Exiles in America(104)

thing anyway.

Hassan Rohani solemnly nodded. “A lovely house. Very cozy. Very all-

American. Speaking of which, I brought you this. Something very all-Iranian.”

He handed Daniel and Zack a square wrapped in pretty paper and a ribbon.

Elena groaned satirically.

Daniel pulled the paper off. Inside was what looked like a dark red vinyl

tile sealed in plastic. A label in Farsi ran along the top.

“Dried salted cherries,” said Hassan. “An Iranian treat. ” He bared his

teeth on the last word and began to laugh.

“Like eating cherry rubber,” said Elena. “Salty cherry rubber.”

“It is not to everybody’s taste,” grumbled Abbas. “If you do not want it,

you can return it. Osh and I like it very much.”

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

2 3 9

“I’d like to try it,” said Zack. “Just a taste. Maybe later.”

This was hardly the first time that Daniel had socialized with an ex–sex

partner, but tonight was different, stranger. Abbas let his brother take center

stage, falling into the background, becoming a shadow of his brother, opaque

and sullen. Daniel caught none of the ghost notes that one sometimes feels

with an old trick: desire, regret, anger. No, Abbas felt like only a shadow, a

mannequin, an effigy of what he’d been. Which was depressing.

Daniel hurried back to the kitchen to finish fixing dinner, leaving Zack to

handle the guests. He couldn’t understand why he’d agreed to this, what he

hoped to prove. Well, he wanted to prove to Zack that things really were over

between him and Abbas. And by proving it to Zack he could prove it to him-

self. But the brother was an odd ingredient, not just an excuse for tonight’s

dinner but a strong new color that changed the entire picture.

“Can I help with anything?”

Daniel almost jumped at the sound of Elena’s voice. She stood in the

kitchen doorway.

“No, we’re fine. Just checking up on the chicken. Uh, you could serve the

wine. Uh, can you and Abbas drink with his brother here?”

“Absolutely. ‘When in Rome’ is one of Hassan’s favorite slogans. Here.

Show me where the glasses are.”

Elena acted as if they were buddies: first on the walk on Sunday, now in

the kitchen. Daniel suspected she was just happy that he and Abbas were no

longer fucking. But maybe the presence of the brother made her desperate for

allies.

“Is that why you’re not wearing a scarf tonight?” he asked. “When in

Rome?”

She mockingly stroked her exposed hair. “Oh yes. This is a private dinner,

and the rules are different. He is not a complete hard-ass. He grew up in Eu-

rope, remember, and he still does business there.” She set out five glasses.

“One for him?” said Daniel. “He drinks when he goes out? I had grand-

parents like that. They kept kosher at home but loved to eat bacon whenever

they visited us.”

“You will see,” said Elena. “You do not have to worry about Hassan in

your house. Iranians are famous for their selfless courtesy. ‘I am your slave.

2 4 0

C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

Please step on my eyes.’ ” Her accent was brutally cartoony. “They do not

mean a word, but it helps to keep the peace.”

f 2

A half hour later, everyone was sitting at the dinner table, eating Daniel’s roast

chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, winter squash, and spinach.

“But I love America,” said Hassan. “Your government says we hate you,

but it isn’t true. The entire Muslim world loves and admires America.”

“Everyone?” said Zack. “There’s a lot to dislike.”

Zack and Hassan had started talking politics before dinner, Zack explor-

ing with friendly questions, Hassan answering amiably. Abbas continued to

say little.

“We love the idea more than the fact,” Hassan admitted. “The fact is a dif-

ferent story. But the idea is beautiful. Freedom, safety, prosperity. Who could

not love that?”

Daniel suspected this was the chief reason why Zack had wanted to have

the Rohanis over: so he could sit with a real Muslim and indulge his intellec-

tual curiosity. Daniel still couldn’t get a fix on his own agenda for tonight. It

was strange to sit directly across the table from the brother of a man whom

he’d kissed and brought to orgasm. Hassan looked enough like Abbas that

Daniel couldn’t help thinking: This is Abbas with religion and no hair. This is

Abbas ten years from now, a bald businessman with graying eyebrows and a

gray beard. I don’t want to have sex with him. But then, he didn’t want to

have sex with Abbas again either.