Quote:“Come on, double six,” Baba whispers as he shakes his dice cup like it’s an instrument. My father turns everything into music. “Parvaneh, come here. I need you.” On cue, Maman enters, holding a blueprint in her hands. Without being asked, she blows into Baba’s dice cup.
“I’m done for,” I say with a rueful smile.
Maman moves behind me. She puts a hand on each of my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “Don’t worry, I’ll blow on your dice too. I have enough luck for both of my favorite men.”
Baba rolls his dice. As expected, he rolls a double six. He removes four chips off his side of the board with an impish grin. “Your move, son.”
I hold up my dice cup for Maman to blow into. When I shake the dice, it sounds nothing like music. Baba may have taught me how to hit the right keys on a piano or pluck strings on the tar, but he’ll never teach me how to be an artist. That’s not who I am. Peyman says all children must become the opposite of their parents in at least one important way, and I think he’s right. Except sometimes I feel like the opposite of my parents in every way. I roll a two and a one. “Oh, come on,” I yell in mock exasperation. “I’m never going to catch up now.”
“Come to my side again, Parvaneh.” Baba smiles slyly. “Your luck only seems to work for me.”
“Don’t you dare, Maman,” I plead.
Just in time to save her, the doorbell rings. I move to stand up, the old wooden chair creaking under me. “Keep playing, I’ll get it,” Maman says.
“If it’s my student, will you ask him to wait in the study?” Baba asks as he rolls a three and a two, then grimaces.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Looks like your luck’s running out.”
I hear Maman open the door and greet Peyman warmly. Their footsteps head toward us, the rhythm changing when they move from the creaky wood floors to the colorful rug that depicts a story from The Shahnameh. “Who’s winning?” Peyman asks when he enters. He’s wearing a black peacoat and holding a large covered tray.
“We’re tied one game each,” I tell him. “But Baba is about to go down. What’s in the tray?”
“Homemade yakh dar behesht for you.” Peyman hands the tray to my mother.
Maman peeks inside before placing the tray down on the long wooden dining room table. “Please tell your mother she doesn’t need to cook something for us every time you come over.”
“I can tell her, but she won’t listen.” Then, with a meaningful gaze toward me, Peyman says, “We should go, Saeed. We don’t want to be late.”