And just like that, all my troubles came flooding back.
I quickly said thanks to this gorgeous bookseller (whose name I didn’t even catch) and went on my way.
Outside, the streets were busy and crowded. I came to a four-way intersection and froze. My heart was beating out of my chest, and it was like this entire ancient city—its Colosseum, its Sistine Chapel—had come crashing down over my head.
My thoughts swirled between the bookstore clerk, his slick brown hair, and Jackson, whose hair was getting longer and blonder every day. From Jake, who still owned my secret, to my parents, who still didn’t know. At least, I thought they didn’t. Who knew what could be happening in my absence?
I swallowed the tightness in my chest long enough to find my way back to the Airbnb. I drank some water and lay down in bed for a couple hours. Then I moved to the floor. I rested the back of my hand over my burning forehead and closed my eyes.
Interrogation Room 39
Afshin Azadi
THIS IS ABSURD. You’ve been questioning me nonstop about my background. I’ve already told you. I was detained once before, just like this. It was ten years ago. Why do I look different from that photo? Because!
Because I shaved off the beard.
The whole experience frightened me. When you people went through my things and made me feel like a bad guy. I was merely traveling for a work trip. I was carrying a briefcase with chemicals I needed for a convention in Texas, and I believe the intention of my trip was simply . . . misinterpreted.
We never told my children about this, no. They don’t know. We didn’t want to scare them.
Interrogation Room 37
Amir
I WOULD ABSOLUTELY love a glass of water, yes. You know, sir, you’re not nearly as intimidating as I would have expected you to be. Which is kind of messed up, when you think about it.
Twenty-Nine Days Ago
I MUST HAVE drunk half the water out of the Tiber River after my panic attack in the bookstore.
The bed in my Airbnb was lofted up by some weird chains that rattled every time I went down the creaky wooden stairs. It also meant that I had to duck my head whenever I went into the kitchen to fill up my glass.
I wanted to go home. My real home. I wanted to be back in my room, with my stupid participation ribbons and the ukulele that Soraya played more than I did. But I couldn’t. That was the same room was where I had spent these last couple of months, miserable and depressed. It was the room where I had spent entire weekends with my door shut, scrolling through internet forums that were supposed to help me feel better but only made me feel worse. There are a lot of bad coming-out stories on the internet. I shouldn’t have read them all, but I did.
Going home wasn’t an option.
Then I remembered the hot bookseller’s list of recommendations, crumpled in my pocket. I unfolded it, smoothed the edges, and saw the bartender’s name he had written down. Jahan. It was an Iranian name, meaning “world” in Farsi. What were the odds?
So, just before midnight, I decided to leave the apartment and check out this bar. I was more than a little nervous to be out alone in a foreign country. But it was too good of a coincidence, this Iranian bartender in Rome, and besides, a real drink at a real bar sounded like an upgrade from the warm beer Jackson kept in his glove compartment.
It had gotten dark outside, but the streets of Rome still flaunted their effortless beauty. Like, they weren’t trying hard at all. The buildings were all worn and painted over in perfect creams and pastels, illuminated by the streetlights, and laundry hung outside the windows, wide sheets and shirts and bright little dresses. The colors all worked together in such a way that it felt like they were a part of the fabric of the neighborhood. And the streets themselves—yes, the cobblestones were uneven, but I was figuring out how to walk on them.
The bar was on a small, dark side street, where you had to ring a doorbell to get inside. Sitting at the bar, there were two women with short-cropped hair; one of them had a huge sunflower tattoo on her bare arm. And behind the bar was a short guy with a big smile and even bigger drunk eyes. Not the kind that were actually drunk—he seemed to be pretty composed, balancing two bottles and a shot glass—but the kind that were always a little red and had bags under them. The cute kind.
“I’m looking for Jahan,” I told the bartender.
“That’s me,” he said.
I looked at him again. Was this man messing with me? I don’t know how else to say it, but this man did not look like any other Iranian person I had ever met in my life. I mean, his name was more Iranian than kabob and Persepolis. But his skin was covered in tattoos. And quite a few shades darker than mine. Burnt caramel, versus my milkier caramel.
He finished the drink he was making and handed it to the sunflower tattoo lady. “Jah-han. You even pronounced it right. The Italians always manage to bastardize my name. You must be Persian. Are you Persian?”
“I am,” I said.
“I knew it! I knew it when you walked in. What’s your name?”
“Amir.”
“Amir,” Jahan repeated. “Befarmah, welcome. Take a seat. What would you like to drink?”
I sat at one of the tall barstools, my feet dangling above the ground, and rested my elbows on the wet bar. “A beer?”
“What kind of beer?”
I glanced up at the ceiling. “Oh, I’ll drink anything.”
Jahan gave me a funny look. He could definitely tell I had never ordered a beer in my life.
“One beer, coming up. So how did you find us?”
“I was at this bookstore earlier today,” I said, “and the bookseller recommended this bar. Well, specifically he recommended you.”
“You met Neil! Oh, I love Neil,” Jahan said. “He’s the sweetest person in the world.”
“Jesus Christ, he’s friendly, too?”
Jahan laughed and filled up a tall beer glass for me. “Congratulations. You have eyes,” he said.
I felt embarrassed, knowing that Jahan had figured out that I found Neil attractive, and I took a long sip of my drink. I was pleasantly surprised by how nice it tasted compared to the warm PBRs in Jackson’s car.
Jahan kept tending the bar, humming along to the song that was playing overhead.
“What song is this?” I asked.
He looked at me like I came from Mars. “You don’t know Nina Simone?”
“That’s the name of the song?”
Jahan’s jaw dropped. He turned to the two women at the bar and threw his hands up. “Hopeless! This boy is hopeless! Either he’s under twenty-five or a flaming heterosexual.”