Nazemian Only This Beautiful Moment

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-78895-717-5
Verlag: Little Tiger Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 432 Seiten

2019 -?Moud is an out gay teen living in Los Angeles with his distant father, Saeed. When Moud gets the news that his grandfather in Iran is dying, he accompanies his dad to Tehran, where the revelation of family secrets will force Moud into a new understanding of his history, his culture, and himself. 1978 - Saeed?is an engineering student with a promising future ahead of him in Tehran. But when his parents discover his involvement in the country's burgeoning revolution, they send him to safety in America, a country Saeed despises. And even worse - he's forced to live with the American grandmother he never knew existed. 1939 -?Bobby, the son of a calculating Hollywood stage mother, lands a coveted MGM studio contract. But the fairy-tale world of glamour he's thrust into has a dark side... Set against the backdrop of Tehran and Los Angeles, this tale of intergenerational trauma and love is an ode to the fragile bonds of family, the hidden secrets of history and all the beautiful moments that make us who we are today.

Abdi Nazemian?is the author of?The Chandler Legacies,?Like a Love Story, a Stonewall Honor Book, and?The Authentics. His novel?The Walk-In Closet?won the Lambda Literary Award for LGBT Debut Fiction. His screenwriting credits include the films?The Artist's Wife, The Quiet,?and?Menendez: Blood Brothers?and the television series?The Village?and?Almost Family.?He has been an executive producer and associate producer on numerous films, including?Call Me by Your Name, Little Woods,?and?The House of Tomorrow.?He lives in Los Angeles with his husband, their two children, and their dog, Disco. Find him online at?www.abdaddy.com

Autoren/Hrsg.

Nazemian, Abdi

Leseproben

“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.” “Where are you going?” Maman asks. “Please tell me you’re going to have some fun,” Baba says. “You’re young. Youth is meant to be enjoyed.” “Should we keep the board here and finish tomorrow?” I ask. Baba nods as he stands up. He turns a light on, and the bulb illuminates the calligraphy on the lamp. “You changed the subject,” Baba says. “Where are you two off to?” “We’re going to the library,” I say. “To study with some friends.” I don’t look at either of my parents. I hate lying to them, but what choice do I have? If they knew where I was going, they would stop me. My parents are open-minded about almost everything. They encourage me to go out and enjoy the city’s bustling cafés and discos. The one thing they forbid me from doing is taking part in the protests spreading across the city. “You’re eighteen years old and all you do is study,” Baba says to me. Then, turning to Peyman, “You seem like a fun kid. Can’t you convince our son to let loose and enjoy his youth once in a while?” Peyman laughs. “I wish my parents were more like you. They’re always telling me to study more, work harder, think of my future.” Peyman does let loose, often. But unlike me, he has an uncanny ability to balance school, protests, and nightclubbing without ever losing his focus. “Study more?” Maman asks with a smile. “You two are already going to the best engineering university in the country. You’ve even been taking summer classes.” The doorbell rings again. “That must be my new student,” Baba says. He starts to make his way to the front door, then stops and turns back to us. “Your mother and I don’t want you to party all the time. Or to study all the time. Or to do anything all the time. What we want is for you to find balance. When you don’t have balance … when you’re laser-focused on one goal …” The doorbell rings again. Baba seems lost in thought. “Babak,” Maman says gently. He snaps out of his reverie and continues to the front door to greet his student. As they make their way to Baba’s study, Maman grabs my coat from the dining room chair and throws it around me. She straightens the collar. “Should I get you a scarf?” she asks. “I’ll be okay,” I say. “It’s already getting cold at night.” Maman looks me in the eye with discomfiting tenderness. The sound of Baba’s tar floats toward us, casting its magic spell over our home. Then there’s a brief pause, followed by the sound of the tar being played by the new student, who turns those strings into a screeching instrument of torture. “Oh, wow.” Peyman grimaces in playful shock, which makes Maman and me both laugh. “I think we’ve found the key to convincing the Shah to change his policies,” Peyman says. “We just force him to listen to the worst tar player in the world until he gives in.” Maman shakes her head as she laughs. “You’d be surprised at how quickly Babak turns a terrible musician into a decent one.” I want to say that she might be surprised at how quickly a mass of young students can do that with our government. But I can’t say that. Because she can’t know that we’re headed to a protest. I wish I could explain to my parents that when I’m at a protest and my voice is raised in chorus with my fellow students, I feel alive in a way I rarely do. Peyman’s car is parked next to mine in our driveway. “Get in,” he commands. “My turn to drive,” I say. We both love the Paykans our parents got us when we were accepted into university, and we always want to be the one who gets to maneuver our magic vehicle through Tehran’s bustling roads. I park five minutes away from Shahyad Square, and we walk toward the protest together, alongside other students headed to the same square. Peyman greets our classmates warmly. He’s a social creature. He makes friends wherever he goes, which I suppose is why I’ve always felt lucky that he chose me as his best friend. As Peyman chats with two guys he plays soccer with, I see the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life. Her long black hair glows. Her brown skin shines. It’s as if she’s radiating light. “Saeed!” Peyman calls out to me. I’m entranced by her, until she drops her hair tie as she fixes her ponytail. I swoop in to pick the hair tie up for her, and hand it back to her as if it’s something rare and precious. “Thank you,” she says. She ties her hair back into a ponytail. “Saeed!” Peyman yells at me. “Come here, I want you to meet my soccer buddies.” I look at the girl sheepishly. “I, um, have to go. That’s my friend….” “Nice to meet you, Saeed,” she says with a gleam in her hazel eyes. Then she walks away, just one more body in the crowd of people headed to Shahyad Square for the protest. “Wait, what’s your name?” I ask, but she’s already too far away to hear me. Peyman introduces me to his soccer friends, and then I chastise him as we walk toward the square. “You just pulled me away from the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met,” I say. Peyman shrugs. “I didn’t get a good look at her, but if she’s as stunning as you say, then she’s definitely out of your league.” I slap his shoulder a little too hard. “Walk faster. I need to find her.” Peyman smiles, impressed. “Well, wow. Is my best friend finally coming out of his shell?” The energy of our fellow protesters compels us forward. I push my way through the crowd, dragging Peyman along with me. Until I see her again, a few steps ahead of me. I want to know...