by Mani latifi

And now, Nasrin spent her days at home, alone. And the honey afternoon light, viscous and heavy, lazily spilled through the windows and collected in the corners of the room. And the late summer days bled into one another. And the people on the television and the gibberish fluttering out of their mouths, she didn’t understand them. They spoke as if in a hurry, used too many phrases not in her book. She’d bought the English to Farsi/Farsi to English pocket dictionary from the discount bookstore down the street a month back.

Nasrin would wander out of the small apartment building—the rusty stairwell perpetually smelling of cigarette smoke and laundry detergent—past the old oak tree canopying the complex, and head down the busy street to the bookstore. She’d peruse the aisles, running her fingers over the used copies of Faulkner and Wharton and Williams. Teh-neh-see. The name rolled in her mouth like a lemon drop. Nasrin had read the Americans in Iran, in Farsi. But to read them here, in their original language.

She held the pages between her fingers, the browning paper, the delicate black lines and dots and dashes, and yearned to unlock the code and enter their worlds. On days when the weather was nice, she’d wander to Spinks Park across the street from the bookstore. She’d watch the birds, and old folks, and poor folks, and she’d think of the parks in Tehran with their looming cypress trees and the fragrant scent of cedar chips underfoot. Then, she’d meet Rostam at the bus stop, and they’d head home together.

The days weren’t as bad when Rostam was there with her. At least she had someone to talk to. Someone to be responsible for. But now that he had started second grade, her days dissolved into one another like a sugar cube melting in a cup of cardamom tea. She fixed him an afternoon snack—cucumber and feta on pita—and set to work on dinner so that it would be ready by the time Javeed arrived.

The rich brown fesenjan simmered in the pot, filling the small, quiet apartment with the aroma of Saturdays spent in the kitchen with maman, maman bozorg, and khaleh Azar. And khanoom Mahvash, from across the courtyard, popping by when she heard the hubbub coming from their house. Nasrin lowered a spoon into the stew and tasted it. It needed a bit more tang. She stirred in the last of the pomegranate molasses and sipped it again. Much better. The empty bottle went on the counter.

“Bah, bah,” said Javeed after dinner, stretching back in his chair, a content look on his face. In Farsi, he said, “That was delicious.”

Nasrin smiled. “We need to go to the store. We’re out of pomegranate molasses.” She gestured to the bottle. They’d bought the molasses from the Middle Eastern market the first week they’d arrived.

“Tonight?” said Javeed.

Nasrin nodded.

He grumbled a little—he always grumbled a little—then relented. He always relented.

A Lebanese pop song played over the speakers in the grocery store. It was mostly in Arabic with a smattering of English thrown in—phrases like “baby, I love you tonight” and “this could be our last chance.” Nasrin guided the cart past the Arabic, Hebrew, Farsi and Turkish language newspapers. They all seemed exclusively focused on the Iraqi army’s recent invasion of Kuwait and the impact the war would have on the region. Nasrin pulled into the aisle with the jarred goods, as Rostam and Javeed browsed the small clothing rack of cheap imitation soccer kits. Rostam had been asking for a Diego Maradona jersey, unaware that Javeed had already bought one and was planning on surprising him with it next week for his birthday. Shaving a sliver off each of the last six paychecks, Javeed had saved enough to purchase the shirt last week. It was neatly folded in the corner of his and Nasrin’s closet.

Nasrin was about to turn into the aisle nearest the produce section, when she spotted the old woman. The sight sent a flutter through her chest.

The woman, clad from head to foot in an ivory chador, had her back to Nasrin. She was rummaging through the bin of limes, gently pinching each fruit between her thumb and forefinger, surveying for juiciness. Everything about the woman, from the joints of her fingers—stung and swollen by arthritis—to her slumped posture and small frame, even the milk-colored chador was a facsimile of her mother back home. This act of inspecting the fruit for imperfections was something Nasrin had witnessed maman perform countless times at the bazaars and fruit stands in Tehran. The mustachioed vendors, their arms crossed, placid smiles across their faces, waiting for the old woman to stake her claim. Nasrin inched closer. It was
her mother. But it wasn’t. Not here.

The woman, having selected her bounty of limes, turned slightly, shuffled to her cart, and Nasrin caught a glimpse of her face. No, it wasn’t her mother. Not here.

Javeed and Rostam were now in the soda aisle, deliberating between Coke and Sprite. Tucked under his arm, Rostam held a box displaying a photo of an ocean liner

“Are you ready?” said Javeed, when he saw her.

Nasrin nodded, “I just saw my mother.”

“Oh, really.” Before he could say anything else,Rostam shoved a two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper into Javeed’s arms.

“Baba, can we try this? Please?”

“Okay, Rostam joon. What is it?”

“Some kids at school were drinking it. They said it has the taste of cherries.”

“What’s that?” said Nasrin, gesturing to the box under Rostam’s arm. “It’s the Titanic. The biggest ship ever built!”

She glanced up at her husband, her brows furrowing.

“It’s a model. I thought we could build it together,” said Javeed.

•

When the boy was out of earshot, preoccupied by the candies near the register, Nasrin whispered, “Can we
afford that?”

“It’s his birthday next week, Nasrin joon. It’s okay.”

The rhythmic splash of cymbals, emanating from the car speakers, pulsed in time to the throbbing in Nasrin’s head and the windshield wipers, clearing the gently falling droplets misting the glass. Nasrin hadn’t said a word since they’d left the store. Javeed said, “What was that about your mother?”

“Nothing.”

“I invited Mr. Martin and his wife for dinner next Friday. He said he’s never tried Iranian food.”

“Okay.”

In the back seat, Rostam stared out the window and drifted asleep.

•

After mincing the fresh parsley, cilantro, and green onions, Nasrin browned the cubed beef. They’d splurged on the cut of meat—ribeye, a break from the usual tough and sinewy cuts, which had to be cooked all day over low heat to break down the gristle. The Martins were coming. Mr. Martin had given Javeed his first job in the States. On the car ride back from the grocery store earlier that week, Nasrin scoured the receipt in disbelief. The kid ringing them out must’ve accidentally double charged something.

“Don’t worry about it, Nasrin joon. I can put in a few extra hours next week.”

Behind the wheel, Javeed wore an excited grin, which Nasrin thought made him look like a twelve-year old up to no good.

“The Martins are coming.” He reached over and squeezed her thigh. “The Martins are coming over.” The Martins were coming. But that didn’t mean they needed to go over budget by forty-three dollars and twenty-four cents, thought Nasrin. Not when the money was already so tight.

Nasrin added the freshly chopped herbs to the pot, and the house filled with the sizzle and scent of anticipation. It was the only sound in the house that Friday. Rostam was still in school. Javeed was still working with Mr. Martin. And maman and maman bozorg and khaleh Azar and khanoom Mahvash were still on Mirdamad Boulevard in Tehran. And the Friday afternoon sunlight settled in the front third of the living room.

“It smells interesting,” said Ms. Martin, suspiciously eyeing the rich green stew speckled with red bean and beef. “What is it called again?”

“Ghormeh sabzi,” said Javeed, pouring Ms. Martin a glass of red wine.

“Grami sazi?”

“Ghor—” said Javeed.

“Gor—” said Ms. Martin.

“Gh. It’s more from the back of your throat. Gh.”

“Geh?”

“Gh.”

“Gh?”

“Good. Ghor–meh,” said Javeed.

“Ghor–meh,” Ms. Martin repeated.

“Sab—”

“Sab—”

“Zi.”

“Zi.”

“Very good,” said Javeed.

“Ghermy sabzi.” Ms. Martin chuckled and turned to her husband. “How about that Jim? I speak Iranian.”

“Farsi,” said Nasrin, smiling.

Farsi. That was the only word Nasrin uttered the entire dinner. It was hard for her to keep up. She’d lose the thread of conversation. A string of words sputtered in haste, a colloquialism, a momentary lapse in concentration, and the entire exchange would be buried in a tangle of yarn, with Nasrin having no way to tug free the strand. She contented herself by watching the mouths of her guests, chattering and chewing and chortling at Mr. Martin’s jokes. He was dredging the last morsels of stew onto his spoon—his second helping—when Ms. Martin brought up the bird.

“I honestly don’t understand why they won’t let them keep a small bird in the dorms. Had we known we’d be stuck taking care of it, we wouldn’t have let Natalie buy the damn thing,” said Ms. Martin.

“We should just let it go in a park. Tell her it flew away,” said Mr. Martin, reclining in the chair and resting a hand over his belly.

“Oh, Jim.” She knocked her husband on the arm. “But with our niece Jennifer’s wedding in Austin, we don’t know what to do with it.”

Carrying the tray of cardamom tea out of the kitchen, Nasrin said, “We help take after bird.”

A momentary silence rippled the room, like the first hailstone hitting a pond an instant before the onslaught.

Then, Mr. Martin said, “So, she does speak…”

And Ms. Martin said, “Oh, no, deary. I didn’t mean to imply…”

And Javeed, with the dumbfounded look on his face, watched his wife set the tray of tea on the table.

His expression amused Nasrin. Back in Iran, she was never one to bite her tongue. Fueled by the actions of Gandhi and ignited by the words of King, Nasrin was a firebrand in college. But a revolution stolen by mullahs, a chronic war inflamed on both sides by Mr. Reagan—the American president with the unnaturally dark hair—and a final desertion of her homeland had left her with little to say. Add to that her unfamiliarity with the language, and it was no wonder the seven words we can help take after the bird were the most Javeed had heard Nasrin say to anyone outside himself and Rostam, since arriving in America.

•

The paint had dried, and assembly of the Titanic had commenced, and the Martins were back at their tiny apartment. Mr. Martin set the white-wired cage on the coffee table and ran over the care instructions with Javeed. Nasrin peered through the bars. The parakeet perched in the center of the cage, its ivory coat, the color of freshly fallen snow in the golden morning hour, reminded her of maman’s chador.

“You can feed it if you like.”

Nasrin looked up, and Ms. Martin had her hand out. Five sunflower seeds sat in her fleshy, pale palm. Nasrin poked one through the bars, and the parakeet sidestepped over, hesitated for a moment before nibbling and snatching it from her hand. Nasrin laughed, watching the pale orange beak tear into the seed, spraying fragments of shell all over the cage. She gave the bird another seed. And another. And every time the bird grabbed a seed from her hand—that momentary connection between her hand, the seed, and the bird’s beak—Nasrin felt wings flutter in her heart.

“Why is it all white?” said Rostam, wandering into the living room.

“Annie’s an albino,” said Mr. Martin.

•

That night, as Javeed and Rostam slept, Nasrin opened the refrigerator and pulled a leaf of iceberg. She pulled back the birdcage cover and peered inside. The bird seemed unbothered by the change in light, and maybe even a little curious about the visitor. Nasrin lowered herself to the floor and stuck her finger through the wires. Annie’s ruby eyes burgeoned, a wave fluttered through her puffed plumage. The parakeet wandered over and gently pecked at the pad and nail of her forefinger. Nasrin tore a small petal of lettuce and passed it through the bars. Between bites, the bird made a soft jeep-jeep sound, shaking its tail feathers.

“Jeep-jeep,” said Nasrin.

“Jeep-jeep,” said the bird.

“Khosh-kelam, khosh-kelam,” said Nasrin,

“Jeep-jeep,” said the bird.

The following morning, Nasrin awoke thinking of the bird and its smooth ivory wings. She did the laundry, prepared dinner, and washed the dishes, and everytime she passed the birdcage, the invisible string tied to—and binding—the parakeet’s feathers tugged at her chest. And with each tug, Nasrin’s resolve to loosen the string grew stronger. Perched alone in that cramped birdcage, Annie Martin was home decor. A living, breathing ornament; sometimes singing, sometimes sleeping, sometimes flapping her wings and not going anywhere.

Nasrin disliked everything about the situation. Even the name, Annie—which in Farsi had an unpalatable meaning—didn’t fit. After hurriedly setting the last of the dishes on the rack, she dried her hands and lifted the birdcage by its top while securing the bottom with her other hand. She hauled it into the bathroom, flipped the lights on and shut the door. The bird chirped and tilted its head and looked around.

And Nasrin said, “Khosh-kelam, khosh-kelam.”

And the bird said, “Jeep-jeep.”

Nasrin set the birdcage on the counter by the sink. The parakeet chirped, twisting its head at the sound of the cage door sliding open. A giant hand emerged through the door, and as it grew closer, the bird excitedly shuffled in place. The parakeet was engulfed in a cocoon of warm flesh.

The bird was lighter than Nasrin had expected—the hollow bones and ivory feathers as delicate as meringue. She set the parakeet on the counter. It took a few steps to the left, stopped, then a step to the right. Nasrin reached out, and the bird sidestepped to the right. To the left. To the right. A lifetime perched inside a solitary cell, left and right were the only directions the parakeet knew.

This made it easier for Nasrin to catch the bird. She came in from either flank, and the bird made as if it were about to take off, partway spreading its wings before capitulating. Nasrin encased the parakeet in her palms.

She held the bird up to her mouth and in Farsi, whispered, “You need to fly.”

Nasrin set a towel in the sink, held the bird a foot above the towel, and let go. The bird spread its wings and chopped at the air. Frantically flapping, it floated for a fleeting second before sputtering into the towel.

“Very good!” Nasrin clapped.

She gathered up the bird and again held it over the sink.

“On three. One… two… three.”

The bird hovered a moment longer this time, and again, Nasrin cheered. An hour later, and the bird had worked up the stamina to hang in the air for five seconds. Nasrin placed the bird back in the cage.

“Enough for now. We’ll play more tomorrow.”

“Jeep-jeep,” said the bird.

“Jeep-jeep,” said Nasrin. Then, repeating her promise, she added, “More tomorrow, okay Gigi?”

“Jeep-jeep.”

Over dinner that evening, between heaping spoonfuls of lubia polo, Javeed said, “How was your day today?”

“Oh, the usual. A little of this, a little of that,” said Nasrin.

“Baba, are we still going to the park tomorrow?” said Rostam.

“If the weather is good,” said Javeed.

The weather was good, and Javeed and Rostam went to the park. Nasrin said she had a headache and preferred to stay in. Once they were gone, Nasrin took Gigi’s cage to the bathroom and spread the towel and resumed the flying lessons. The parakeet’s wings had strengthened overnight. On the first drop, Gigi fluttered off balance for a moment, then gained control, and flew past the sink over Nasrin’s head and toward the toilet with its lid up.

Nasrin scrambled. She nearly lost her footing on the white tile, managed to regain it, and shut the lid before Gigi drifted into a corner of the room.

Staring at each other and both panting, Nasrin said, “Where did you learn to fly like that?” Perhaps the bathroom—with its slippery ceramic and sharp edges and reservoirs of water—wasn’t the best place to conduct flight school. Nasrin gathered Gigi in her hands, grabbed the cage, and moved the operation to the bedroom.

These private lessons continued for the next week. They were private in that Gigi was under the sole tutelage of Nasrin and also in that neither Javeed nor Rostam nor the Martins had any inkling of their happening.

•

The day before the Martins were due back, Javeed—exhausted from a marathon twelve-hour work day—slid the key into the tiny apartment door, and before turning the knob, heard the distinct sound of his wife and son, screaming and crying from inside. As he opened the door, something wild and white flew at his face.

In unison—Nasrin in Farsi and Rostam in English—shouted, “Close the door!”

Javeed slammed it before the parakeet could fly out. The bird circled his head, the rhythmic patter caressing air over his face, before landing on his shoulder. Again, in unison, Nasrin and Rostam burst into laughter. And Javeed, realizing that the excited sounds he’d heard on the other side of the door weren’t anything to worry about, joined them.

“It got out?” he said, turning to face the parakeet on his shoulder.

The bird nibbled at the tangle of whiskers— mostly black with a speckle of grey—on his chin and said, “Jeep-jeep.”

“Baba, can we keep him?” said Rostam.

“Keep him? He’s not ours.”

“Maman said it was okay.”

Nasrin wore the same mischievous grin she had the night she’d almost been beaten and arrested by the Shah’s police following the first sit-in. The corners of her lips inched upward. There was a devilish excitement in her voice as she recounted how she and a few other students had to make a mad dash up the stairs of the biology building, break into a classroom, and climb out the fire escape.

That devil was back in her. The smile was back too. And she said, “Come on, Javeed joon. This poor bird hasn’t lived a life.”

“But it’s not our bird. It belongs to the Martins.”

“She’s been stuck in that cage her entire life.”

“Baba, come on,” said Rostam.”

“What do I tell the Martins when they get back? Their bird is ours now?”

“They don’t even like the bird,” said Nasrin.

“But Mr. Martin is my boss,” said Javeed, knowing full well that even if Mr. Curtis Martin was his boss, he was outnumbered two-to-one and that the ones that mattered most were the two standing in front of him.

•

Two things happened the evening the Martins came over to pick up the bird. First, with the assistance of half a bottle of wine, Javeed worked up the courage to broach the subject of the bird.

“Well… Mr. Martin, it’s like this. We were… The bird, you see… Maybe?”

Before he could complete the stuttering and sputtering, Nasrin opened the door to the bedroom, and Gigi made her grand debut, circling over Mr. Martin’s bald head past Ms. Martin’s towering beehive hairdo before perching on Javeed’s shoulder.

“It can fly?” said Mr. Martin in slack-jawed astonishment.

“That’s what birds do, Curtis,” said Ms. Martin.

“Maybe if we leave the windows open when we get home, it’ll just fly away and leave us alone,” said Mr. Martin.

“Well, Mr. Martin, I have another idea,” said Javid.

It didn’t take much convincing to get the Martins to agree that the parakeet formerly known as Annie was better off in that tiny apartment.

The second thing which happened that evening involved playing cards. In the months leading up to the Iranian Revolution, Javeed and Nasrin frequented Hossein Soltani’s two bedroom flat across the street from the University of Tehran. With Marx and Engels on the bookshelves, Dylan and Cohen on wax, and a wall-sized print of that former medical student, Ernesto Guevara, Soltani’s pad was a sort of gathering hub for counter- culture revolutionaries and student activists. Over bottles of burgundy and the occasional joint or two, the Solatani regulars discussed and debated the “ifs” and “hows” of democracy taking root in Iran. Would the people stand up to the Shah? Could there be another Mosaddegh-like leader with the cajones to spite the U.S. and nationalize Iran’s bountiful oil supply? If so, would the C.I.A. pull off another coup? These conversations took place over the coffee table in the kitchen—with Soltani preparing his famous kashke bademjan—or around the dining table, as the would-be insurgents played interminable hands of Bridge.

The memories of that Tehran—the one where teenagers listened to Motown and the Beatles, where women rocked the latest Western hairdos and men were clean shaven—was preserved in Javeed’s mind like an insect frozen in amber. That Tehran somehow existed on a parallel plane. It had happened, and then, it hadn’t. Separate and apart from the dusty, sand-strewn CNN images of angry bearded men riding in the backs of pickup trucks, hauling Kalishnakovs and chanting “Death to America.” Decades of relentless racist reporting, and this latter Tehran was what Americans—good folks like the Martins—thought of when they thought of Iranians. It was almost as if that Tehran, from Javeed and Nasrin’s youth, had never existed. It had happened, and then, it hadn’t.

So when Mr. Martin mentioned how they had spent a large part of their vacation playing Bridge, and Javeed said he and Nasrin loved playing Bridge, Curtis Martin’s reaction was one of disbelief.

“They play Bridge in Iran?”

“Of course,” said Javeed.

“Suzette and I have been looking for partners to play with here, but haven’t been able to find anyone.”

•

And as the Titanic took shape from hull to deck and was put aside for a few months before being picked back up, Nasrin and Javeed and the Martins fell into the routine of spending at least one evening a week playing Bridge. Hosting duties alternated between the two households. The Martins introduced Nasrin and Javeed to the complex and rich flavors of their native Cajun and Creole cuisine, with its African, French and Native origins. And in return, they sampled the ancient and enduring dishes Nasrin had been taught by her mother, who had been taught by her mother, who had been taught by her mother, who had been taught by her mother. During this time, Nasrin began taking English classes at the community college. She’d study the lessons, complete the assignments in the workbook, and converse with Rostam and Javeed. However, most of her improvement came during the endless hours spent alone at home, practicing her pronunciation on Gigi.

“My name is Nasrin. Nice to meet you.”

“Jeep-jeep.”

“Where is the metro station?”

“Jeep-jeep.”

“Do you have a table for three?”

“Jeep-jeep.”

As the parakeet gathered the strength and confidence to fly freely through the house, Nasrin gained a confidence of her own to test out her newly acquired tongue on the native speakers outside her apartment door.

“How much for a pound?” she said.

“Do you have fresh mint?” she said.

“Where can I find A Streetcar Named Desire?” she said.

Spotting the book on their coffee table one Saturday evening, Ms. Martin said, “You know, we should all go to New Orleans one day. They have the real streetcar there. You can take photos with it.”

A pair of ivory wings fluttered in Nasrin’s chest. The real streetcar from that play by Teh-neh-see. And Gigi flapped her wings and circled their heads before landing on the card table and pecking at one of the facedown cards. Perhaps feeling left out, she’d come into the habit of interrupting their games. Other times, she’d perch on the edge of a wine glass and help herself to a few sips of Javeed’s Malbec, dyeing the alabaster feathers maroon. On other occasions, she’d sit on Nasrin’s shoulder, puff out, and fall asleep.

•

The last Thursday of October, with the Titanic a touch-up away from completion and the ebbing sun resembling a scoop of sherbert flanked by darkly saturated clouds, Nasrin peeled the lima beans for her baghali polo. A heaping mound of dill—enough to cover a soccer pitch—sat rinsed and ready to mince in a colander by the sink. Taking up her usual spot on Nasrin’s shoulder, Gigi ogled the fresh dill while singing parakeet gibberish in Nasrin’s ear. The bird had recently discovered a taste for freshly rinsed herbs. She’d nibble at the greens, fluff her feathers, and roll around in the rinsed leaves, emerging from the heap with the scent of cilantro or parsley or dill.

The temptation became too much for the parakeet. She leapt off Nasrin’s shoulder, landed on the lip of the colander, and began serenading the herbs. Nasrin continued shucking the beans, her mind occupied by the half-dozen tasks clawing for her attention: she had to vacuum and clean the restroom, she was behind on her English homework, and Rostam had asked for a costume for Halloween—the American holiday where children dress like ghouls and beg for confectionary. And there was something else? The laundry!

“Ahh,” she said, remembering the wet whites sitting in the washing machine in the laundry room downstairs. Maybe someone had moved them into the dryer, she hoped.

If not, they’d need another spin cycle to get the moldy smell out. That was the thought running through Nasrin’s mind as she turned the knob to the front door. The moment she opened the door, the sky filled with blue light, and there was a booming crackle of thunder. It startled Nasrin and terrified Gigi. The bird flew out of the kitchen and headed for the one place she knew was safe—Nasrin’s shoulder.

Nasrin turned and lunged to shut the door. Through the fading sliver of incandescent light, the bird turned the corner and slipped past the swinging door and landed on her shoulder outside. Nasrin stared at Gigi, stunned. The parakeet had glided through the air with the speed and agility of some highlighter-colored fish seeking refuge in a cavernous coral. There was another explosion of thunder. Another jolt. And now, the bird was soaring off her shoulder and flying towards the uppermost branch of the giant oak tree umbrellaing the tiny apartment complex.

“Gigi! Gigi!”

The sky opened, at first leaking the chubby droplets that had been loitering in the hull of the grey clouds. Intermittently, they fell in twos and threes. They bombarded Nasrin’s forehead, her arms, her feet.

“Gigi!” Nasrin screamed.

A flash of light. Another cannon went off overhead, punching a gaping hole in the clouds, spilling their contents.

“Gigi! Gigi!” Nasrin’s voice broke—distorted from strain and drowned in rain. She felt buried by the water. It was swallowing her whole. Blurring all vision. Deafening all sound. Nothing but the crashing cymbals. The fury of the flood against the leaves, and drain pipes, and concrete, and skin, and feathers.

•

By the time Javeed arrived, Nasrin had lost her voice. Her throat was raw with a hint of that metallic flavor of blood. The bark had been stripped from her soul, leaving a pulpy exterior. Through hushed whispers, pantomime and tears, she explained that the bird had fled. The one time she’d forgotten to lock Gigi in their bedroom before opening the front door. The one fucking time.

Nasrin didn’t come back into the apartment until well past three-thirty in the morning. She’d waited out the rain, and with no voice remaining in her throat, she just sat there staring up at the big oak.

They drove to a copy shop the next day and printed two hundred flyers, posting them around the apartment complex, down the street, in the local shops, and in the park. The five hundred dollar reward—just shy of a month’s rent—would mean dipping into their emergency stash.

Javeed said, “If this isn’t an emergency, what is?”

Nasrin spent every evening that week outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of white feathers and that familiar chirp.

•

The Titanic received a final polish of paint. Dabs of cobalt and carmine covering the spots which had been overlooked on the first go-around. His tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth—a gesture of concentration, modeled after his father—Rostam balanced the ship on his left hand and ran the paintbrush over the bottom of the hull.

“Ah barakallah,” said Javeed, when his son set the ship down, fully constructed and colored. “Now, go get ready before the Martins come.”

“It’s finished?” called Nasrin from the kitchen, where the scent of simmering chicken and barberry rice emanated and filled the tiny apartment.

She stepped out of the kitchen to see the completed model. “Beautiful. You two make a very good job,” she said in English.

“Did a very good job,” Rostam corrected.

“Did a very good job,” Nasrin repeated.

Back in the kitchen, blooming the saffron to top the rice, a notion struck her: it had been days since she’d thought of the old kitchen on Mirdamad with maman, and maman bozorg, and khaleh Azar, and khanoom Mahvash.

Lost in those memories, with the scent of saffron sifting through the air, the phone rang, shaking Nasrin out of her state.

The voice on the other end was frail and slightly feminine. Age had scuffed the lower registers out of his voice. An alto, now a soprano. Nasrin didn’t recognize the man.

“My name is Maurice Sinclair.”

“Hello, Mr. Sinclair. Nice to meet you. My name is Nasrin.” Sentences she’d recited countless times from her workbook.

“Nice to meet you too, Ms. Nasrin.”

“How will I helping you?” she said.

“Well ma’am, I’m calling because of a flier I saw about a missing bird. Is this the right number?” The ivory wings stretched out in her chest, pushing all air out.

“Baleh,” she said, forgetting she was speaking English.

“Pardon?”

“Yes. Sorry. Yes, my bird fly away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

“Me too,” said Nasrin. “You find my bird?”

“Well, ma’am, I was in Spinks Park this morning feeding the birds, and in the middle of this pack of pigeons, I saw a white parakeet. I’m talking all white, from head-to-toe. Does that sound like your bird?”

“Yes! Gigi. It sounds like Gigi.”

The old man wheezed, laughing. “Ma’am, I’m glad to report that your bird was having a ball of a time. All the birds were playing and singing. And your bird was right there in the middle of it all, just playing and singing along with them.”

“My Gigi.” Her vision blurred, her cheeks damp, there was salt in Nasrin’s mouth.

“Your Gigi is fine, ma’am. She’s living the life of a bird.”

•

To this day, when she thinks back on that conversation, there’s a hint of doubt as to whether the old man was telling the truth. Maybe he came across the flier. Maybe he wanted to make someone’s day. Maybe not. Maybe it didn’t matter.

In any case, she’s happy he called.

And still, Nasrin sometimes goes on walks in the park. And when she does, she always finds herself looking up at the trees. And on occasion, if she strains her ears, from the uppermost branches she can hear, “Jeep-jeep.”

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“The Parakeet” by Mani Latifi and the artwork titled Holding Onto Joy by Viet Nguyen appeared in Issue 44 of Berkeley Fiction Review.

Born in Tehran, Iran, Mani Latifi (he/him) currently lives in Houston with his wife and pug, Mango. A practicing attorney by day, Mani’s fiction has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, and The Rain Fiction podcast. His nonfiction has appeared in Bon Appétit and Best of Vegan.

This is the third time Viet Nguyen (he/him) has illustrated for Berkeley Fiction Review. He’s now graduated and working. Viet is currently in a transient limbo state that many may feel after graduating or being unsatisfied with their state in life.