He’d grown up in Teheran under the last shah, in the midst of his extended family in a big four-story mansion near the palace. His grandparents occupied the large, spacious ground floor with their servants as well as the cook and the chauffeur. His parents had the second floor, and his two uncles and their wives, children, and servants had the third and top floors. All the children roamed everywhere in the house and garden, their nannies in casual pursuit.
The day Kennedy was killed, Cyrus was six years old. His cousin Safinaz, who was also six at the time, saw on TV a lot of people in cowboy hats and heard that Kennedy had been shot. She ran downstairs into Cyrus’s room and shook him awake. “Wake up! The Mexicans have killed Kennedy.”
“Nonsense, you little donkey,” Cyrus’s nanny said. “The cowboys in Texas killed him.”
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