmouth the United States until hell freezes over.”

“I shall never do such a foolish thing in my life! I have nothing in common with this man. I hate to say it, but this man’s intelligence is nothing but stupidity to me. God knows I have tried to get along with this uncivilized man, but every time he says or does something so repulsively gross, I promise myself that I shall never talk to him again,” Naghmeh registers her grievance with Ferdous again.

“Like what?” Ferdous asks.

“Like two days ago when I invited you for a stroll on the Santa Monica Pier with me.”

“Didn’t I accept your invitation gracefully although I don’t enjoy your company that much?”

“Yes you did. But what you did in public embarrassed me so badly that I wished the ground would open up and swallow me right there in the presence of all those people.”

“Don’t worry, woman. The ground will swallow everybody up sooner or later. Rest assured that it will be much sooner than later for you and me.”

“I don’t care what you say. I shall never walk alongside of you in public ever again.”

“What did he do?” Mike asks.

“He made such a loud noise that people looked at us with distaste on their faces, while this awful man kept acting as if nothing had happened. At your age, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Naghmeh scolds Ferdous.

“The only benefit of old age, besides being the recipient of Social Security, is that it allows you to behave in a crazy manner, without being concerned about consequences. People will look at you with pity and say, ‘Leave the poor devil alone. He has paid his dues. Besides, the poor fellow has one foot in the grave,’ ” Ferdous justifies whatever he has done that irritated Naghmeh.

“What kind of noise did you make, Dad?” Mike asks.

“One of those awful noises you make that should be made in a bathroom,” Naghmeh answers instead.

“It must have been a loud one if even she could hear it, Dad,” Mike whispers humorously.

“Oh, that! You suppose I should go ahead and announce it in advance, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have so much gas that I’m about to explode. So please be a good Christian, take cover, and forgive me if I fart.’ ”

“There is always a place for that sort of thing. It is called a bathroom. … Do you know why he does those awful things in public? He does it because he doesn’t like this country,” Naghmeh states firmly, with her arms crossed in a bold gesture.

“Don’t you hate people who can’t find humor in anything?” Ferdous asks nobody in particular.

“There is no humor in passing gas in public,” Naghmeh says.

“Oh yeah! I’ve done some charitable deeds with my farts that you haven’t done in all the years you have lived. One time, I was playing chess with my friend Dimitri, the old man from Greece, in the Santa Monica Park near the beach. The infidel maneuvered only two pawns, one bishop, and one knight, and bang, he checkmated me. I was more than embarrassed. I was devastated. The only reaction I could muster that seemed appropriate for that occasion was a huge fart. It was so unexpectedly loud and clear that it made Dimitri laugh so hard he passed a large kidney stone right there and then,” says Ferdous, explaining one of the many benefits of his art of passing gas in public, as if that were one of his outstanding achievements in the New World.

“I’ve met that Dimitri of yours. With his loud mouth, his terrible manners, and his repulsive attitude toward women, he is as uncivilized and crazy as you are. Why this stupid country allows all crazy people like you and that Greek friend of yours to come here in the first place, is beyond me,” Naghmeh responds bitterly.

“Now she sounds like the newly naturalized immigrant in this country who hates the twelve million undocumented workers,” Ferdous comments.

“You don’t like America either, Grandma,” Farhad says.

“But I don’t go around and do terrible things like he does. The man has strummed the last string,” Naghmeh responds.

“What does that mean, Grandma?” Farhad asks, confused by Naghmeh’s last comment.

“It means, your grandpa has subscribed to the proposition of letting it all hang out, Son,” Mike explains.

“Good for Grandpa,” Farhad approves.

“Do you want to know what else your grandpa did the other day?” Naghmeh asks.

“What did he do?” Farhad asks.

“See, we both go to the local indoor pool for water aerobics exercise. Last Monday the lady instructor didn’t show up. Your grandpa, this awful man, got out of the pool, with his ugly shorts barely covering his private parts, and announced he was going to be the instructor for the day. He then said, ‘Ladies who are sixty and older, please put your heads under the water and hold them there for ten minutes.’ You know? There were more than ten respectable old ladies in our class. That was a very embarrassing moment for me, so embarrassing for me that I put my head under the water.”

“How long did you keep your head under the water, lady?” Ferdous asks, laughing. “It’s preposterous, Farhad. You don’t know the whole story. The ladies your darling grandma is talking about are huge like barrels and ugly like bats. Looking at them gives me the shivers. When I look at their bodies, I see huge storage rooms of all the hamburgers McDonald’s has sold since opening its doors. I tell you, they are real Ajoj-Majoj,” Ferdous states emphatically, justifying his deplorable behavior.

Farhad fails to control his laughter.

“It is not funny,” Mike objects.

“Has a day ever gone by that this despicable man hasn’t embarrassed me? No sir.”

No one can present an argument that Naghmeh has a heart full of grievances where Grandpa Ferdous is concerned.

“There’s one more thing about your grandfather if you care to know. He’s the only person whose breath smells as rotten as the gas from his rear end,” Naghmeh tells Farhad, happy that she has found someone who will listen to her complaints about Ferdous.

“Perhaps farting is the most appropriate way one can object to what the Bush government is doing around the world,” Farhad says between bursts of laughter.

“Come on, Dad. This whole country is made up of people like us―immigrants,” Mike answers his father.

“Do you really believe that?”

“We were at least doing some living in Iran,” Ferdous says.

“But you were not alive there, Grandpa,” Farhad mentions.

“We are supposedly alive here, but we don’t have lives,” Naghmeh expresses her disappointment of her life in exile, as she leaves for the bathroom again.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Dad,” Mike says.

A silence falls over the kitchen as if everybody is politely waiting for Naghmeh’s return.

“What do you think is going to happen in Iraq?” Naghmeh asks as soon as she returns and again reclines on her chair.

“Nothing. As long as oil is there, the Americans will stay there,” Ferdous answers.

“Bush attacking Iraq reminds me of the saying we have in our country. One stupid man drops a stone in a deep well, it takes a thousand wise men to get it out,” Mike says.

“And since this damn country doesn’t have a thousand wise men, it’s safe to assume that the stone is going to stay at the bottom of the well until kingdom come. The Americans are going to stay in Iraq, as they have in South Korea, Japan, and Germany,” Farhad interjects.

“How true it is!” Ferdous confirms.

“Let me fry some eggs for you,” Mike offers.

“Don’t you want to get some sleep?” Ferdous asks.

“I don’t think I can fall asleep now. I must get the kids up soon, feed them breakfast and send them to school.”

Mike retrieves a pan from above the stove and places it on the burner. A hefty slice of butter is soon sizzling in it.

“Maybe if you start to learn this country’s language, get around a little, mingle with the Americans a little, you’ll come to like this place, Grandpa,” Farhad says.

“I know enough of their language to get by,” Ferdous says casually.

“I mean to learn their language so that you can speak it more fluently,” Farhad comments.

“Look, kid! I’m too old to learn a foreign language well; especially when that language happens to be a bastardized version of another language―the one the British speak.”

“I hope you won’t take it the wrong way when I say that if you had learned to speak English fluently you wouldn’t have had that unforgettable embarrassing episode with the traffic cop a month ago, Grandpa,” Farhad says reminding Ferdous of an incident that has become the reason for poking fun at him now and then.

“If that stupid man could understand the clear expression I used to let him know my regret for driving a little over the speed limit, everything would have been just fine. There was no need for him to insult me the way he did,” Ferdous explains like he has done many times before whenever the subject has come up.

“Could you tell us what really happened between you and the cop, Grandpa?” Farhad asks with a smirk all over his face.

“I’ve told the story many times,” Ferdous responds, as Mike goes on breaking the eggs into the pan.

“Tell us again,” Farhad insists while he takes more slices of bread out of the loaf to put into the toaster.

“Well, I was driving down Santa Monica Boulevard when, all of a sudden, I saw the red light of a police car flashing behind me. Boy that scared me to death. So, I kept on driving. Next I heard this deafening siren. It scared me even more. Then I heard him over the loudspeaker, ordering me to stop immediately. I had no choice but to stop. He parked behind my car, got out and started to walk to my car. With all those gears, guns and all, hanging from his belt and from every other parts of his tall muscular body, he looked like a soldier ready to go to war in Iraq. Impolitely, with an ill-mannered gesture and a loud voice while chewing on tobacco and spitting out shit size of a fully-grown frog on the ground that nauseated me, he asked for my driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance. I complied. He then started to write me a traffic ticket. I was petrified and besides I didn’t want to get a ticket, so I tried to ask him to forgive my minor violation of going a little fast, and let me go.”

“Then what happened, Grandpa?” Farhad insists.

“Nothing. I was trying to tell him I wouldn’t do it again. I mean drive too fast. So I translated the expression we use in Farsi back home, word for word, thinking the stupid young man would understand how sorry I was for going a few miles over the speed limit.”

Ferdous looks at Naghmeh who is on the brink of bursting out laughing and pauses. Mike and Farhad realize the reason for his pause.

“Go on, Dad,” Mike insists.

“I said, ‘Officer, I ate shit. I won’t do it again.’ The stupid young officer looked at me sideways as if I had said the most outrageous thing. He kept writing his stupid ticket. I thought he hadn’t heard me. So I kept repeating it, ‘Officer, I ate shit. I won’t do it again.’ I don’t know. I must have said that several times. After he finished writing the ticket, he handed me my documents and the ticket, adjusted his gun belt first then he relocated his testicles in his pants, lowered his head to my level, dropped a baby frog from his mouth on the asphalt, pointed to a nearby coffee shop across the street and with an ear-to-ear smirk he mockingly said, ‘Do you see that coffee shop, man?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘Go there and have a hamburger on me, so that you don’t have to eat shit.’ He then let out a thunderous laugh as he walked back to his car.”

Like many times before, Mike, Farhad and Naghmeh cannot control themselves from bursting out laughing. As if their laughter were contagious, Ferdous, at his own expense, begins to laugh as well.

“See, Dad. If you knew the language, you wouldn’t have embarrassed yourself.”

“You’re an engineer. What are you doing working as a clerk at The Home Depot?”

“What in the hell does you learning English have to do with me not currently having an engineering job? Besides, I haven’t done engineering for such a long time that I’m an obsolete engineer.”

“We surely owe everything we have to my late husband,” Naghmeh says quietly as if it weren’t for others to hear. She is referring to the fact that it was her late husband whose connection in the Shah’s regime provided Mike a high position in the previous government.

“Give us a break, lady,” Ferdous objects, as he picks up his cup of tea and leaves the kitchen, acting as if he has been attacked by an abominable sense of nausea. Naghmeh and Farhad eat their scrambled eggs, buttered toast and sour cherry marmalade, empty their cups of tea, and go upstairs. Only Mike stays in the kitchen to set the table for the rest of his family before going upstairs, hoping he can close his eyes for an extra hour before going to work.

He is so tired that even with all the tea he has drank, the minute his head hits the pillow, he falls asleep like an infant.