Page 19 of Sapphire Spring

One stilt walker was followed by another, and another. Threemore appeared from the service alley that ran along the northern wall of thehotel, connecting some maintenance offices with a back entrance to the pooldeck. All told, six stilt walkers now framed the whirling dervishes, theshimmering light cast by their chandelier crowns glittering on the dervishes’multicolored gowns.

Naser had to admit, the amazing display showed off hissister’s formidable talent. And he saw now why she’d wanted the chandeliers.The effects their lights made on the spinning fabric was dazzling, like sunlightsparkling off a rushing river.

But they weren’t just any chandeliers. They were thick andround. Their concentric circles of long dangling crystals tapered gradually,each one a close replica of the chandeliers inside theShahCheragh mosquein Shiraz. When he realized this, he felt a tug in hischest.

Suddenly he was twelve years old again, sitting next to hisfather on the sofa as the man leafed through picture books of his homeland, amixture of wonder and longing in his voice as he described the landmarkswithin. Waxing rhapsodic about Shiraz, the city where he’d been born. Itssights and splendors, how it was the final resting place of Hafez, one of thegreatest Persian poets in history. His father was not a religious man, but theshimmering, jeweled walls and ceiling of Shah Cheragh, the mirrored mosque, asit was often called, brought tears to his eyes. “Someday I will take you there,Naser-joon,” he’d made the mistake of sayingone evening. “And we will stand there bathed in all that light.”

In that exact moment, his mother had appeared in the kitchendoorway, eyes blazing. Drawn by the anger and fear in her expression, Naser’sfather slid the picture book onto Naser’s lap then followed his wife into thekitchen. Naser had tried not to eavesdrop, but the anger in his mother’s toneadded volume to their frenzied whispers. Persian, for the most part, was alanguid and melodic language, but that night, the words between his parentsflew. At first, his father defended himself—they were not political refugeeslike so many of their friends. They had not worked in the Shah’s government.His father had done his military service before they’d left. They could returnif they wanted. They still had their Iranian passports. Getting Naser and Pariinto the country for a short visit might be no trouble. That’s when hismother’s anger had boiled over, her voice rising above a whisper. “Pesaretobebin.Mibinikiyeh.Mibinichejuriramireh,chejuriharfmizane. Innemituneberebe Iran.Midoonikenemitunebere.”

Don’t translate, he’d told himself,you don’twant to know, so just don’t—But in the end, he couldn’t help himself.

Look at your son. Look at who he is. Look at the way hewalks. A man like him cannot go there. You know this.

A man like him…

He knew exactly what she’d meant. Twelve years old andalready too obviously gay to return to his homeland without bringing shame upontheir family. His mother, who had never said a word to him about his walk ormanner of speaking, was convinced her Iranian elders would recoil from him. Hishand flipped the picture book closed as if it contained pictures of gruesomecrime scenes. He was mounting the steps and bound for his room before the tearscould come. The way he talked and walked was why the other kids made fun of himat school. Now it was the reason he could never see the land of his ancestors.

And his family’s reason as well.

That was the last time his father ever mentioned Shiraz orthe mirrored mosque. A few years later he was gone, felled by a sudden heart attackwhen Naser was a freshman in high school.

Applause jerked him back to the present.

The whirling dervishes were taking a bow. The spotlightdied, but the chandeliers still glowed in the tiki torch glow. Then the pooldeck was swept by the familiar opening strands of a song that transported Naserback in time again. And he wasn’t alone—the lilting windpipe sounds, the rushof warm and energetic strings, they both brought cries of nostalgic joy from somany around him. To Naser, they brought a tightness to his chest. Brought morememories of being a young boy as his father and mother danced around the livingroom together to this very music, Pari nipping at their heels like an excitedpuppy, his parents reveling in the soaring and beautiful lyrics of a love songthey shared with an Iran they claimed was no more. An Iran Naser might neverknow. And so Naser had buried himself in his book or his schoolwork or a familybudget as the other members of his family danced to the music of Googoosh.

Now he could feel Jonas’s eyes on him, trying, no doubt, tointerpret his strange blend of emotions.

The spotlight reappeared. A gorgeous womancladin one of his sister’s shimmering gowns stepped intoits halo. Her radiant locks of lustrous platinum hair looked intimatelyfamiliar, and that was how a live performance of Googoosh’s classic tune“ManAmadeh-Am”filled the pool deck.

Sort of.

“Googoosh?” Jonas asked.

“Try Navid Ahmadi. We dated in college.”

Jonas nodded. “A drag queen, I see.”

“The only Iranian one she knows.”

The crowd had figured it out, too, but rather thanprotesting, many were clapping and singing along. It helped that Navid’sperformance was spot on, complete with the gentle air kisses and beatificsmiles Googoosh always gave her sellout crowds. When it was done, there was anuproarious round of applause, and then models—meaning Pari’s LA actor friendswho needed work—began cat walking the handbags.

Which were not what Naser was expecting. Their lines were sosinuous they looked almost like extensions of the models’ bodies, and thebrilliant colors and intricate geometric designs reminded him of panels fromthe Shahnameh, the Persian Book of Kings. Some were covered in bejeweled floraldesigns so intricate they almost looked like dark mosaics. All in all, it was amuch bolder statement than theshal, andPari had paired them with older dresses from her collection. Simple,monochromatic dresses. Dresses into which she’d tried again and again to injectPersian design influences only to be told by her handlers at the Bliss Networkthat her instincts weretoo bold, which was white people code fortooforeign.

As Naser watched, he could see the full extent of what Parihad done. By ensuring the handbags molded with the body, she’d essentiallyadded the very color and culture she’d been bullied out of including in thedresses years before when she first brought them to market.

His sister remained one of the most determined people he’dever met, and as usual, this left him both frightened and impressed.

As applause broke out all around them, Naser studied thecrowd.

On the other side of a pool sparkling with floating,floral-rimmed candles, a tall, blond, insanely gorgeous man leaned against oneof the bistro tables, wine glass in hand.

Naser’s breath left him in a single, loud huff.

It couldn’t be him. No way.

He blinked, figuring the vision would vanish. That thepainful childhood memories unleashed by his sister’s fashion show had opened adoor in his head to painful high school memories as well.

Then MasonWortherran one handback through his silky blond hair. His signature move, even back then. In highschool, whenever someone mentioned Mason in conversation, they usually imitatedhim running one hand back through his hair like a model in a L’Oréal commercial.And he still did it, apparently. He was doing it right now.

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